Avraham Azrieli - The Jerusalem Assassin

The piece of paper had a Paris number on it. He sat on the bed, picked up the phone, and dialed.

*

At 8:07 p.m., the phone attached to the outside line rang. Gideon let it ring twice before answering. Elie heard the conversation through the speaker. Abu Yusef suggested meeting Grant at the corner of the Champs Elysees near the Obelisque.

Elie stubbed his cigarette in a cup of stale coffee. “Let’s get ready.”

“Party time,” Bathsheba said. She pulled on a pair of leather boots with high heels, which made her buttocks stick out under the black miniskirt. Her legs seemed endless in their mesh-black stockings. She put on a black jacket over a red tank top. A chain of glass pearls and a pair of gold coins as earrings completed the look.

In the car, she pulled off the boots in order to drive. Traffic was heavy, but they reached Place de La Concorde a few minutes early and parked on the south side. Gideon got out and shouldered a knapsack. He waited for a brief break in traffic and crossed the square, careful not to slip on the cobblestones. Past the Obelisque, he reached the north corner of the Champs Elysees, where he leaned against a street lamp. He was dressed in gray slacks and a blue jacket, and his red tie flapped in the breeze.

The blue BMW sedan sped around the square and stopped at the curb. Gideon got in, and the car drove off.

“There we go!” Elie cracked his window and tossed out his cigarette. “Don’t lose him!” The tension demanded more oxygen from his ailing lungs, and his chest felt as if a porcupine had moved in.

Bathsheba engaged first gear and looked over her shoulder in search of an opening in traffic.

“ Go!”

“I’m trying.” She released the clutch, but a car raced by, causing her to hit the brake. The engine died. “Damn Frogs!” She restarted and pulled into traffic without a glance, tires screeching. A man shouted something in French through his open window, and she yelled back, “Asshole!”

The BMW was out of sight. Elie leaned forward, his nose almost touching the windshield, and searched through the river of cars that flooded the Champs Elysees. A passing car’s headlights shone on him, and he saw his reflection in the glass-a narrow face and two hollow, dark eyes under the black wool cap.

Bathsheba gripped the steering wheel with two hands and raced up the Champs Elysees. She swerved left and right to get ahead, cut cars with barely room to spare, and earned a lot of honking.

“You lost him,” Elie said, peering ahead. “Not good!”

*

Abu Yusef was relieved to see the young man waiting at the appointed place and time. His worries of a last-minute change of heart now put to rest, he settled back and relaxed, his left arm resting on the black briefcase that held his fortune, his right hand in Grant’s lap. The back seat of the BMW 740iL felt like a tranquil island amidst the intensity of city traffic, but the young man’s hand was cold, a sign of nervousness. It was understandable, a bank clerk of modest means on a date with a very wealthy suitor-who was really a dangerous guerilla fighter! Abu Yusef chuckled at the thought.

Grant smiled in the dark.

It would be a thrilling tryst, a fitting conclusion to the most successful day in Abu Yusef’s life. Money to spend, loyal men to implement his synchronized, Europe-wide attacks, and thousands of potential recruits to join his group. Munich had been a modest success compared to what awaited the world. His chest was too tight to contain all his pride and excitement. He felt alive!

Bashir steered the large car effortlessly among the crazy French drivers. His eyes occasionally left the road and checked the rearview mirror for a tail. He had objected to this rendezvous, pacified only by the argument that it would be months, maybe years, before Abu Yusef again would have the opportunity to pursue a chance encounter with a willing, alluring companion without fear of detection.

After a series of sudden turns and aimless cruising, they were back at the circle around the Arc de Triomphe. Reassured that no one was following them, Bashir seemed calmer, driving with one hand as he turned down Avenue De Friedland. Abu Yusef trembled with excited anticipation. In a few minutes, secluded in the privacy of a hotel room, they would be free to go at each other, and this young man would give himself completely, surrender without resistance, do as he was told!

*

They had lost Abu Yusuf’s BMW on Champs Elysees, and had circled the Arc De Triomphe several times, scanning each avenue and boulevard to no avail. Elie decided to wait, reasoning that Bashir would return to the huge circle once he was satisfied that no one was following. Bathsheba found a place to linger at the corner of Avenue Kleber, and they watched the hundreds of cars that drained into the circle from all directions. As Elie had predicted, the BMW eventually reappeared.

“I’m impressed,” Bathsheba said, “you called his next move.”

“Bashir had to come back here to reorient himself. Now he’ll go straight to a cheap hotel that rents rooms by the hour.”

This time, Bathsheba stuck to the BMW with only a few cars separating them. She counted on Bashir’s false sense of security.

*

Abu Yusuf felt his pulse rising, accompanied by a happy lightheadedness. Avenue De Friedland became Boulevard Haussmann. They were getting closer. At Chaussee D’Antin, Bashir waited for a green light and took Rue La Fayette all the way to the Gare du Nord-the city’s railway station for all northbound travelers. He eased into an alley and parked under a yellowish neon sign: Pinnacle Motel.

They got out of the car. It was quiet except for the music from a bar at the corner.

Bashir grabbed Grant’s knapsack.

“It’s okay.” Abu Yusef put a calming hand on Grant’s arm, and they watched Bashir empty the bag on the hood of the car. His callous hand sorted through the objects-a book, a wallet, a magazine about motorcycles, and an orange. Bashir threw the book into the bag, then the wallet and the magazine. He held up the orange and examined it against the street light. The shining skin had been marked by a knife. Bashir turned the orange and put his thumb under the stamped word: Jaffa.

Abu Yusef said, “My friend’s family once owned a citrus grove in Jaffa.”

The bank clerk nodded, and Abu Yusef realized how alien their political grievances must appear to this young Frenchman.

Bashir dropped the orange into the bag and quickly frisked Grant’s body. “I called your bank’s headquarters,” he said. “In Paris. They never heard of Grant Guerra.”

“ I’d be surprised if they did,” the answer came without hesitation. “We have over four hundred branches and seven thousand employees. But they’ll know my name when I’m chairman of the board.”

Even Bashir smiled at this response, and Abu Yusef breathed in relief. He had high expectations for tonight and didn’t want the mood spoiled before the pleasure began. He tilted his head at the car, signaling Bashir to watch the briefcase, which rested on the passenger’s seat.

*

Bathsheba parked the car around the corner from the Pinnacle. Elie got out and peeked. He could see Bashir’s head through the rear window.

“It’s getting cold,” she said.

“ It was colder in the attic,” Elie said, “when I watched a bunch of German soldiers kill my siblings. They used the knives my father sharpened daily for the ritual slaughter of kosher animals. I heard my brother explain to my baby sister that it wouldn’t hurt-a quick nick and she’d fall asleep, just like the lambs. But one of the Germans heard him so they cut her belly open and laughed as she screamed.”

For the first time since she’d join SOD, Bathsheba was speechless.