sign here, Monsieur Sachs.” He pointed and rested his hand on the Arab’s shoulder.
*
Abu Yusef recognized the scent. Cacharel. It reminded him of Latif, and the memory at once saddened and aroused him. He signed Perez Sachs and looked up at the young man, who was standing over him. Their faces were only a few inches apart, and Abu Yusef took in the sweet scent, leaning slightly closer. His nostrils quivered. He returned the pen. For a moment, their hands connected, and Abu Yusef felt a wave of heat in his groin.
“Would you like to count the money now?” Grant’s gaze was direct and unwavering, bright with excitement.
“I trust you.”
“ We have time. It’s no problem.” Delicate wrinkles adorned the corners of his glistening eyes. The white, tailored shirt fit perfectly on what was clearly an athletic, masculine body. “I’m at your service, in every way you should require.”
“ I might be a demanding man.” Abu Yusef chuckled.
“ I’m accommodating by nature.”
“ You work out regularly?” He moved a finger down the clerk’s shirtsleeve.
“Yes.” His face became a little red, but he kept smiling. “I like to break a sweat.”
“It shows.” Abu Yusef felt doubly aroused by the young man’s discomfort. He opened the large briefcase, packed up the money, and closed the lid. The handsome bank clerk remained close, smiling, inviting. Didn’t he mind the age difference, the belly, the receding hairline? His body language communicated undeniable interest. Was it the money? Did it matter? Abu Yusef took a deep breath and asked, “Perhaps we could chat later?”
“If you’d like to, sure.” Grant scribbled a number on a piece of paper and handed it to Abu Yusef. “Call me at eight tonight, okay?”
Abu Yusef followed him to the front door. It was obvious Grant was anxious to usher him out of the bank lest his boss noticed there was more going on between the two of them than a banking transaction. “Until later then.”
“ Au revoir, Monsieur Sachs.” The young banker’s hand touched Abu Yusef’s back, gently prodding him out to the street. He winked and closed the glass door.
Bashir had the men facing away in all directions, alert to any sign of trouble. Abu Yusef got in the back seat of the BMW, the briefcase on his lap. “Allah is great,” he declared. “Let’s go!”
*
The Arabs kept to local roads, avoiding the highway. Rush hour slowed everything down and provided plenty of vehicles to blend in. Bathsheba stayed well behind, while Elie kept the binoculars trained on the red RX-7. Twenty minutes later, they reached Ermenonville. The two cars turned into a narrow street. Bathsheba passed the turn and stopped. She got out, ran to the corner, and peeked through the shrubs. An iron gate opened, and several armed guards stood aside to let the cars enter.
Back in the Citroen, Bathsheba said, “This is it. The snake pit.” She drove off while Elie wrote down the name of the street: Boulevard Royale.
*
After ten minutes, the manager came to check on Gideon. “Monsieur Guerra, I was hoping to meet your associate.”
“I’m so sorry,” Gideon said. “He was anxious to get going. It’s a large sum to carry around.”
“Of course. I assume the arrangements were satisfactory.”
“Superb.” Gideon put on his coat. “Thank you again.”
The bank manager bowed. “At your service.”
As they headed back to the front door, Gideon was relieved to see the vacant curb. He stepped out into a chilly evening, walked down the street, and turned right at the next corner. Halfway down the block, he leaned against the wall and vomited.
*
Rabbi Gerster joined hundreds of mourners at the Sanhedriah Cemetery in Jerusalem for the funeral of the rabbi from Paris, whose body had been flown to Israel that morning on an El Al jetliner. He had never met Rabbi Dasso, but felt an urge to show his respect to a man who had literally given his life to the pulpit. Besides, Rabbi Gerster was quite certain that the funeral would attract political activists, possibly even a few ILOT members.
A Paris-born Knesset member took the microphone to deliver a eulogy. “Rabbi Maurice Dasso was devoted to his congregation and to God. He died while praying, while celebrating a Bar Mitzvah with a Jewish boy, who also died. Those evil hands killed Rabbi Dasso in the middle of the holy Sabbath, a day of spirituality and peace, but not for the Jews of Paris. The murderers descended on the righteous! Cut short the prayers! Turned the joy of a Bar Mitzvah into grief! Snatched away Sabbath’s peace and turned it into blood and death and grief!” He raised his hands at the sky. “ Oy! Oy! How the righteous have fallen!”
Rabbi Dasso’s wife and children, standing by the coffin at the open grave, began crying. Many others cried with them.
“ Our enemies never rest.” The Knesset member wiped his eyes. “I want to ask them: Why do you hate us so? Why does your hatred of Jews thrive with every generation?”
Many in the crowd yelled, “Why? Why?”
“ Why does your thirst for Jewish blood never languish?” He looked up, shaking his head. “What have we done to deserve your venom? Is it the faith in one God, which we have gifted to mankind?”
The mourners cried, “No!”
“ Is it the justice of the Ten Commandments and the civil law of Talmud’s thousand pages, which has inspired laws of fairness and equality in every country in your so-called civilized world?”
“ No!”
“ Is it the wisdom of philosophy and ethics that we have shared with humanity? Or the beauty of music and literature, scribed by Jewish quills to pleasure the ears of all nations?”
“ No!”
“ Is it the scientific leaps that improve the lives of millions? Or the cures we’ve invented for fatal maladies?”
“ No! No! No!”
Taking a deep breath, he cried, “Then why do you hate us, Gentiles?”
There was no response. Even the French ambassador, standing in a section reserved for dignitaries, bowed his head-perhaps in agreement, perhaps in shame. The morning newspapers had reported that the French government had known of Abu Yusef’s activities even before his deadly attack on a Jewish day school in Marseilles the previous month. An anonymous source at the Quai D’Orsay, enraged over the death of the minister of arts and culture in the synagogue bombing, had told the Associated Press that Yasser Arafat himself had asked the French to look the other way while he attempted to deal discreetly with his estranged deputy.
After the burial and prayers, as he was leaving the cemetery, Rabbi Gerster saw a group of women holding a huge placard:
Prime Minister Rabin: Here is your “partner for peace” Arafat’s Resume:
Founder of PLO, Fatah, Black September, Tanzim, Al-Aksa Brigade: 1965-present;
Attacks on farm communities in the south and north, hundreds dead, 1965-70;
Bombing of Swissair Flight 330, 47 passengers dead, 1970;
Bombing of School bus near Moshav Avivim in Israel, 9 children dead, 1970;
Highjack of TWA, Pan Am, and BOAC passenger planes, 1970;
Attacks on multiple civilian targets in Jordan, thousands killed, 1970;
Attack by guns and grenades at Lod Airport in Israel, 1971;
Attack on the Munich Olympics, athletes massacred, 1972;
Attack on US embassy in Saudi Arabia, civilians dead, 1972;
Murder of US ambassador to Sudan, Cleo Noel, 1972;
Murder of 11 civilians in an apartment building in Kiryat Shmona, Israel, 1974;
Murder of 21 children and 5 adults in a school in Ma’alot, Israel, 1974;
Murder of 4 civilians in Bet She’an, Israel, 1974;
Attack on Hotel Savoy in Tel Aviv, numerous dead, 1975;
