Some of the first-class seats had been removed to make room for Bathsheba’s coffin and Elie’s hospital bed. He was asleep. His skin was almost transparent, and his facial bones gave him a skeletal appearance. A nurse attended to his IV bags and the heart monitor.
While the flight attendants downstairs recited the emergency instructions for use of exits and oxygen masks, Tanya Galinski showed up with a small entourage. She greeted Gideon with a nod. He turned away, adjusted the small pillow against the fuselage, and closed his eyes.
*
Pierre was ready for Prince Abusalim in the bathroom with a jar of warm lather and soft music on the radio. He fastened the cape around the prince’s neck, lowered the back of the barber chair, and laid a steamed towel over his eyes. He applied the lather to the prince’s cheeks and chin while on the radio Jacques Brel sang “
Regarde Bien Petite.
”
The blade was like a musical instrument in Pierre’s hand, hovering near the skin so lightly that Prince Abusalim barely felt it. Pierre worked slowly, patiently, humming with Brel as he stretched each plot of skin and slid the blade.
His eyes closed under the soothing facecloth, Prince Abusalim thought about the dramatic events that would unfold in the next few days, paving the path to the restoration of the family’s greatness and his own eternal fame. Pierre was done with the left side, and the prince heard him shuffle around the chair. Brel continued singing, but Pierre stopped humming.
The prince began to wonder. He pulled the warm towel off his eyes and tried to sit up, but strong hands held him down.
The barber was gone. Hajj Vahabh Ibn Saroah looked back from the mirror, his brown skin and white hair oddly out of place in the dark business suit that replaced his robe and kafiya. He held Pierre’s blade. His sun-beaten face radiated raw power. Two men stood by the chair, holding the prince down.
The hajj took out a pocket-size cassette player and placed it on the counter among the toiletries. He leaned over Prince Abusalim and brought the blade to the skin, moving it down, marking a dark path in the white lather. When the hajj placed the blade for a second take, the voices came from the small cassette player:
“Our operation last week was just the beginning. Allah will bring us victory. And he will bless you with fortunes ten times your generosity.”
Prince Abusalim recognized Abu Yusef’s voice and tried to rise, only to be pushed down. He heard his own voice reply: “Yes. I think He will. How much do you need?”
“The fight is long and costly. Very costly.”
“Truth is, I’m having some difficulties right now.”
“I understand.” Abu Yusef paused. “Can we help?”
“There is a man who stands in my way. He will be in Paris soon.”
“We shall be honored to remove that man from your way.”
“Five million dollars.”
“Excellency! Your friendship alone is a sufficient gift. But of course, we accept!”
“Good. I’ll arrange to transfer half the amount. Call me on Wednesday morning for the details. The other half will be paid after you remove him.”
“Agreed! And who is that dog, that filthy infidel, who dared to stand in your way?”
“Turn it off!” Prince Abusalim again struggled to sit up, but fell back, defeated, his own condemning words coming from the counter:
“That man is my father, Sheik Da’ood Ibn Hisham az-Zubayr.”
“What did you say?”
“You heard me. My father will be in Paris next week. I’ll let you know where he’s staying. And I don’t want him to suffer. A clean job, that’s what I’m looking for.”
“Your own father? Allah’s mercy!”
“Can you do it?”
“Ah, well, for the freedom of Palestine, five million—”
The hajj’s fingers tightened around Prince Abusalim’s wavy mane, holding his head back against the headrest. He slid the blade down the prince’s cheek, taking bristles and skin with it. “Stealing from your father to pay for his murder?”
The prince shouted, “Get your hands off me,
slave!
”
“I’m proud to serve.” The hajj looked down at him. “Your father is a great man.” He pushed up the back of the barber chair until Prince Abusalim was sitting up straight, the white cape around his neck, the hajj’s left hand tightly clenched in his hair. The other hand held the blade to the prince’s neck. “Your father is my master, not you!”
“And my father must have told you not to harm me!”
“
Do not raise your hand to my boy!
He did say that.”
“Then obey! Or you’ll pay dearly!”
“But I must protect my master, especially when his kind heart could cause his demise. I’ve known you since the moment you came out of your mother’s womb. You won’t wait for Allah to take your father in old age. You’re a menace, and I’m your father’s protector.”
“If you kill me, my father will never forgive you!”
