They waited a few minutes.
Elie opened the door. The air was cold and moist. He led the way across the street and down the opposite pavement, past the municipal office building. Next was number 32, a public elementary school, where a marble plaque commemorated twenty thousand Parisian Jewish children deported to Auschwitz between 1942 and 1944. A bouquet of dry flowers rested in a metal ring under the plaque, wrapped in the French red, white, and blue flag.
The next building, number 30, was a synagogue. Its three mahogany doors were embraced by ornate marble pillars resembling palm fronds, and a Biblical quote on top:
Blessed are you in coming, and blessed are you in leaving.
A temporary wall of plywood, supported by police barriers, separated the sidewalk from the street, shielding the forecourt and doors from passing cars. The synagogue had been the target of a terrorist attack a decade earlier.
Gideon pushed open the heavy door at number 28 and held it for Elie and Bathsheba. The old apartment building had an elevator, but they took the stairs.
On the third floor landing, Elie was out of breath. He coughed hard and spat into a handkerchief. Gideon entered the apartment with his weapon drawn. He checked the bedroom, which had one bed and two thin mattresses on the floor, and the workroom, where a large metal desk carried a telephone, a computer, and a small TV. Electrical wires crisscrossed the floor.
Elie sat at the desk and pulled off the wool cap. He opened a file, took out a small photograph, and showed it to them.
“That’s the one who shot back at us,” Gideon said.
“Hassan Gaziri.” Elie tapped the photo with his finger. “A nephew. Abu Yusef must be very upset. And nervous. He’s hunkered down in a secluded house, difficult to access, lots of hiding spots for his men to wait in ambush for foolhardy attackers.”
“So what?” Bathsheba kicked the leg of the table. “We give up?”
“We plan ahead,” Elie said. “Let him stew in grief and anger and dread. Let him experience what he has caused so many others to experience.”
“That’s never going to happen,” Bathsheba said. Her father, a judo champion, had represented Israel in the 1972 Olympic Games in Munich. At his funeral near Tel Aviv, three-year-old Bathsheba had held a red rose. The next day, her picture was picked up by news outlets worldwide. “He’s a murderer,” she said. “He doesn’t experience the feelings we experience. Right now, all he’s thinking about is how to kill more Jews.”
“That too,” Elie said.
“Then we should go now, drive around Ermenonville, ask people. Someone might have noticed a bunch of Arabs living in a house.”
“My father,” Elie said, “may he rest in peace, was a
shoykhet
, the only kosher butcher within a week’s mule-ride from our shtetl. He taught me that a successful act of slaughter requires meticulous preparations—for both the
shoykhet
and the animal.”
Bathsheba laughed, but Gideon didn’t. He had once seen Elie work with a long blade on a former SS prison guard, an elderly man who had spent decades evading the consequences of his crimes. Since then, despite Elie’s small stature and worsening health, Gideon had felt apprehension in his presence.
“Driving around could draw attention to you,” Elie said. “We need an observation point. Show me the layout.”
With a roadmap flat on the desk, Gideon’s finger traced Charles de Gaulle Airport, the highway north, and the exit ramp. “That’s where the green Peugeot turned right. We can wait at this gas station.” He pointed at the intersection off the highway. “The Peugeot 605 is a pricey car. They’ll use it again.”
“Start on Friday,” Elie said. “Give them a day to calm down.”
“Calm down my ass,” Bathsheba said. “They’re going to strike back.”
Elie glanced at his watch. “I have a flight to catch.” He raised his hand to stop Gideon, who started to rise. “Stay here. I’ll take the train to the airport.”
*
Part Two
The Momentum
Thursday, October 12, 1995
“Do you hear them?” Prime Minister Yitzhak Rabin peered through the window shutters at a group of demonstrators on the opposite sidewalk. “They’re praying for my early death!”
“I didn’t know you believe in the power of prayers.” Elie Weiss sipped from a cup of tea, which the prime minister had fixed for him.
“It depends who does the praying.” Rabin sat down. It was the same sofa Elie remembered from past visits to the official PM residence in Jerusalem. He had reported to each of the previous occupants—Levi Eshkol, Golda Meir, Yitzhak Rabin himself during his earlier tenure, Menachem Begin, Yitzhak Shamir, and Shimon Peres. And now, with Rabin back in office, the place had a stale, museum-like quality, contrasting with the boisterous chants across the street.
