The Jerusalem Assassin (6 page)

When the synagogue was empty, Rabbi Gerster joined Benjamin and his three teenage sons, who had their father’s dark eyes and their mother’s light complexion. The oldest, Jerusalem, was named after Rabbi Gerster’s son and Benjamin’s best friend, who had died during the Six Day War, almost three decades ago. Jerusalem Mashash already showed the start of a beard, and his dangling side locks swung back and forth as he reached to open the door.

“So, Jerusalem,” Rabbi Gerster said, exiting the sanctuary to the chilly air outside, “what do you know tonight that you didn’t know this morning?”

Benjamin’s sons were accustomed to Rabbi Gerster’s daily query. They spent every day studying Talmud and were eager to share their knowledge with the elderly rabbi.

Jerusalem said, “Today we studied a Talmudic rule:
Where there are no men, be a man!
One interpretation is that the rule applies to prayers. In other words, even in a place that has no minyan of ten Jewish men to pray together, one must pray alone.”

“That’s a convenient interpretation,” Rabbi Gerster said.

“Convenient?” The boy wasn’t afraid to argue, just like his dead namesake. “To pray is a duty. A task. The rule creates a chore where there wasn’t one. What’s convenient about that?”

“To pray is a chore?”

“Easier to be free from the duty to pray, right?”

“Praying is a ritual,” Rabbi Gerster said, “which gives men comfort, peace of mind, and a sense of fulfillment. It’s a privilege, isn’t it?”

“Couldn’t a privilege be also a chore?”

“Telling a Jew to be a man where there are no men sounds more serious than a mere technicality about prayer quorum, don’t you think?”

“One commentator suggests that the rule imposes a duty to be a Jew where there are no Jews.”

Rabbi Gerster rested his arm on the youth’s shoulders. “But isn’t a Jew still a Jew, whether he’s with other Jews or alone?”

“The rule isn’t about technical hereditary Jewishness. It’s about being a good Jew when no one else
behaves
like a Jew.”

“Behaves like a Jew? What’s that?”

“To observe God’s laws, like keeping the Sabbath, eating only kosher food, and so on.”

“Then the rule should have said:
Where everyone else is a sinner, be righteous!
But Talmud said to be a man even where there are no other men. What does it mean to be a man?”

“To do the right thing?”

“Do we need a special rule for that?” Benjamin spoke for the first time since they had left the synagogue. “Shouldn’t we always do the right thing, whether we’re alone or not?”

Jerusalem tugged on his payos. “If everyone else says that wrong is right, a man must still follow his conscience and do what’s right without fear of others.”

“Very good!” Rabbi Gerster winked at Benjamin, who smiled with fatherly pride.

They climbed the stairs to the second-floor apartment and entered the small foyer, taking off their coats and hats.

Benjamin’s wife, Sorkeh, appeared from the kitchen, her round face glistening with sweat. “Here you are!” She wiped her hands on her apron. “Come, let’s start. The little ones are starving.”

In the dining room, Benjamin’s younger children—another boy and three girls under ten years old, sat at the table, chattering with careless innocence. Rabbi Gerster lingered alone in the foyer in front of a small frame on the wall. A military photographer had snapped the photo twenty-eight years ago. It showed the youthful chief of staff, General Yitzhak Rabin, shaking hands with a fresh paratrooper who had graduated with the highest honors from basic training. Clean-shaven and bright-eyed, his red beret was tilted to the right with a sharp crease. A strip of brass was glued to the bottom part of the frame: Private Jerusalem (“Lemmy”) Gerster 1949–1967

Rabbi Gerster touched the face in the photo and kissed his fingertips. “Good Sabbath, my son.”

*

Lemmy punched in a series of numbers on a pad, and the steel door clicked open. The data center, set up in a converted underground vault, held the massive computer system the bank had purchased last year.

“Gentlemen!” He approached Christopher and Günter, who sat together at a terminal. “This has been a productive week, hasn’t it?” He watched Günter expectantly.

“Of course, Herr Horch.” The elderly man grimaced, as if his words tasted bitter.

“I’m glad the two of you are working together so well.”

“It’s a pleasure,” Christopher said, playing along. “We’re making great progress with these fictitious accounts.”

“Very good. Be sure to cover all the security features.”

“Of course,” Christopher said. “We’ll stay here as long as it takes.”

