Avraham Azrieli - The Jerusalem Assassin

Lemmy realized his father-in-law was watching him. They smiled at each other and continued to sing. Klaus Junior stood between them, holding both their hands, his thin voice sounding over the adults’ chorus. He was secure in his world of church and school, of doting parents and a loving grandfather. How would he react when told of Armande’s death? How well would a ten-year-old recover from the shock of hearing that his grandfather was shot by an assassin? And it could be worse! Every assassination on Lemmy’s secret record had been accomplished under the cover of anonymity, a quick jab of violence in a faraway location, followed by immediate departure, leaving no trace. He was a professional, his training was excellent and his preparations meticulous. He had never before feared capture, even when Elie had sent him on uniquely dangerous jobs. In his mind, the survival of the Jewish people was more important than the fate of one man, including himself. But what about the fate of one boy? What, Lemmy wondered, if he got caught this time, exposed as Herr Hoffgeitz’s killer? After all, being the next in line to lead the bank, he would automatically become a suspect. And this was Zurich, the place where he lived and worked and possessed a wide circle of acquaintances, which would make the scandal even worse. How could Klaus Junior survive the loss of both his father and grandfather at the same time in such horrific, outrageous circumstances? This was a risk Lemmy could not take. He would not chance breaking his son’s heart!

Elie’s admonishment rang in Lemmy’s ears. Your wife and son are Gentiles. Goyim. They’re your cover. Nothing more!

*

The Boeing 747 brought them back to the az-Zubayr oasis. The sheik’s personal physician sewed up Prince Abusalim’s hand. He changed into a clean galabiya and went to bid his father farewell.

The sheik embraced his son. “I now understand that Allah wanted me to see my own error in allowing my son to live among the infidels, where evil temptations led you to stumble.”

“ Don’t blame yourself, Father. It was my error. But don’t worry. It won’t happen again.”

“ We must remove you from the den of sins. Go back to Paris and wrap up our business there. Have all the files and your personal possessions packed up and ready. I will fly over next week in person to bring you home.”

Home! All he could do was bow so that his father couldn’t see the disgust on his face.

“ You will live right here by my side, with your wives and children and our tribesmen. It’s where you belong, Abusalim.”

The prospect nauseated the prince, and he struggled to control his voice. “That would be…wonderful.”

Hajj Ibn Saroah escorted him through the long hallways. “Do not disappoint your father again.”

Prince Abusalim did not respond.

“ I haven’t told him everything.”

“ Everything?”

“ The bribes from other vendors. I trust you will return the money to each one-”

“ Stay out of it!” The prince’s sharp voice hid his panic. The situation was worse than he had imagined. “How dare you spy on my affairs?”

The hajj held the door for the prince, and they stepped outside into the bright sun. A black limousine was waiting at the bottom of the steps to drive him to the plane.

“ Have a safe trip, Excellency. May Allah-”

“Don’t mention Allah!” Prince Abusalim shook a fist in the hajj’s face, realizing too late that it was his injured hand, which now pulsated with pain. “You’re a slave who forgot his place!”

Hajj Ibn Saroah bowed and walked back to the house.

As soon as the Lear jet began taxiing down the runway, Prince Abusalim pulled off the kafiya and galabiya and threw them on the floor. He sat in his underwear on the wide chair and yelled, “Come here!”

An attendant walked in and blushed at the sight of the prince.

“Jack Daniel’s!”

“Excellency, we are not out of Saudi airspace yet-”

“On the rocks! And bring the bottle!”

*

In Jerusalem, the day of study for Neturay Karta men didn’t end until close to midnight. The last group left the synagogue, still arguing about a Talmudic question of animal sacrifice, which had occupied them since that morning: Would one cow satisfy the collective sacrificial obligations at the temple on the Passover holiday or was each pilgrim required to bring his own animal for slaughter at the altar?

Along in the silent synagogue, Rabbi Gerster turned off the lights, locked the front doors, and went out into the cold night. He walked down to the gate and turned right. Halfway up Shivtay Israel Street, a car flashed its headlights. He got in.

“Almost gave up on you.” Itah Orr wore a scarf over her head, tied loosely under her chin.

“I didn’t want anyone to notice me leaving.”

“ How did it go with Ayala?”

“ Very well. She’s a lovely young woman. We need to take a look at former boyfriend, Yoni Adiel, also a law student at Bar Ilan. Apparently he suggested that the Talmudic law of Rodef applies to politicians who hand over parts of the land of Israel to the Arabs.”

“ That’s all? He’s not the only one making this argument. I don’t have time to go around engaging right wingers in theological debates. It’s a waste of time.”

“The girl says he’s got money to spend but no regular job and no family support. He hinted that the funds came from a rich sponsor who likes Freckles.”

“ Who’s the sponsor?”

“ She only knew that he was an elderly man living in Paris.” Rabbi Gerster suspected Elie Weiss was that sponsor, but that was not a name he would mention to anyone. “But the combination of cash and know-how in guerilla resistance, such as the ILOT manual you gave me, indicates a high level of competency. Go to your sources and find out everything possible about Yoni Adiel.”

“If you’re right,” Itah said, “this story might be much bigger than a group of right-wing youths harassing a few Arabs.”

“Follow the money. That’s the key.” He opened the door to leave, but shut it when the interior light came on. “Have you heard from Freckles? Anything going on with ILOT?”

“ He told me to attend the large Likud rally at the Zion Square on Saturday night.”

“ If these guys have money for girlfriends, restaurants, and handguns, they could afford more serious weapons.”

“I’ll make some calls and let you know.”

“Good. Once we have the facts, I’ll corner Yoni Adiel.”

“ Why would he talk to you?”

“ He’s a fundamentalist Jew. You think he would pass up an opportunity to talk shop with Rabbi Abraham Gerster of Neturay Karta-”

“- who doesn’t believe in God?” Itah grinned in the darkness.

“ Shush.” He put his finger to his lips. “That’s our secret.”

*

Monday, October 23, 1995

At the Hilton in Paris, Elie took the elevator down to the lobby and found a bank of pay phones near the restrooms. He called the Hoffgeitz Bank in Zurich and asked for Gunter Schnell.

“ Guten Morgen, Herr Schnell,” Elie said.

“ Who is this?”

“ Untersturmfuhrer Rupert Danzig. Remember me?”

The sound of air sucked in a shocked inhalation was followed by a long silence. “Please hold.”

After a few minutes, two clicks sounded, and another voice came on. “Armande Hoffgeitz speaking. What is this about?”

“ Herr President?” Elie waited for a couple of hotel guests to pass by on their way to the restrooms. “This is Untersturmfuhrer Rupert Danzig.”

“ Who?”

“ It’s been a long time, but here I am again, calling on behalf of your old friend, Oberstgruppenfuhrer Klaus von Koenig.” Elie spoke German with an eastern accent, an area until recently under Soviet communist control.