“My wife moved back to our apartment in Tel Aviv. Can you blame her?”
“Not really.”
Prime Minister Rabin’s eyes had remained blue and steady, but he wore large glasses from a bygone fashion. His reddish hair had turned gray, and his firm jaw had slackened. “We’ve been through a lot, Weiss.”
“But not much has changed.” Elie lowered the cup to the saucer.
“I disagree.” The previous week, Rabin had signed the second phase of the Oslo Accords at the White House, moving forward with the land-for-peace deal with the Palestinians. “Arafat has changed. The PLO has changed. And the balance of hope has changed.”
“The balance of risk, also.” Elie took out a pack of cigarettes, but didn’t light any. The chanting outside stopped, and a single voice yelled, “
Rodef!”
It was a Talmudic term, referring to a “Pursuer,” a Jew who was a menace to his fellow Jews.
The prime minister shifted—quickly, as if something had stung him. “Can you believe these Talmudic ayatollahs?”
A chorus outside joined in chanting, “
Rodef! Rodef! Rodef!
”
A burst of coughing tore through Elie’s chest. He struggled to control it. “Sorry,” he managed to say, “tail end of a bad cold.”
“You should quit smoking.”
“After you.” Elie wiped his lips with a handkerchief. “My sources tell me there are widespread doubts about the Oslo process, even among moderate Israelis. They don’t share your trust in Arafat.”
“You think I trust that murderer? No! I’m relying on his opportunism. And his grandiose view of himself. We’re giving him a Palestinian state on a silver tray.”
“Some say he’s still dedicated to the dream of greater-Palestine, that he accepted Oslo’s partition concept as a temporary phase.”
“Oslo doesn’t forbid dreaming. But the momentum of peace will take everyone to a better reality.”
“Most of his new Palestinian policemen are PLO terrorists.”
“
Former
PLO terrorists.”
“You’re gambling with Jewish lives.”
“Me? The Knesset approved Oslo!”
“It approved the first Oslo agreement two years ago with sixty-one to fifty-nine votes, and only because of payoffs and bribes to tie-breaking members. Hardly an enthusiastic endorsement.”
“That’s democracy. I’ll keep going even with a one-vote majority. And these ayatollahs,” Rabin jerked his head at the window, “can have their free speech, blowing air like propellers!”
“There’s some validity to their anger. Palestinian terror hasn’t stopped.”
“It’s a process! What do they want? Miracles? We’re making progress. The PLO renounced violence and recognized Israel. Arafat is governing Gaza and much of the West Bank. And the Palestinian Authority is starting to work. For the first time in Israel’s history, we have a partner for peace.”
“Like you said at the Nobel Prize ceremony:
Enough of blood and tears! Enough!
”
“That wasn’t the Nobel speech. I said that when we signed the first Oslo agreement at the White House in 1993.”
“But the blood and tears haven’t stopped.”
“It’s the price of peace. Do you have an alternative?” Prime Minister Rabin glared at him.
“Yes. Let the blood and tears come from the veins and eyes of Arabs, not Jews.”
“Ah, there you go again.” He rolled his eyes. “We can’t kill all of them.”
“It’s them or us.”
“It’s hope or despair!” Rabin’s voice rose in anger. “And the agreement I just signed gives Arafat full control of the main West Bank cities—Jericho, Nablus, Hebron, Bethlehem. Let him rule over a million angry Palestinians! Let him deliver clean water, run health clinics, and haul off the trash! Let him fight Hamas!”
“And if you lose the next elections?” Elie toyed with the cigarette pack. The conversation was going in the direction he had hoped for. “The peace process has damaged your popularity.”
“Leadership is not a popularity contest.” Rabin tilted his head, smiling in a way that was almost shy. “Look, peacemaking is just like conducting a war. There’s a main thrust. And there are pinpoint attacks on secondary targets. Our main thrust is the Oslo Accords, leading to two states living peacefully side-by-side. Our secondary targets are the all-or-nothing opponents on both sides. For Arafat, they are the
Right of Return
diehards, his PLO dropouts, who call him a traitor for recognizing Israel. For me, they are the right-wing
Eretz Israel
politicians, who’d rather forgo peace than concede a few biblical tombs in the West Bank.”
