Avraham Azrieli - The Jerusalem Assassin

“ Do you believe these boys are for real?”

“ Absolutely. Classic right-wing extremists. A few months ago they incited a riot and beat up Arabs in Hebron, turned over market stalls, and destroyed produce. They set up fake military checkpoints in the West Bank and body-searched Arabs. They went into Old Jerusalem with clubs and broke windows and a few bones, forced Arab merchants to shut down their stores.”

“ All this was done by Freckles’ group?”

“ Oh, ILOT isn’t the only one. There are several other militias just like it-Kahane Chai, EYAL, Geva’ot. Each group numbers a handful of youths. They engage in violent attacks on Palestinians in order to scare the Arabs out of the West Bank and ensure Jewish control over biblical Israel. They’re not deadly like the Palestinian attacks on Jews. I mean, these kids don’t shoot and bomb innocent civilians, but they engage in harassment, and they’re aggressive enough to draw attention.”

Rabbi Gerster picked up a teaspoon and turned it around in his hand, using the curved back as a mirror to scan the view behind his back. “But their anti-Arab activities, distasteful as they are, could be a prelude to something worse.” He put down the spoon. “Violence against fellow Jews.”

“ It’s a natural progression. Take a look at this.” She handed him a stapled stack of papers. The cover said: ILOT – Member Manual – Top Secret

He browsed the pages. “Can I keep it?”

She nodded.

“ Anything else about that ceremony? Any leads?”

She hesitated. “I noticed their backpacks. It was really dark out there, but I could see the university logo-”

“ Which one?”

“ Bar Ilan Law School.”

*

Gideon saw a gendarme signaling the green Peugeot to move forward, which it did. A taxicab picked up a heavy matron with hefty Galeries Lafayette shopping bags. The department store spanned both sides of the street, each wing taking up a whole block. A glass-walled overpass connected the two buildings, and Gideon saw the man in the green coat and fur hat walking from left to right. Seconds later Bathsheba glanced down at him, swung a finger under her chin, and disappeared to the right. A sense of doom began acidulating in Gideon’s stomach.

The minutes passed slowly. Too slowly.

He turned off the engine and got out of the car.

As he began to cross the street, Bathsheba showed up, trotting toward him. “Shot him in the nuts,” she said. “He’s a screaming soprano in menswear upstairs.”

“ Shit!” Gideon jumped back into the car.

“ It’s quite a scene.” She slammed the door. “You should go look.”

“ Damn!” He started the engine. “I told you not to-”

“ Relax,” Bathsheba laughed. “I didn’t shoot anyone.”

He took a deep breath, exhaling slowly.

“It wasn’t him.”

“You’re sick.” He motioned at the green Peugeot, still waiting for its passenger down the street. “Did you take a photo?”

“He’s just a boy. Fourteen or fifteen. And he’s from Jordan.”

“How do you know?”

“I got close enough to hear his conversation with the salesman. And to smell his Cacharel. He must’ve bathed in it-a typical teenage faggot.”

“Here he is.”

The passenger with the green coat, fur hat in hand, approach the Peugeot. Bathsheba snapped a photo.

“We’ll follow them,” Gideon said.

“Waste of time. He’s just a rich boy.”

“How do you know?”

“He bought two Pierre Cardin suits for a small fortune, plus alteration charges. You were right-not every Arab in a green Peugeot is Abu Yusef.” Bathsheba leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. “See? I can admit a mistake when I make one.”

“You’re an angel.” He glanced at his watch. It was too late to drive all the way back to Ermenonville.

*

In the apartment on Rue Buffault, Elie was taking a nap on the cot when he heard the front door being unlocked. He sat up and reached for the sheathed blade, but Bathsheba’s voice sounded in the hallway. They were back early.

He listened to Gideon’s report and looked at the photos. The driver was in profile, shown through the open window. “That’s Bashir Hamami, Abu Yusef’s deputy.”

“Can’t be!” Bathsheba’s face turned red. “Who would take such a risk for shopping?”

Elie picked up the other photo. “Abu Yusef’s boy toy.”

“Expensive toy,” Gideon said. “I thought he’s short on cash?”

“ Not just a toy,” Elie said. “Remember the bomb at the Jewish school in Marseilles? Nineteen kids dead, almost thirty injured. The investigators found video footage of an unidentified youth entering the school ten minutes before the explosion. His face was turned away from the security cameras, but he had dark skin and short hair, just like this kid. And he wore a skullcap, even carried a Hebrew prayer book, but police later verified he wasn’t a student.” Elie fingered the photo. “This must be the guy who planted the bomb in Marseilles.”

“He’ll be back on Wednesday,” Bathsheba said, “to pick up the suits. I heard him give his name to the salesman. Latif.”

“Good,” Gideon said. “We’ll follow them back to Ermenonville.”

Elie considered it. “Bashir is a fox. He’ll notice you, if he hasn’t already. Maybe you should just kill the boy at the store.”

“Just like that?” She clicked her fingers. “What if he’s not the bomber from Marseilles? Maybe he’s just a skinny teenager who bends over for Abu Yusef?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Elie said. “Clearly the boy is Abu Yusef’s soft spot. Why else would he allow a shopping spree at a time like this? This boy’s death would shake up Abu Yusef, cause him to make mistakes.”

She glared at him. “What kind of a monster are you?”

Gideon got up. “Bathsheba!”

“Have you considered the possibility of pushing Abu Yusef over the edge? What if he throws caution into the wind and runs out to kill a bunch of Jews?”

“Unlikely,” Elie said. “But I sympathize with your sensibilities. You don’t want to kill the boy? No problem. Wait on Wednesday at Galeries Lafayette, follow the green Peugeot to Ermenonville, and find out where they’re hiding.” He collected the photos and put them in his pocket. “Let’s get something to eat.”

*

Tuesday, October 17, 1995

Across Paris, at his clinic near Gare du Nord, Dr. Rene Geloux moved his stethoscope on Elie’s bony back. He listened to the crackling sounds that accompanied the movement of air while his eyes glanced at the x-ray prints on the illuminated board.

“So,” Elie said, “am I still alive?”

“You may put on your shirt, Monsieur Weiss.” Dr. Geloux was even older than his patient, but long summer weekends at his estate south of Paris had kept him slim and tanned. “Your emphysema is getting worse, and there might be something worse going on. You need to carry oxygen, that’s for sure. I’ll prescribe it.”

“ I can’t walk around with a tank.” Elie pulled on his shirt. “And other than my father, whose life was cut short by the Nazis, the men in my family always lived to a hundred.”

“ Did they smoke for fifty years?”

Elie shrugged.

“ You need a breathing test and a specialist to take a look inside your airways with a bronchoscope. How’s tomorrow?”

“I’m busy.” Elie buttoned his shirt. “Give me something for the pain.”

“ That’s not a solution. Low oxygenation, combined with excessive exertion, could be fatal.”

“We’re old pals, the grim reaper and I.” Elie’s laughter was dry, scratchy. He grabbed the physician’s hand. “Come on, I have a job to do.”

“Don’t tell me about your jobs. I’ve taken the Hippocratic Oath. And you should be in a hospital!”