Avraham Azrieli - The Jerusalem Assassin

Bathsheba said, “Where the hell is he going?”

“Have you regained your sanity?”

“Don’t patronize me. This man killed my father.”

“Abu Yusef killed your father. This man might be a retired CEO or a gynecologist. We need a positive ID before we take a life.”

“Give it back.”

Gideon threw the gun in her lap. “You may shoot only in self-defense, understood?”

She pushed the gun under her leather waistcoat. “If it’s Abu Yusef, I’m not waiting for him to shoot first.”

He followed the green Peugeot, letting two or three cars separate them at all times. Mossad procedure required taking side streets in coordination with two other vehicles in order to avoid detection by the target. But they were not Mossad, and there were no other vehicles to assist them. Gideon tried to minimize the risk of detection by dropping farther behind.

At La Fourche, the green Peugeot bore left onto Avenue de Clichy, circled the square, and continued on Rue d’Amsterdam. Evening traffic was dense, moving with the typical Parisian briskness. At Place de Havre the green Peugeot suddenly sped forward, taking advantage of a gap in the traffic. When Gideon tried to follow it, a stream of cars emerged from Boulevard Haussmann on the right. He accelerated, but a small Fiat cut into his lane. He slammed the brakes, skidded on the cobblestones, and barely missed the Fiat. For a moment he thought he had lost the Peugeot, but Bathsheba spotted it farther down, turning into a side street. Gideon closed the distance quickly and made the same turn.

There was no trace of the green Peugeot. He drove slowly along Rue de Provence, a narrow, one-way street.

Nothing.

They looked down the first side street.

Clear.

The second.

Clear again.

At Rue de Mogador, a one-way street going south, the green Peugeot was parked at the curb. Gideon made the turn and pulled over.

Bathsheba brought the binoculars to her eyes. “He’s dropping off the passenger. Fur hat and a long coat. I can’t see his damn face!”

“Even the coat is green,” Gideon said.

“I’m going after him.” Bathsheba took out her gun and screwed on a silencer.

“ Don’t shoot!”

“If it’s Abu Yusef, I’ll give him my father’s regards.”

Gideon knew he couldn’t stop her. He shoved the camera into her hand. “If it’s not him, take a picture. Maybe it’s one of his men. Elie would know.”

*

Cafe Atarah on Ben Yehuda Street in Jerusalem was almost empty. “I am Rabbi Abraham Gerster,” he said, joining the lone woman at a corner table. “Thanks for agreeing to meet with me.”

“How could I decline?” Itah Orr, a veteran reporter for Channel One TV, held the note he had left for her at the office that morning. “I tried to do a story about you years ago, on the tenth anniversary of the Six Day War. It would have been a good story.”

Rabbi Gerster smiled. “There are many stories that are far more interesting than mine.”

“More interesting than the leader of the anti-Zionist Neturay Karta sect, who sacrificed his only son for Israel’s greatest victory?”

“The former leader. Rabbi Benjamin Mashash took over my duties a long time ago.”

“ You were still Neturay Karta’s leader when you sacrificed your son.”

“ I didn’t sacrifice him. Jerusalem rejected our faith and joined the army without my blessing.”

A waitress brought two cups and poured black coffee. The reporter added cream and sugar, mixing it in. “Lemmy, wasn’t it?”

“ His nickname, yes.”

“ He graduated paratroopers training first in his class and went on to serve courageously on the Golan Heights.”

“While ignoring his mother’s desperate letters until she killed herself!” Rabbi Gerster immediately regretted his outburst. Temimah’s despair had been caused by his own behavior no less than by Lemmy’s silence. “Please. These are old wounds. My son and wife deserve to rest in peace.”

“So why did you contact me?”

Rabbi Gerster glanced over his shoulder. The few patrons in the cafe did not appear to pay attention to him. “I watched your report on Saturday night.”

“I thought you people don’t watch TV.”

“Those boys, taking the oath, were they for real? Or was it some kind of a show, a make-believe piece of propaganda?”

“Wait a minute.” Itah Orr jerked her head, clearing away shoulder-length gray hair. “What do you care about those kids? Or about Israel? You people live in your ghetto in Meah Shearim, don’t pay taxes, don’t serve in the army, don’t even recognize the State of Israel-except for its social security checks, of course.”

“ We object to Zionism, but we study Talmud every waking moment to make up for all the Jews who neglect their sacred duty.”

“ And how exactly would your Talmudists feed their hordes of children without Zionist tax money?”

“ Questions, questions.” Rabbi Gerster sighed. “You’re like a vacuum cleaner for information. I need a peek inside your dustbin, that’s all.”

She laughed. “Fair enough.”

“About that swearing-in of ILOT, tell me what you think. Please.”

“ Tit for tat. First tell me why you-a lifelong anti-Zionist rabbi-are suddenly concerned with a tiny nationalist militia? What’s going on?”

Rabbi Gerster stood up and buttoned his black coat. “I was mistaken in approaching you. May God bless your day.”

“Wait!” Itah Orr stood. “I’m sorry. I guess I’m still angry about my story getting killed.”

“Twenty years ago?”

“I had enough material for a great piece. Your son was very popular with his boot camp buddies, an excellent soldier and loyal teammate. And there was a mysterious woman he was carrying on a relationship with, much older than him and very attractive. Petite, black hair, pale face. She came to the base once, caused quite a stir.”

He kept his face straight, hiding the storm that Tanya’s description whipped up inside him. “Are you fishing for information?”

Itah smiled, looking much younger. “Just curious. I can’t do anything with it now. It’s too old a story.”

“ Why didn’t you publish it back then?”

“ Because a little creep from some secret service came to the studio and threatened me and my editor with immediate arrest on trumped up charges. He took all my drafts and notes and all the roughs we had filmed. It was as if I had touched a live wire.”

“ Perhaps you had.” He chuckled. “But that’s ancient history. I didn’t contact you to speak about my Jerusalem, may he rest in peace. Now will you grant me the respect of answering my questions?”

“ Will you answer mine?”

“ When a time comes for me to tell my story, I promise to speak only to you.”

“ Give me something now.”

“ Okay. How about this: I don’t believe in God.”

The reporter’s eyebrows rose almost to her hairline.

“ It’s true.” He placed a hand against his heart. “I swear.”

“ Okay, Rabbi Gerster. You don’t believe in God, and we are in business.” She offered her hand.

He glanced around furtively, making sure no one was watching, and shook it. “Tell me about the ILOT ceremony.”

“ They were young,” she said, “late teens or early twenties. Almost like boy scouts, except that the pistols were real and the vows were sincere.”

“Why did they allow you to attend?”

“In my profession, you don’t argue with a good source. Their leader is a true Jewish fascist.”

“ The chubby guy?”

“ Yes. Freckles. That’s his moniker. He’s very clever in using the media, has given me great stories-the type of stories any journalist would grab and run with.”