Avraham Azrieli - The Jerusalem Assassin

“ Let me explain,” Elie said. “There’s a whole field of political science that supports this proposition-popularity through victimhood. For it to work, a politician must be the target of a real attacker with sincere murderous intentions, the weapons must be real and deadly, and the politician must be in the line of fire, in deadly peril. That’s why President Ford gained nothing from two half-hearted attempts on his life in California while few today remember how unpopular and ridiculed Ronald Reagan had been before he survived Hinckley’s nearly fatal gunshot. My plan in sixty-seven had been visionary, perfect, a real attack that was going to fail only because Eshkol was on the roof, briefing reporters, when the grenades were to explode near his ground-floor kitchen. The assassination attempt was supposed to be real in every respect, and it would have restored the prime minister’s popularity.”

“ How?”

“ Good luck is a political aphrodisiac,” Elie said. “Voters love a plucky leader who laughs in the face of danger, who is steady in opposing the extremists, and who unites the nation after depraved assassins tried to divide it. The political situation today is perfect for such an operation. And that’s how Rabin will win the next elections.”

“ It’s madness!” Rabbi Gerster stood and grabbed the railing. “The Eshkol assassination failed because I discovered your scheme and stopped it! And by God, I will stop you again!”

“ It’s too late,” Elie said. “The wheels are already in motion. Unstoppable.”

*

Lemmy rented a zippy Fiat with a manual transmission. The wide, well-marked road out of Ben Gurion Airport wound through manicured flower beds and trim shrubs, which looked more like Switzerland than the dusty Israel he remembered. The buildings were large and modern, the cars new and abundant, and the road signs multi-lingual in Hebrew, Arabic, and English.

He glanced at the directions Carl had given him to the town of Bet Shemesh and turned onto the Tel Aviv-Jerusalem highway, heading east. The radio played edgy music, a mix of American pop and Middle Eastern crooning. He searched the stations for something more to his taste and happened upon the Voice of Israel, which announced the ten o’clock news.

Obeying the speed limit of ninety kilometers per hour earned him honks from the Israeli drivers, who tailgated him before passing. Some gave him angry glares, and others cut back in within inches of his front bumper. A couple of them actually hit their brakes as soon as they returned to his lane, forcing him to do the same. It was funny for a while, but eventually, as he approached the imposing monastery at Latrun, he decided that speeding was safer than driving legally. He swung into the fast lane and increased his speed to 130 kilometers per hour, which made all the difference.

The news started with politics, quoting Prime Minister Rabin: “The Oslo Accords are the only path to peace and security for Israel and its neighbors!” Opposition leader Bibi Netanyahu was quoted next: “The current government has placed our national security in the hands of Palestinian murderers!” Next came economic news, mixing impressive achievements by several exporters with pessimistic forecasts for the industrial and farming sectors should Palestinian terror attacks grow even more frequent and deadly.

Crime news came last: “A government spokesman announced this morning the exposure of a suspected ring of identity thieves. The group allegedly hacked into computers at the Central Bank and stole personal banking data, which was then used for illegal purposes. The suspects include a well-known ultra-Orthodox rabbi in Neturay Karta and a TV reporter.”

Lemmy swerved across the left lane and came to a stop on the shoulder. A well-known ultra-Orthodox rabbi in Neturay Karta! No one in the insular sect, which banned television, computers, and all forms of entertainment, would have the means or inclination to engage in financial fraud, let along hack into computers at the Central Bank. And who beside his father could be described as a well-known rabbi in Neturay Karta?

The news ended, followed by a promotional jingle for vacations in Eilat. Lemmy turned off the radio. What was the meaning of this? Tanya had told him that his father, the great Rabbi Abraham Gerster, had been Elie’s mole in Neturay Karta. Was Rabbi Gerster now in the crosshairs of Shin Bet, another casualty of SOD’s collapse? Was Shin Bet busy arresting Elie’s agents on trumped-up charges? And how long would it take for Shin Bet to pounce on Wilhelm Horch in Zurich? Or to track down the Dutch tourist Baruch Spinoza, who had ventured into Israel with neither contacts nor allies for support?

He looked over his shoulder at the moving traffic. No one stopped behind him or ahead of him. He rolled down the window and looked up at the sky, searching for a plane, a helicopter, or perhaps the Israelis’ favorite-a drone.

Nothing but a blue sky and an endless chain of cars buzzing by his window. Were they waiting for him at Hadassah? Was Elie Weiss the bait in a Shin Bet trap?

The next exit off the highway took him to Bet Shemesh. The mechanic’s shop sat on the main road. An elderly man wearing a greasy coverall and a colorful yarmulke had his hands deep in the engine well of a tiny Alfa Romeo.

“ Shalom,” Lemmy said. “I’m here to see the Citroen.”

The man beckoned.

Behind the shop, twenty or so cars rested in various grades of disrepair. The DS was propped on blocks, but its space age, aerodynamic shape still connoted speed and sophistication. It was white, which would make painting any pirated skin sections easier. It was also rusty in all the suspect spots and was missing the rear seat. But otherwise Lemmy’s meticulous inspection revealed it to be complete inside and out-a treasure trove of usable little parts that would otherwise cost a fortune to fabricate from scratch for the SM Presidential, which shared many of its components with the standard-body DS sedan.

The mechanic was back inside with the Alfa.

Lemmy found a sink and a bar of soap. Over the sound of the running water, he asked, “How much do you want for it?”

After a long silence, the mechanic said, “It was once owned by a lawyer in Haifa. He’s now a minister in the government.”

“ That’s quite a pedigree. I’ll treat it well…except for taking off a bunch of parts.”

That drew a chuckle.

“ I can give you two thousand dollars. That’s my only offer.” Lemmy pulled a bundle of bills from his pocket. “I’ll have it picked up in a couple of weeks.”

The mechanic put on reading glasses and fumbled through a drawer. He produced a creased envelope with a title, which he and Lemmy signed.

He examined the signature. “Baruch Spinoza?”

“ Guilty as charged,” Lemmy said.

The mechanic gave him the title and took the money. “Wait a minute.” He went into an adjoining space, which seemed like a combined kitchen-storage-hangout room, and reemerged with a small volume. “Sign this as well,” he said, holding it forth.

Lemmy looked at the cover. It was a Hebrew translation of Spinoza’s 1662 work: On the Improvement of the Understanding.

*

Elie tossed his cigarette over the balcony railing. “The problem with you, Abraham, is that your emotions drive your decisions. We’re not theorizing over Talmudic esoteric quandaries here. We’re dealing with reality. Don’t you remember what we saw with our own young eyes? Don’t you remember what happens to Jews who let misguided righteousness determine their fate?”

“ I remember,” Rabbi Gerster said. “They died like sheep in the slaughterhouse.”

“You two might as well speak Chinese.” Itah stood. “You better explain what’s going on, or I’m going straight to the police. What’s this talk of an assassination?”