“At least you won’t get cold,” Lemmy said. Unlike the other subterranean vaults, this one was warmed up by the computer servers, electrical boards, and thick bundles of colorful wires. He glanced at his watch. “I should be going. Herr Hoffgeitz is joining us for dinner. Paula’s cooking his favorite—crock-pot Swiss beef with mashed potatoes and cheese fondue.”

“Yum.” Christopher smacked his lips, and Günter turned to him with raised eyebrows.

Lemmy chuckled. “Have a good weekend.”

*

Gideon replaced each audio tape with the next while the Jackal cleverly evaded his pursuers and got closer to his target. A few Peugeot sedans passed by during the afternoon, one of them green, which caused a brief excitement until they saw the driver, an old Frenchwoman who could not possibly belong to Abu Yusef’s group.

Traffic on the local road grew sparse as the sky darkened. They consumed tuna sandwiches and Coke for dinner. An hour later, Bathsheba relocated to the back seat, curled up, and fell asleep. Gideon donned night-vision goggles and watched the road while the audio novel played on.

It was near midnight when the Jackal’s bullet missed De Gaulle by a hair, and the indefatigable Inspector Lebel kicked in the door and killed the assassin. Gideon pressed the eject button on the cassette player, turned on the ignition, and headed back to Paris. On the radio, the news included an update on the shooting near Ermenonville. One of the bodies was identified as that of Al-Mazir, a Palestinian rumored to have taken part in the PLO’s 1972 Munich Olympics massacre. In Gaza, Yasser Arafat announced a day of mourning for “our fallen comrade” while anonymous sources expressed embarrassment at the former guerilla’s involvement in juvenile sex trade. In Jerusalem, the prime minister’s office denied Israel’s involvement in the assassination, stating, “Our energies are totally dedicated to peacemaking with our willing partners.”

*

Saturday, October 14, 1995

The Paula
left the dock early on Saturday, its sails taut in the steady breeze. Lemmy steered the boat—a Beneteau Oceanis 510—away from shore, cutting a path in the fuzzy layer of white caps. The sky was clear, and the biting air forewarned of a cold winter.

Armande Hoffgeitz stood with his grandson at the bow, rising and sinking against the tree-covered hills on the opposite bank of Lake Zurich. Klaus Junior held a monocular, tracing the sights that his grandfather pointed out. The boy shifted his aim to a flock of geese heading south across the bow. One of the birds dropped a glob, barely missing them, and they burst out laughing.

“They’re like two peas in a pod,” Paula said. “I haven’t seen Father this happy since my brother died.”

He kissed her honey-colored hair. “We’re blessed. And the wind is good too.”

“Aye, aye, Skipper.” Paula sipped from a glass of merlot. “I should have let it sit another year.”

He took a swig from his nearly frozen Heineken bottle. “This one’s properly aged.”

“Like me?” She banged her hip against his.

Her cheerful nature had put him at ease since the first time he approached Paula in the fall of 1967, on his first day at Lyceum Alpin St. Nicholas. The plan required him to carefully implement each phase in their relationship—an initial approach as a new student seeking advice, follow up with seemingly coincidental run-ins, develop a circle of mutual friends to maximize time together at school and on vacations, and only a year later, clinch their relationship as lovers. He had also nurtured a friendship with her young brother, Klaus V.K. Hoffgeitz, ensuring a loyal ally close to her heart.

After graduation, Paula had studied art at the University of Zurich, living at Hoffgeitz Manor on the hills overlooking Lake Zurich. Lemmy worked evenings and weekends at the accounting department of Credit Niehoch Bank while studying at the Zurich School of Economics. She had insisted on keeping their relationship secret for fear of upsetting her father, who had planned for her to marry the scion of another Swiss banking dynasty. The tragic death of Klaus V.K. made her even more reluctant to upset her father. Finally, in 1979, when Lemmy was already a rising star at Credit Niehoch, he asked Herr Hoffgeitz for Paula’s hand in marriage. The aging banker reluctantly gave his blessing and walked her down the aisle at the Fraumünster church. Over the subsequent year, the two men got to know each other, discussing economics, finance, and the emerging deregulation of the banking industry. The father’s prejudicial displeasure with Paula’s choice gave way to grudging respect for Lemmy’s intelligence and knowledge. In 1982, Armande invited him to join the Hoffgeitz Bank.