“All the same, I must do my duty. Now beg for Allah’s forgiveness.” The hajj’s hand pulled hard on Prince Abusalim’s hair, tilting his head back. With one quick movement, he slashed the prince’s throat from ear to ear.
In the mirror, Prince Abusalim saw blood burst out of his slashed throat. At first there was no pain, but soon a fire spread from his throat to his chest and arms, and in another moment his whole body was burning. He tried to move but couldn’t. The blood oozed down onto the white cape. He tried to talk, his jaw moving up and down without sound. The air that left his lungs never reached his vocal cords but slurped out through his severed trachea. He realized that this was the sound of his last breath. In desperation, his hands rose to stem the flow of blood, but he slumped, powerless. His head dropped forward, his eyes still open, seeing only red.
*
Gideon woke up as the jetliner crossed the coastline south of Tel Aviv. Hebrew music played on the speakers, “
We bring shalom upon you
.” The small TV screen above the aisle showed a video clip produced by the Israeli Ministry of Tourism, with flowers and sunshine and deep blue water splashed by a passing windsurfing board and a pretty woman on a grinning camel.
Down below, Gideon saw the cigar-like shadow of the plane on the blue water, the sandy Tel Aviv beach, and the strip of five-star hotels. The jetliner tipped its wings eastward. The roar of its engines drew up the tiny faces of fishermen on the rocky pier of Jaffa’s old harbor.
They descended in a wide crescent over Ramla and Lod, touched down on a runway that bordered well-groomed fields, and came to a final stop a few hundred feet from the main terminal.
On the upper deck, a side door opened to welcome a hydraulic ramp. Men in El Al uniforms rolled out Bathsheba’s coffin and Elie’s hospital bed.
Gideon followed them onto the ramp, which descended to the ground. Feather clouds floated above, and the warm rays of the sun shone on Elie’s face. He opened his eyes, and his hand felt about until it found the heavy bible, which rested on the sheets by his side. Gideon had placed it there last night, after helping Tanya and her Mossad agents clear out the suite at the Hilton.
Elie curled a finger.
Gideon leaned over the bed to listen.
“Call Zurich,” Elie whispered. “Hoffgeitz Bank. Wilhelm Horch. Tell him to launch CFS.”
“Tell him what?”
“Launch…CFS.”
“Hey!” One of Tanya’s agents ran over. “No talking!”
Gideon gestured dismissively. “He’s confused. What did you give him?”
A plane was taking off nearby, and the ground quivered with the thunderous roar of its engines.
Screeching tires made him turn. Two white Subaru sedans, each with several antennas, let out men in civilian clothes. The leader was a smallish man in his thirties with dark complexion, rust-colored hair, and a blue blazer. He flashed an identification card at Tanya. “I’m Agent Cohen from the Shin Bet. We’ll take over from here.”
Tanya’s team stepped forward, surrounding her protectively.
Gideon watched the confrontation with interest. Cohen was a generic last name that filled several pages in the telephone directory. His accent revealed a Sephardic background, probably from Iraq or Morocco. The Shin Bet, Israel’s domestic security agency, primarily engaged in counter-terror and anti-spying activities. Many of its agents were Sephardic Jews, first or second generation immigrants from Arab countries, who were able to easily infiltrate Palestinian organizations and recruit informants.
“I am Tanya Galinski,” she said.
“I know. An honor to meet you.”
“What’s your first name, Agent Cohen?”
“It’s classified.” He grinned.
“Do you know who this is?” She gestured at the hospital bed standing in the sun.
“Elie Weiss, Special Operations Department. Now retired.” Agent Cohen placed a hand possessively on Elie’s bedrail. “As you are aware, Shin Bet has jurisdiction over all clandestine activities inside Israel.”
“That’s the law, but—”
“He’s our responsibility now.”
“But we need to question him about his activities overseas, which is Mossad’s jurisdiction.”
“We’ll make him available to you in a few days.” Cohen beckoned to his men. They rolled Elie’s bed into an ambulance marked with a red Star of David and loaded Bathsheba’s coffin into a hearse. Both vehicles drove off, disappearing around the terminal building. The Shin Bet team got back into their Subaru sedans.
Tanya walked over to Cohen’s window. “What Shin Bet department are you with?”
