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 Lemmy’s banking skills. Invariably, they were easy to terrify, like a bully facing someone worse. They paid handsomely for their sins, and the cash supported on-going SOD operations while he pursued the real prize-Koenig’s fortune, which awaited its destiny in a dormant account at the Hoffgeitz Bank.
Also inside the envelope were two sheets of paper. The first provided a list of the bribes paid to Prince Abusalim az-Zubayr, which totaled $76,750,000. The second sheet was a copy of an electronic transfer of $200,000 from the prince’s account at the Hoffgeitz Bank to a bank in Senlis, France, dated today.
As soon as the train reached the airport, Elie walked to a pay phone. It was two thirty p.m. He inserted a phone card and punched in the number.
The phone at Rue Buffault rang three times, and Gideon answered, “Yes?”
“ Get a roadmap,” Elie said, “and find Senlis. It’s a small town, maybe a village.”
After a moment of paper shuffling, Gideon said, “Senlis is about twenty miles north of Paris.”
“ Near Ermenonville?”
“ Correct.”
Elie coughed and held his other hand to his chest until the pain eased. “Our man will pick up a large sum today at Banque Nationale De France at thirty-eight Rue Philippe. He won’t trust anyone else, but he’ll bring guards. Watch from a distance, take photos, but nothing else.”
“Your old friend is here. She’s napping.”
Elie considered the situation for a moment. Tanya must not learn of these developments. “Get lovebird and leave quietly. If our guest wakes up, tell her you’re going to buy food. Go to Senlis and watch the bank.”
“ Follow him?”
“ No. There will be more transfers. I want to confirm it’s really him, but our main target is his sponsor. We have to hold off until we can get both of them together.” Elie hung up and walked to Gate 24A, where the next Swissair flight to Paris was already boarding.
*
Gideon parked the Citroen halfway up the street from the two-story, glass-fronted building. Bathsheba propped a black-and-white photo of Abu Yusef on the dashboard, and they settled for the wait with an audio version of Frederick Forsyth’s The Fourth Protocol. An hour into the story, John Preston brought the stolen documents to the Yard, and a technician dusted them for prints. Gideon remembered Preston, played by Michael Cain, wearing his nonchalant expression that communicated so much to truly discerning Michael Cain fans.
“He’s not coming.” Bathsheba hit the stop button on the cassette player. “Or it’s not him at all.”
“ The bank closes in nine minutes,” Gideon said.
“ Let’s go for a drink.” Her left arm rested on the back of his seat, then slipped down to his shoulder.
He pretended not to notice.
Bathsheba’s mouth was close to his ear. “You smell so clean.” Her fingers slid under the curls at the back of his head. “I was thinking-”
“Don’t start.” Gideon pushed her hand away.
Bathsheba sat straight up in her seat and saluted.
He laughed despite his best efforts. The absurd contradiction between her girlish clowning and her womanly beauty was too funny to resist. She was a performer, both in her irreverence and on the job. Men never refused Bathsheba. He had seen her lure men who recklessly surrendered to the powerful lust she ignited. He sensed that she despised their submission. Did she despise all men because her father had died, leaving her orphaned when she was so young?
“Look!” Bathsheba pointed.
A green Peugeot stopped in front of the bank and a man sprang out of the passenger side. He looked up and down the street and tapped on the roof of the car. Both rear doors opened and two other men came out. They all wore dark suits and had thin mustaches, and the driver, Bashir, awkwardly hid a machine gun under his jacket.
She aimed the Polaroid. “Come out, come out, wherever you are.”
Abu Yusef emerged. He was older than the others, his hair gray and thinning on top. He crossed the pavement carrying a briefcase to the door of the bank.
The camera clicked. “I’d rather shoot bullets,” she said, “than photos.”
“ He’s too well protected.”
A few minutes later Abu Yusef reappeared and hefted the briefcase into the back seat. The Peugeot drove off. Gideon waited a few minutes before heading back to Paris.
*
Elie Weiss sat on the edge of the bed. Tanya’s face was peaceful, almost happy. Finding her asleep was an unexpected pleasure-it had been three hours since he had called from Zurich. She must have been very tired. He enjoyed this rare opportunity to gaze at her without being regarded with cold hostility. For decades they had coexisted in the clandestine trenches of the war against Israel’s enemies, but neither her beauty nor her loathing of him had abated.
He pulled off his gloves and carefully rested his hand on her cheek. Tingling warmth reached up through his arm to his chest. His eyes misted up and he leaned closer, taking in her unique aroma.
Her eyes opened. She pushed his hand away and sat up.
“ Shalom, Tanya.”
“ Shalom.”
“ You look well.”
“What’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing.” Elie rubbed his bald head. “I saw Abraham last week. A chance encounter. I barely recognized him. His beard is totally white.”
“He’s not seventy yet.” Tanya stood, her hair came loose, and the past fifty years fell off. She was again the girl sitting in the snow on the first day of 1945, wrapped in a fur coat, her Nazi lover’s warm corpse beside her. Elie had fallen in love with her right there, a passion that would forever go unrequited. Instead she fell for Abraham, but her love had fared no better-Elie had made sure of that.
“We haven’t spoken in years,” Elie said. “He shirked his duty when he passed the leadership to that fatherless disciple of his, Benjamin Mashash.”
“A leader without an heir is a failed leader. What’s your succession plan?”
“ People like us never retire. We must work to prevent the next Holocaust, use whatever skills and resources we possess. Abraham grew up as the rabbi’s son, so he should use the skills he acquired preparing for the pulpit.
