Avraham Azrieli - The Jerusalem Assassin

The burning cigarette fell from her mouth. “My father died in Munich.”

She was taking too long. Elie started toward the BMW while reaching under his coat for the blade.

Bashir dropped the lighter and pulled his hands back in. But Bathsheba was ready. Her right hand rose, and the black barrel of the handgun, lengthened by a silencer, pointed at Bashir’s chest. It coughed twice, and his body jerked with each shot. She brought the end of the silencer to her lips and blew on it.

Gideon emerged from the motel and approached the BMW while Bathsheba was walking back toward Elie, slow in high heels over the cobblestones. Elie sheathed the blade, relieved. He beckoned them to hurry up as a group of Frenchmen emerged from the bar up the street, blabbering loudly.

The BMW’s white reverse lights came on.

Gideon reached under his coat for a gun he didn’t have. Elie opened his mouth to warn Bathsheba, but the engine roared and the tires screeched.

She turned abruptly and lost her balance, falling down. Gideon was on the pavement within reach of the BMW, but there was nothing he could do as the large car leaped backward. Bathsheba tried to get up, but she was too slow. Her hands rose in futile defense as the rear bumper hit her. The car continued, the right wheels running over Bathsheba’s extended legs, crushing her bones in a series of sickening crunches. The car jumped the curb and hit the wall of a building.

His perforated chest dark with blood, Bashir turned slowly and looked at Elie through the passenger-side window, his face a mixture of pain and satisfaction. Up the street, the bar patrons yelled, and a few of them approached what seemed like a drunk driver running over a prostitute. Elie crossed the street, leaned on the car, and inserted the blade just above Bashir’s collarbone, sliding it downward into his chest cavity. For a second he felt the Arab’s heart muscles flutter against the blade. He twisted and pulled it out, while Bashir uttered a last groan.

Gideon sprinted to Bathsheba. He grabbed her arms, pulled her up over his shoulders, and hurried to the Citroen. They laid her on the back seat, legs folded up.

Pulling Abu Yusef’s hand grenade from the knapsack, Gideon ran back to the BMW. He snatched the heavy briefcase from the passenger seat, tore out the fuse from the grenade, and tossed it in.

As they raced away, a ball of fire exploded behind them.

Gideon made a sharp turn, and in the back seat Bathsheba cried, “ Daddy! ”

A moment later she became quiet. Glancing back, he saw her open eyes, not moving.

*

Dr. Geloux took a while to get downstairs from his living quarters. He unlocked the front door and let them into the clinic. Gideon lowered Bathsheba on an examination table. Her face was gray and blank. He closed her eyelids.

There was a telephone in the outer office. “Make the calls,” Elie said.

Gideon called the police station in Ermenonville. He told the attending officer that he lived on Boulevard Royale and was hearing explosions and the staccato of automatic weapons from the direction of a villa surrounded by a brick wall. He made similar calls to the police stations in neighboring Senlis and Chantilly.

Dr. Geloux joined them a few minutes later. “Terrible shame,” he said. “Such a beautiful young woman.”

Gideon dropped into a chair. He felt cold and empty.

Elie handed Dr. Geloux an envelope with the photographs they had taken of Abu Yusef’s dead body. “We have to leave Paris immediately. Please take this to the nearest TV station. Tell them it’s Abu Yusef. His body is at the Pinnacle Motel near Gare du Nord, room thirty-two.”

Dr. Geloux put the envelope in his pocket.

Elie opened the black briefcase and took out a bundle of bills. “Hide this briefcase. We’ll come back for it.”

The doctor pushed it into a closet.

“ Let’s go,” Elie said.

Gideon stood. “What about Bathsheba?”

“ She made a mistake and paid for it. Nothing we could do.” Elie turned to Dr. Geloux. “Call the Israeli embassy, leave word for Tanya Galinski. She’ll make the arrangements to ship the body to Israel for a proper burial.”

“Tanya Galinski?” The doctor scratched his chin. “Is she a petite woman, with dark hair, a porcelain face, and the bearing of a princess?”

“ Yes,” Elie said, “that would be Tanya. Why?”

“ She was here yesterday, looking for you.”

“ Here? ” Elie gripped Gideon’s arm. “We must leave! Now!”

When they opened the door to exit the clinic, several quiet men pointed guns at them.

Tanya appeared from the shadows. “Shalom, Elie.”

*

Thursday, October 26, 1995

The El Al jumbo jet stood on the tarmac far from the main terminal at Charles De Gaulle Airport. Several armored police vehicles guarded the plane. The first group of passengers crossed the short distance from the bus to the stairs. Gideon watched them through the window on the upper deck. A Mossad agent guarded the door, occasionally whispering to his wristwatch.

Some of the first-class seats had been removed to make room for Bathsheba’s coffin and Elie’s hospital bed. He was asleep. His skin was almost transparent, and his facial bones gave him a skeletal appearance. A nurse attended to his IV bags and the heart monitor.

While the flight attendants downstairs recited the emergency instructions for use of exits and oxygen masks, Tanya Galinski showed up with a small entourage. She greeted Gideon with a nod. He turned away, adjusted the small pillow against the fuselage, and closed his eyes.

*

Pierre was ready for Prince Abusalim in the bathroom with a jar of warm lather and soft music on the radio. He fastened the cape around the prince’s neck, lowered the back of the barber chair, and laid a steamed towel over his eyes. He applied the lather to the prince’s cheeks and chin while on the radio Jacques Brel sang “ Regarde Bien Petite. ”

The blade was like a musical instrument in Pierre’s hand, hovering near the skin so lightly that Prince Abusalim barely felt it. Pierre worked slowly, patiently, humming with Brel as he stretched each plot of skin and slid the blade.

His eyes closed under the soothing facecloth, Prince Abusalim thought about the dramatic events that would unfold in the next few days, paving the path to the restoration of the family’s greatness and his own eternal fame. Pierre was done with the left side, and the prince heard him shuffle around the chair. Brel continued singing, but Pierre stopped humming.

The prince began to wonder. He pulled the warm towel off his eyes and tried to sit up, but strong hands held him down.

The barber was gone. Hajj Vahabh Ibn Saroah looked back from the mirror, his brown skin and white hair oddly out of place in the dark business suit that replaced his robe and kafiya. He held Pierre’s blade. His sun-beaten face radiated raw power. Two men stood by the chair, holding the prince down.

The hajj took out a pocket-size cassette player and placed it on the counter among the toiletries. He leaned over Prince Abusalim and brought the blade to the skin, moving it down, marking a dark path in the white lather. When the hajj placed the blade for a second take, the voices came from the small cassette player:

“ Our operation last week was just the beginning. Allah will bring us victory. And he will bless you with fortunes ten times your generosity.”

Prince Abusalim recognized Abu Yusef’s voice and tried to rise, only to be pushed down. He heard his own voice reply: “Yes. I think He will. How much do you need?”

“The fight is long and costly. Very costly.”

“ Truth is, I’m having some difficulties right now.”

“ I understand.” Abu Yusef paused. “Can we help?”