“ You followed him?”
“ He drove too fast. We couldn’t keep up without being noticed.”
Bathsheba paced back and forth. “We should have waited right there. Bashir has to return to pick up the boy. He has to!”
“With all that police activity,” Gideon said, “we couldn’t stick around.”
“Was there a fire in the store? Or an accident?” Elie lit a cigarette, keeping a straight face even though he knew what the arrival of police cars had meant. The job had been executed-successfully, no doubt, because Jerusalem Gerster never failed.
“ Whatever it was,” Bathsheba said, “we’re back to square one.”
“ We’ll catch them soon enough.” Smoke petered out of Elie’s lips with each word. “The next transfer to Senlis is our hook.”
*
Abu Yusef wasn’t happy when Bashir returned without Latif, reporting that the Galeries Lafayette was surrounded by police. With several guns and a few hand grenades in the Peugeot, Bashir had to get away in a hurry, but he was confident that, as the huge department store was filled with thousands of shoppers, Latif would easily melt into the crowds. “He knows the drill,” Bashir said. “He’ll walk around and check out some stores until the emergency is over. He’ll call, and I’ll drive back to Paris to get him. Don’t worry.”
But a few hours passed, the phone didn’t ring, and Bashir fell asleep on the sofa in the living room, snoring lightly. The rest of the men, other than the sentries on duty, were in the pool house, watching an action movie with Jean-Paul Belmondo.
By ten p.m. Abu Yusef was pacing in the patio outside, wrapped in an oversize wool coat, a small radio glued to his ear, tuned to an all-news French channel. With time his mind wandered, and the anchor’s chattering became mere background noise. But suddenly the words Galeries Lafayette popped out. He paused and listened, his mind translating each French word into Arabic: Victim. Dressing room. Algerian or Moroccan. Age fifteen to twenty. Cash. No papers. Shot twice. Police investigating.
Amidst the shock and pain, Abu Yusef saw Bashir through the window, slouched on the sofa, his legs crossed, his mouth slightly open. A terrible realization came to Abu Yusef. He ran to the pool house to alert the men, but stopped halfway around the water. What would he tell the men? Bashir killed my pretty boyfriend! They would laugh-or worse. They looked up to Bashir, trusted him, and obeyed his orders. In a conflict between them, who would the men choose?
He changed direction and crossed a patch of grass to a storage shed. Inside, leaning against the wall, was the long skewer they had used to roast the lamb. The cook had cleaned the skewer, and it shone in the dark, its sharp point near the pitched ceiling. Abu Yusef grabbed it and returned to the patio. Through the window he saw Bashir in the same position, fast asleep.
It took all of Abu Yusef’s self-control not to stab him through. He gripped the metal rod and aimed it at Bashir’s thick throat, just under the chin, and pricked the skin.
The snoring ceased, and Bashir’s eyes opened. He didn’t move. Even his calm expression remained unchanged despite the sight of the long skewer, which had easily pierced a whole lamb from rectum to jaw.
“Say your prayers,” Abu Yusef said.
Very slowly, Bashir raised his hand. “I swear. I didn’t kill Latif.”
“Then how do you know he’s dead?” Abu Yusef laughed bitterly. “How?”
Avoiding sudden moves, Bashir’s forefinger pointed at the steel rod. “What else…could come between us?”
“ You killed him!”
“ Must be…the Israelis.”
“Impossible!” Abu Yusef pressed a little harder, and a trickle of blood ran down the side of Bashir’s throat. “You did it! Murderer!”
With blinding quickness, Bashir’s hand flew at the skewer and flipped it sideways, its point trailing blood. At the same time, Bashir’s leg bent sideways, his knee pounding Abu Yusef’s thigh. The pain was sharp and debilitating, his leg muscles drained of sustenance. And while Abu Yusef collapsed, Bashir jumped to his feet, the skewer in motion, spinning like a parade stick.
Abu Yusef found himself flat on the carpet, the red point of the skewer in his ear.
“How dare you,” Bashir groaned, panting hard, “doubt my loyalty?”
Abu Yusef felt a drop of Bashir’s blood leave the point of the skewer and fill his ear. He tried to move and realized that Bashir’s foot was pinning him down. But the fact that he was still alive proved Bashir’s innocence. “Okay. I believe you.”
Bashir dumped the rod on the carpet. “I serve under you to fight the Zionists, not to chauffer your bottom boy on shopping trips. But I didn’t kill him.”
“How did the Israelis find Latif? How did they know where, when?”
“They must have followed us. It’s the only possibility.” Bashir pressed his hand to the bleeding wound under his chin. “I failed to notice them, but they are clever.”
“I will avenge him!” Abu Yusef stood, choked with hate. “And Al-Mazir!”
*
Thursday, October 19, 1995
According to the TV newscast, police had been unable to identify the murder victim at the Galeries Lafayette. The large amount of cash found on the youth suggested he was involved in narcotics or prostitution activities, both controlled by Arab immigrants. The camera showed a gurney roll out of the store with a zipped-up body bag, followed by footage from recent police crackdowns on criminal gangs in Paris.
“ If you wait long enough,” Elie said, “these Arabs end up killing each other.”
“ A convenient assumption.” Bathsheba stared at him. “It wasn’t one of your hit men, was it?”
“ Don’t be ridiculous,” Gideon said. “Abu Yusef got bored with the boy and had him killed.”
Elie opened a drawer in the desk and took out a large folder. He searched through a pile of newspaper clippings and dug out a one-page article from the New York Times. It was less than a year old.
Bathsheba came behind Gideon and rested her chin on his shoulder.
He finished reading and looked at Elie. “So?
“Summarize it, will you?”
“It’s about Prince Abusalim az-Zubayr, son of Sheik Da’ood Ibn Hisham az-Zubayr. Their company, Transport International al-Saud Inc., holds a virtual monopoly on food and machinery purchases for the kingdom. That’s billions of dollars.” Gideon’s eyes went quickly through the lines. “The prince is an Oxford graduate, lives in a suite at the Hilton Hotel in Paris, many sisters, one half-brother, Salman.”
“How exotic,” Bathsheba said. “And why do we care about this prince?”
“Go on,” Elie said.
“Their oasis north of Riyadh is home to the extended family, including Prince Abusalim’s wives and children. The old sheik owns everything.” Gideon’s scanned the rest of the article. “The interviewer asked the prince what he thought about the Mideast peace process. Answer: Oslo is a sham, because Palestine is part of the land of Islam, and the Jews are usurpers. Question: What about Arafat? Answer: A leader must be a true believer, someone willing to fight a jihad for Jerusalem.”
“That’s odd,” Bathsheba said. “I thought the Saudis support the Oslo peace process.”
“They do,” Elie said, “but Prince Abusalim dreams of becoming Kharass El-Sharif, keeper of Haram el-Sharif.” He lit another cigarette, holding it between a thumb and yellow forefinger. “That’s why we targeted him. Now he’s collecting bribes from vendors to finance the Palestinian jihad. Remember the tip about the French consulate in Damascus arranging a passport for Al-Mazir?”
“ You have someone watching the prince’s bank account?” Bathsheba suddenly seemed interested. “Talk about holding someone by the balls!”
“ Follow the money,” Elie said, “and you’ll find your enemy.”
“ This prince,” Gideon said, “is a bigger threat to Israel than Abu Yusef. He can bankroll a hundred more terrorist groups.”
“ Correct.” Elie pulled a sheet of paper from the file. “This is a list of bribes the prince has collected. Use the
