“ What else?”
Suddenly Yoni’s departing comment seemed ominous. “Could there be another assassin?”
Following him down the path to the street, Gideon said, “But Elie supported ILOT. Why would he…you mean, a parallel operation?”
“ Exactly!” Lemmy pushed through the remaining spectators and broke into a sprint toward the plaza. “Another ILOT-like group, another Rodef verdict, another religious extremist! The same thing!”
“ Redundancy!” Gideon yelled the word like a man discovering the key to heaven-or hell. “Belt and suspenders!”
They ran across Ibn Gevirol Street, against the flood of departing revelers, toward the massive city hall building that overshadowed the empty stage.
Many well-wishers had lingered around the sterile area behind the stage, pressing against the waist-high police barriers. Lemmy and Gideon pushed through, shoving people aside. The music was still playing from the loudspeakers, making it useless to yell any warnings.
Prime Minister Yitzhak Rabin was walking across the sterile area toward his Cadillac, circled by bodyguards.
Lemmy scanned the area. “There!”
A lone man, dark and skinny, with a knitted skullcap and intense face, stood near a fountain, smack in the middle of the sterile area. He bore an uncanny resemblance to Yoni Adiel, except that he was slightly shorter and wore dark clothes. He watched Rabin and his entourage approach.
Gideon and Lemmy jumped over the barriers, and immediately a group of policemen was all over them.
“ Protect Rabin!” Lemmy pointed. “Stop this man!”
But as Rabin neared the Cadillac, the assassin took three steps, reached with one arm through a gap that opened between two bodyguards, and shot the prime minister in the back.
*
On the TV in Elie’s room at Hadassah Hospital, gunshots sounded. Someone yelled, “Blanks! Blanks!” A scuffle erupted around the prime minister. Cries of fear. Sirens whined.
Elie watched the confusion on the screen, people running back and forth.
A few minutes passed.
A woman was being interviewed. “No,” she said, “I saw him enter his car. There was no blood. Rabin was fine!”
Elie sighed. All according to plan. He closed his eyes, dozing off.
A little while later, someone yelled-not on TV, but outside the door. Another voice responded, anxious, fretful. Then an anchor on the screen said, “We now go to Ichilov Hospital in Tel Aviv for a live news conference.”
A man stood with a stained sheet of paper, his eyes red. “With horror, grave sorrow, and deep grief, the government of Israel announces the death of Prime Minister Yitzhak Rabin, murdered by an assassin.”
Elie Weiss heard a wail from the television-or maybe from the hallway outside his room. The words repeated in his mind. Yitzhak Rabin, murdered by an assassin.
Laughter erupted from Elie’s dry lips. He fought for air, and another screeching laugh cut through his chest. He sat up, choking, as the nurse ran into the room. She was yelling for help. His hand pulled off the hospital gown, his fingernails plowing the flesh of his chest, digging to reach the fire inside.
Someone outside his room cried. More voices down the hall, filled with horror.
The nurse pressed a button on the wall. An alarm went off.
The man on the TV held up the paper and said, “Rabin’s blood spilled all over his copy of the Song of Peace.”
Drawing a last breath, Elie convulsed in laughter and pain. He rolled off the bed to the hard floor.
*
Part Eight
The Aftermath
Sunday, November 5, 1995
Lemmy entered the house, using his own key. He surprised Paula in the kitchen. They hugged and kissed. “What happened to you?” She touched his chin, then took his hands and caressed the bruises. “Have you been in an accident?”
“ Sort of.” He smiled. “It’s a long story, but I’m fine.”
She pressed his hand to her tummy.
He laughed. “ Really? ”
“Really. And I have another surprise for you. Father woke up yesterday and dictated instructions to the board of directors. They approved your appointment last night.” Paula smiled. “My husband, the president.”
Lemmy nodded. The seeds that Elie had planted decades earlier were finally bearing fruit. With the power to direct every aspect of the bank’s business, combined with control of the enormous Nazi fortune, the time had come for the Final Counter Solution.
“ Papa!” Klaus Junior ran down the stairs and jumped into Lemmy’s arms. “What did you bring me?”
“Actually, I brought something very special.”
Paula’s forehead creased. “Not another old car?”
“ An old man, actually.” Lemmy smiled to ease the shock. “Not too old, though.”
“ Who?”
“ My father.”
Klaus Junior said, “I have another grandpa?”
“ Is this one of your jokes?” Paula seemed ready to laugh.
“ No.” Lemmy kissed her again. “I’ll explain later. Right now, he’s anxious to meet you.”
They went to the foyer.
“Father,” Lemmy said, his voice choking, “please meet my wife, Paula.”
The hand that shook hers was large yet soft.
“ Welcome to our home,” Paula said. “It’s a wonderful surprise.”
“And this is Klaus Junior,” Lemmy said.
“Hi.” The boy looked up at the clean-shaven face, the gray hair, and the large blue eyes that smiled down at him. He beckoned. “Want to see my room?”
*
“ Calm down,” Gideon said, holding his mother, “I’m here, okay?” But she clung to him silently, not letting go. He led her to the kitchen, sat her down, and made tea for both of them.
The apartment smelled the same-fried chicken schnitzel and detergent-the smells of his childhood. She had aged since he last saw her, almost a year ago, and her hands shook as she held the saucer and sipped tea. Seeing her like this made him realize how much pain his career had caused her.
“ I’m staying home,” he said.
“Until when?” She put down the saucer.
The correct answer would be: Until the investigation is over. But he couldn’t say that. “My department is going through some changes. I’ll hear in the next few days.”
“ Changes? Because of the tragedy?”
“ Not directly. My boss is very sick.” The Ma’ariv newspaper was on the table. Most of the first page was dedicated to the assassination, the responses from world leaders, and the accusations against the Likud and other right-wing parties for creating a murderous environment. Gideon turned to the second page and saw the headline: Itah Orr, veteran TV reporter, dead in car accident.
“It’s the end of the Zionist dream.” His mother sighed. “A Jew killing the prime minister? It’s a nightmare! All the right-wing leaders should go to jail, every last one of them!”
“ It’s more complicated than that.” Gideon took off his shoes.