“The West Bank is our backbone. Without it, Israel will be eight miles wide.”
“The Palestinians will not have an army. Arafat knows my red lines.”
“Arafat doesn’t have to worry about an electoral defeat.”
“I’ll win the next elections,” Rabin said. “The opposition offers no hope. Israeli voters want more than doomsday prophesies and personal attacks.”
“You’re having me kill Arafat’s opponents. Do you want me to help with yours?”
“Are you offering this help on behalf of the Special Operations Department or just as Elie Weiss?”
“SOD and I are one and the same. I can do more for you than pollsters and campaign consultants. I know how to deal with Jewish insurgents.” Until 1967, Elie had run a network of informers in ultra-Orthodox yeshivas in order to monitor seditious elements who posed an existential risk to Israel, just as fundamentalist Jewish groups had destroyed Jewish kingdoms in ancient times. But the dramatic victory of the Six Day War, which many viewed as divine intervention, had ended the siege mentality in Israel and diffused the ultra-Orthodox anti-Zionist fever. Subsequently, Elie shifted his base of operations to Europe. “I still have some local assets,” he said.
“To do what?”
“The hothead fringe of the settlers’ movement could be used to tarnish Likud. Guilt by association.”
“That’s your mistake,” Rabin said. “Arik Sharon and Bibi Netanyahu are not hotheads or insurgents. They’re my political opponents. I’ll beat them at the voting booth.”
“Current opinion surveys predict you’ll lose.”
“They can’t predict tomorrow’s weather, how can they predict the election results a year from now? A lot can change.”
“The tide’s against you. A few more terror attacks could cause your coalition partners to quit, topple your government, and force early elections in ninety days.”
“Then I’ll win on the issues.”
“Voters might find it difficult to hear your rational arguments against the backdrop of ambulance sirens and wailing mourners. But my strategy would make your right-wing opponents seem even less appealing than you.”
“I’m a soldier. I fight fair and square.”
“Fair to whom? If you lose, the Oslo process will lose. And your supporters will lose.”
“We won’t lose the elections.” Rabin paused, his silence filled by the chanting voices from outside. “I know how to win a battle.”
“With words? My strategy entails action, not words. Bundle up Bibi and Arik with the radicals, show the public that all those who oppose the peace process are dangerous fanatics.”
“Shin Bet is handling the fanatics.”
“Our domestic security agency is not a political outfit. Shin Bet has no understanding of public opinion and shifting ideologies.”
“They’re doing a good job protecting me.”
“That’s the point. Their posture is defensive. You need someone with a proactive approach.”
“Someone like you?”
“Someone capable of orchestrating bold actions—from local disturbances to spectacular events that will shock public opinion. The goal should be to cause the majority of Israelis to despise all right wingers, detest them, ostracize them.”
“How?”
“By branding the whole political right—including Likud—as a violent fringe.”
“Easier said than done.”
“I’m working on it already,” Elie said. “Your victory would require a two-stage plan. First my agents are setting up ugly skirmishes that create an association in voters’ minds between the violent, extreme-right fringe and mainstream Likud. Then a dramatic event will totally demonize the whole right-of-center political spectrum.”
“Sounds too good to be true. What are the risks?”
“The risk is this: You’ve lost the premiership once, and it took you years to return to office. Do you want to lose it again? You’re too old for a comeback.”
Yitzhak Rabin’s jaw tightened. “What kind of a dramatic event?”
Elie hesitated. He looked around the room.
“Don’t worry. The Shin Bet sweeps this house for listening devices daily. What you tell me stays here.”
“I hope so,” Elie said. “Remember what we tried with Prime Minister Eshkol? A credible assassination attempt can prop up even the most pathetic politician.”
“I’m not Levi Eshkol!” Rabin looked away, as if embarrassed by his outburst.
“And this isn’t nineteen sixty-seven. I can deliver the elections to you. I already have most of the pieces in place. Give me the green light, and I’ll do the rest.”
“What’s the plan?”
“That’s my business. I’ll secure your victory, and you’ll reward me with an appointment.”
“There we go again.” Rabin chuckled. “You still want to run the Mossad?”
“A good politician’s supposed to forget his broken promises.”
“I remember those more than the ones I fulfilled.”