“
Yehida Le’Avtahat Isihim
.”
Gideon was surprised. The VIP Protection Unit provided bodyguards for senior government officials. Did it also conduct investigative operations? Their sudden appearance here implied that they did. But why were they interested in Elie Weiss?
Tanya tilted her head at the departing ambulance. “Are you taking him into protective custody? Because I really need access to him—”
“No problem.” Agent Cohen’s car began to move. “We’ll be in touch.”
*
Tanya watched the departing cars. How did Shin Bet know she was bringing Elie back? Perhaps someone at El Al Airlines was on the lookout? It would have been better to question him in Paris, find out about his network and how close he had come to Klaus’s fortune. The small, leather-bound ledger that Klaus had entrusted to her in 1945, which she had given to Elie in 1967, was nowhere to be found in Elie’s hotel suite or among his belongings. Where was he hiding it? Without the ledger she had no basis to approach the Hoffgeitz Bank.
And why was Shin Bet so eager to take custody of Elie before Mossad had a chance to properly question him? The Abu Yusef assassination clearly fell under Mossad’s overseas jurisdiction. Something was up, and she was piqued. Did they know about the Nazi fortune? Everyone in the upper echelons of the small Israeli intelligence community envied the financial independence of SOD and its consequent freedom from bureaucratic budgetary constraints. But Elie’s operation had always been tiny in comparison, too little for anyone at Shin Bet or Mossad to make a move to take over SOD. And as far as Tanya knew, only Abraham and Elie were aware of the plundered fortune her Nazi lover had deposited with the Hoffgeitz Bank of Zurich fifty years earlier. Had Elie managed to put his hands on it?
She turned to her agents. “I’ll see you at headquarters tomorrow morning.”
They departed toward the main terminal, and she held Gideon’s arm, following behind. “Gidi’leh, how long have you worked for Elie?”
“Three years.”
“Do you know where he got the money to finance SOD operations?”
“I know where he got the orders—from the prime minister.”
“Elie was his own man. He took no orders.”
“Why do you use the past tense? He’s not dead yet.”
There was no point in arguing. She stopped at the foot of the steps leading up to the terminal. “What are your plans?”
“I’d like to continue to serve.”
“Well, SOD has just gone out of business.”
“Don’t be so sure. Elie believed in redundancy. He always had two tracks going on at the same time.”
“Not when it came to himself. SOD was his show, and it’s retiring with him. It’s over. Would you like me to talk to Bira about a position for you at Hebrew University’s archeology department?”
“In exchange for information?”
The sun was in her eyes, and Tanya used her hand as a visor. “I’ll help you no matter what. But you care about Israel’s security, don’t you? Elie spent decades building a network of agents in Europe, possibly elsewhere. And he’s got money for operations. Why should his agents and funds go to waste?”
“I can’t help you. Elie traveled on his own, conducted hushed telephone conversations, and told us only what we needed to know. He kept things strictly compartmentalized.”
“How about a notebook? A computer file? Any lists?”
“None that I saw, other than the files concerning Abu Yusef.”
“We got those. Do you know names? Contacts? Locations?”
“Sorry.”
She sensed that he was holding back. “Come by Bira’s house later. Her vines have ripened late this year, red and juicy. I’ll have her squeeze a pitcher for us, okay?”
Gideon smiled.
They passed through the wide doors into the main terminal and were greeted by the familiar air of impatience and excitement. The place was bustling with passengers and luggage carts. Loudspeakers played Hebrew music. They were home.
*
Tanya’s team had tried to pry information from him in Paris the night before, but Elie had laughed at them. So they had put him to sleep, and now he was back in Israel. He held his bible, which gave him confidence that his plans would proceed despite this interruption. The switch at the airport had troubled him. It was all temporary, of course, until the deal with Rabin materialized. But why was Shin Bet so eager to take him in? He could hardly think with the drugs still in his system.
From the sights outside the window Elie could tell the ambulance was traveling east, across the Ayalon Valley on the Tel Aviv-Jerusalem Expressway. He glanced at the nurse, a plain, middle-aged woman, who sat on the bench with the patience of one used to long hours on the job.
The ambulance slowed down and took an exit ramp. A moment later it stopped on the side of the road. The nurse opened the rear doors and stepped out. Elie saw a gray Cadillac stop behind the ambulance.