to be like the lawyers?” Jerusalem held the door. “I told my father that maybe the sage Elazar was joking.”
Rabbi Gerster laughed. “You’re a clever boy.”
The synagogue greeted them with cigarette smoke and the intensity of voices arguing over Talmudic quandaries.
“Most of our friends here,” Rabbi Gerster waved at the rows of scholars, “would never assign humor to our ancient sages. Why is it, Jerusalem?”
“Perhaps they forgot,” Benjamin’s son intoned in the traditional singsong of Talmudic studying, “that the sages were flesh and blood, like us.”
“Precisely!”
*
At the Hoffgeitz Bank, Lemmy entered his office and made sure the door was locked. On the way from the Bierhalle Kropf he had reflected on the conversation with Elie. You’ll be in charge…as my successor. It must have been a joke. Running SOD required skills and knowledge he did not possess. He had been an undercover agent for twenty-eight years, slowly growing roots as a reputable banker in Zurich. His Mideast clients had been a fountain of useful intelligence for Israel, and every year Elie had sent him on jobs that sharpened his deadly skills. But he had never worked directly with other SOD agents, had not been privy to the organization’s structure or composition, and had never interacted with any Israeli official. To the best of Lemmy’s knowledge, only Elie Weiss knew who Wilhelm Horch really was and that Jerusalem Gerster had not died in battle on the Golan Heights in 1967. This total anonymity enabled him to do his job in relative safety while protecting his family. There was no way he could take over command of SOD from Elie Weiss. It would put everything he possessed and everyone he loved at an unacceptable risk.
But then he remembered another thing Elie had said. I know more than you think. Another joke? Another mind game? How could Elie watch him?
He pulled the envelope from his coat pocket and tore it open. It contained a photo of a youth in a long green coat, holding a fur hat. He was in profile, too far to show exact facial features. On the back of the photo, in Elie’s familiar handwriting, was a short note:
Wednesday, 3:00 p.m., Paris, Rue Mogador, Galeries Lafayette, west building. Watch for a green Peugeot. Target is the bomber of the Marseilles school. He’ll go to menswear dressing room. Second team will watch the driver on Rue Mogador.
Lemmy looked at the small photo for a long moment and memorized what little details it gave. He reviewed the operational instructions one more time and slipped the photo into the paper shredder.
*
Elie Weiss left the Bierhalle Kropf through the front entrance and waved down a taxi. Zurich’s train station was only a few blocks away, and the elderly Swiss cabbie wasn’t happy as he collected the minimum fare and no tip. “I’m not a bus driver,” he said in German.
“ Arbeit macht frei ,” Elie said as he got out.
He took the escalators down into the underground station. As the train left for the airport, he opened The Economist and found an envelope glued onto page 67, which carried an article titled: Mideast Leaders Talk Business – Can Rabin and Arafat Quell Their Militant Oppositions with Economic Prosperity? Elie read it quickly. Typical European wishful thinking held that terrorism will disappear if western nations subsidize a nice middle-class lifestyle for the Palestinians. It was like expecting hyenas to forgo their natural malice in exchange for free meals. Elie had no doubt that the editors at The Economist knowingly twisted the truth because, just like the Palestinians, their hostility to Israel was not rooted in political causes or economic circumstances, but in anti-Semitism, manifested temporarily as anti-Israelism.
Inside the envelope he found a cashier’s check for $75,000, made To Bearer . The funds in his account at the Hoffgeitz Bank had come from dozens of former Nazis he had tracked down over the years, many with the help of
Rabbi Gerster laughed. “You’re a clever boy.”
The synagogue greeted them with cigarette smoke and the intensity of voices arguing over Talmudic quandaries.
“Most of our friends here,” Rabbi Gerster waved at the rows of scholars, “would never assign humor to our ancient sages. Why is it, Jerusalem?”
“Perhaps they forgot,” Benjamin’s son intoned in the traditional singsong of Talmudic studying, “that the sages were flesh and blood, like us.”
“Precisely!”
*
At the Hoffgeitz Bank, Lemmy entered his office and made sure the door was locked. On the way from the Bierhalle Kropf he had reflected on the conversation with Elie. You’ll be in charge…as my successor. It must have been a joke. Running SOD required skills and knowledge he did not possess. He had been an undercover agent for twenty-eight years, slowly growing roots as a reputable banker in Zurich. His Mideast clients had been a fountain of useful intelligence for Israel, and every year Elie had sent him on jobs that sharpened his deadly skills. But he had never worked directly with other SOD agents, had not been privy to the organization’s structure or composition, and had never interacted with any Israeli official. To the best of Lemmy’s knowledge, only Elie Weiss knew who Wilhelm Horch really was and that Jerusalem Gerster had not died in battle on the Golan Heights in 1967. This total anonymity enabled him to do his job in relative safety while protecting his family. There was no way he could take over command of SOD from Elie Weiss. It would put everything he possessed and everyone he loved at an unacceptable risk.
But then he remembered another thing Elie had said. I know more than you think. Another joke? Another mind game? How could Elie watch him?
He pulled the envelope from his coat pocket and tore it open. It contained a photo of a youth in a long green coat, holding a fur hat. He was in profile, too far to show exact facial features. On the back of the photo, in Elie’s familiar handwriting, was a short note:
Wednesday, 3:00 p.m., Paris, Rue Mogador, Galeries Lafayette, west building. Watch for a green Peugeot. Target is the bomber of the Marseilles school. He’ll go to menswear dressing room. Second team will watch the driver on Rue Mogador.
Lemmy looked at the small photo for a long moment and memorized what little details it gave. He reviewed the operational instructions one more time and slipped the photo into the paper shredder.
*
Elie Weiss left the Bierhalle Kropf through the front entrance and waved down a taxi. Zurich’s train station was only a few blocks away, and the elderly Swiss cabbie wasn’t happy as he collected the minimum fare and no tip. “I’m not a bus driver,” he said in German.
“ Arbeit macht frei ,” Elie said as he got out.
He took the escalators down into the underground station. As the train left for the airport, he opened The Economist and found an envelope glued onto page 67, which carried an article titled: Mideast Leaders Talk Business – Can Rabin and Arafat Quell Their Militant Oppositions with Economic Prosperity? Elie read it quickly. Typical European wishful thinking held that terrorism will disappear if western nations subsidize a nice middle-class lifestyle for the Palestinians. It was like expecting hyenas to forgo their natural malice in exchange for free meals. Elie had no doubt that the editors at The Economist knowingly twisted the truth because, just like the Palestinians, their hostility to Israel was not rooted in political causes or economic circumstances, but in anti-Semitism, manifested temporarily as anti-Israelism.
Inside the envelope he found a cashier’s check for $75,000, made To Bearer . The funds in his account at the Hoffgeitz Bank had come from dozens of former Nazis he had tracked down over the years, many with the help of
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