He had started as an account manager, one of twelve men who constituted the core of the private banking operation, each handling a group of clients. After several years, on the day following Klaus Junior’s baptism, Lemmy became chief accounts manager. And last year, Armande had promoted him to vice president. These promotions had been earned with hard work and successful client development, especially with Mideast oil sheiks. In addition, the presumed succession to a young and capable son-in-law projected long-term stability and continuity to the clients of the Hoffgeitz Bank. And lately Lemmy’s control over the bank’s technological metamorphosis placed a great deal of power in his hands, bringing him ever closer to the ultimate goal of the mission that had brought him into this family in the first place.

Paula kissed his neck. She avoided his cheeks as he had not shaved this morning. Between weekdays at the bank and Sunday’s church attendance, Saturday was the only day he could dress casually and skip shaving. He had joked with Paula that the skin of his face needed a break, though in truth this habit was his private tradition—a link to a distant, secret past of observing the Jewish Sabbath.

“Coming about!” He turned the wheel, and the boat changed course into the wind. The waves slapped against the hull. Paula helped him lower the mainsail and drop anchor.

They sat in the back of the boat around a table that was bolted to the deck, and Paula served sandwiches of brie and smoked ham. She and her father shared the rest of the merlot.

Lemmy sliced his son’s sandwich in half. “Did you tell Grandpa about the new technology lab at school?”

Klaus Junior shook his head while drinking orange juice.

“What new lab?” Armande cut a corner from his own sandwich and forked it.

“We got a whole room full of computers. We’re going to sand the Internet.”

“
Surf
the Internet,” Paula corrected him.

Lemmy laughed. “You don’t want any sand in those computers.”

“Computers everywhere.” Armande sighed. “No escape. What about books, writing—”

“But Grandpa, you gave them to us!”

“Don’t talk, Junior,” Paula said. “Finish eating first.”

He chewed faster.

Armande stroked his grandson’s hair. “Patience. Patience.”

When he finally swallowed, Paula handed him a napkin. “Now you can talk.”

“My teacher said that the computers were a gift from you. He made everyone sing a song about generosity.”

“I arranged it with our Dutch suppliers,” Lemmy said. “A donation to the school. It cost us very little, especially with the tax credit the bank will take on it. I made it in your honor, Father. I hope you don’t mind.”

Seeing his grandson’s pride, Armande Hoffgeitz glowed. “Why should I mind? Our family has supported education for many generations. It’s our tradition!”

*

After a few hours of sleep, Gideon and Bathsheba left the Paris apartment and drove to the gas station near Ermenonville. He brought an audio edition of Ken Follett’s
Eye of the Needle
. They settled down to wait, the narrator’s voice filling the car.

Shortly after noon, while biting into a tuna sandwich, Bathsheba spotted a green Peugeot 605, identical to the one they had been looking for, the darkened windows rolled up. “Go!” She tossed the sandwich out the window and pulled a handgun from the glove compartment. “It’s them!”

“Put away the gun.” Gideon turned on the engine.

He stalked the Peugeot for ten miles in dense highway traffic until the driver rolled down his window. “Take a look,” Gideon said, accelerating. “
Only
a look!”

Bathsheba tilted the visor so that the makeup mirror reflected the view from her window. As they passed by the Peugeot, she said, “Bummer.”

Glancing sideways, Gideon saw the occupants of the car—a couple in their eighties and a large schnauzer.

She dropped the handgun back in the glove compartment. “Cost me that lousy sandwich. I’m starving!”

He took the next exit and drove back to the gas station.

*

Elie Weiss walked to a nearby café and settled to read the
Financial Times
, sip coffee, and nibble at a croissant. On his way back to the apartment, he paused to watch people go around the barriers into the synagogue. It was Saturday morning, he realized, the time for Sabbath services. On a whim, he entered the synagogue.

The sanctuary was cavernous, with beautiful wooden seats, painted-glass windows, and stone arches carved with biblical scenes. A cantor stood at the podium in a bejeweled prayer shawl and top hat, his deep baritone reaching every corner as he sang
Adon Olam
, Master of the Universe. The congregants, in formal suits and skullcaps, repeated each line in a chorus of singing voices, the ancient Hebrew words pronounced with a French accent. The women behind the see-through lace partition sang as well.