Lemmy wasn’t going to let him off the hook so easily. “Was it Haifa?”
“ No, Haifa is a city.” Christopher’s forehead creased in a show of mental effort. “I think…it was called…Gesher.”
*
Shortly after two p.m., Bathsheba noticed another green Peugeot 605. It came from the direction of Ermenonville and made a left turn onto the highway ramp.
Gideon followed. “Get the camera. Elie wants photos. He thinks they might be using decoys to check for tails.”
Bathsheba kept her head straight, looking forward through the front windshield, but positioned the vanity mirror on the sun visor diagonally to give her a clear view through the side window. The green Peugeot passed a group of slower cars and returned to the middle lane. Gideon pressed the gas pedal, changed lanes, and passed it. Bathsheba held the Polaroid camera just below the window sill on the passenger side, raised it briefly, and snapped a photo.
Gideon returned to the middle lane ahead of the Peugeot. He glanced at the rearview mirror. “Driver looks Arab, about forty. Didn’t look at us. I think he’s the same guy who drove this car at the airport. There’s a second man in the back, wearing a fur hat.”
“Abu Yusef!”
“ We don’t know.”
“The same car, the same driver, and Abu Yusef is getting the same treatment as Al-Mazir!”
“We follow and watch. Elie said to do nothing more.”
“Screw Elie.” Bathsheba opened the glove compartment and took out the handgun.
*
“ It worked!” Christopher waved a sheet of paper like a flag. “I got acknowledgements with the names of the sources. Here, I listed each one with the amount transferred.”
Lemmy examined the list. An $11 million deposit had come from J.C. Jameson amp; Co., an international wheat dealer in Kansas. An additional $7.5 million from Seattle Air and Jet Inc., a manufacturer of replacement parts for fighter jets. And $13 million from F. Lucas and Sons, a canned foods processer in Virginia. It went on-a list of leading corporations in the various industries. “This is incredible,” he said. “Great job!”
His assistant was grinning with pride.
“ I’ll keep this.” He patted the list of companies that had bribed Prince Abusalim az-Zubayr. “Needless to say, don’t mention this to any of our colleagues.”
*
Gideon snatched the handgun from Bathsheba. “Abu Yusef isn’t stupid. He won’t use this car himself after it’s been seen.”
“Maybe he’s out of money. He can’t walk to Paris.”
The sign showed an exit for the Peripherique, the beltway that circled Paris. Gideon slowed down and let the green Peugeot pass him two lanes away. It took the exit, merged onto the Peripherique, and headed west. They followed. A couple of minutes later, the Peugeot took the exit for Avenue de Saint Ouen.
Bathsheba said, “Where the hell is he going?”
“Have you regained your sanity?”
“Don’t patronize me. This man killed my father.”
“Abu Yusef killed your father. This man might be a retired CEO or a gynecologist. We need a positive ID before we take a life.”
“Give it back.”
Gideon threw the gun in her lap. “You may shoot only in self-defense, understood?”
She pushed the gun under her leather waistcoat. “If it’s Abu Yusef, I’m not waiting for him to shoot first.”
He followed the green Peugeot, letting two or three cars separate them at all times. Mossad procedure required taking side streets in coordination with two other vehicles in order to avoid detection by the target. But they were not Mossad, and there were no other vehicles to assist them. Gideon tried to minimize the risk of detection by dropping farther behind.
At La Fourche, the green Peugeot bore left onto Avenue de Clichy, circled the square, and continued on Rue d’Amsterdam. Evening traffic was dense, moving with the typical Parisian briskness. At Place de Havre the green Peugeot suddenly sped forward, taking advantage of a gap in the traffic. When Gideon tried to follow it, a stream of cars emerged from Boulevard Haussmann on the right. He accelerated, but a small Fiat cut into his lane. He slammed the brakes, skidded on the cobblestones, and barely missed the Fiat. For a moment he thought he had lost the Peugeot, but Bathsheba spotted it farther down, turning into a side street. Gideon closed the distance quickly and made the same turn.
There was no trace of the green Peugeot. He drove slowly along Rue de Provence, a narrow, one-way street.
Nothing.
They looked down the first side street.
Clear.
The second.
Clear again.
At Rue de Mogador, a one-way street going south, the green Peugeot was parked at the curb. Gideon made the turn and pulled over.
Bathsheba brought the binoculars to her eyes. “He’s dropping off the passenger. Fur hat and a long coat. I can’t see his damn face!”
“Even the coat is green,” Gideon said.
“I’m going after him.” Bathsheba took out her gun and screwed on a silencer.
“ Don’t shoot!”
“If it’s Abu Yusef, I’ll give him my father’s regards.”
Gideon knew he couldn’t stop her. He shoved the camera into her hand. “If it’s not him, take a picture. Maybe it’s one of his men. Elie would know.”
*
Cafe Atarah on Ben Yehuda Street in Jerusalem was almost empty. “I am Rabbi Abraham Gerster,” he said, joining the lone woman at a corner table. “Thanks for agreeing to meet with me.”
“How could I decline?” Itah Orr, a veteran reporter for Channel One TV, held the note he had left for her at the office that morning. “I tried to do a story about you years ago, on the tenth anniversary of the Six Day War. It would have been a good story.”
Rabbi Gerster smiled. “There are many stories that are far more interesting than mine.”
“More interesting than the leader of the anti-Zionist Neturay Karta sect, who sacrificed his only son for Israel’s greatest victory?”
“The former leader. Rabbi Benjamin Mashash took over my duties a long time ago.”
“ You were still Neturay Karta’s leader when you sacrificed your son.”
“ I didn’t sacrifice him. Jerusalem rejected our faith and joined the army without my blessing.”
A waitress brought two cups and poured black coffee. The reporter added cream and sugar, mixing it in. “Lemmy, wasn’t it?”
“ His nickname, yes.”
“ He graduated paratroopers training first in his class and went on to serve courageously on the Golan Heights.”
“While ignoring his mother’s desperate letters until she killed herself!” Rabbi Gerster immediately regretted his outburst. Temimah’s despair had been caused by his own behavior no less than by Lemmy’s silence. “Please. These are old wounds. My son and wife deserve to rest in peace.”
“So why did you contact me?”
Rabbi Gerster glanced over his shoulder. The few patrons in the cafe did not appear to pay attention to him. “I watched your report on Saturday night.”
“I thought you people don’t watch TV.”
“Those boys, taking the oath, were they for real? Or was it some kind of a show, a make-believe piece of propaganda?”
“Wait a minute.” Itah Orr jerked her head, clearing away shoulder-length gray hair. “What do you care about those kids? Or about Israel? You people live in your ghetto in Meah Shearim, don’t pay taxes, don’t serve in the army, don’t even recognize the State of Israel-except for its social security checks, of course.”
“ We object to Zionism, but we study Talmud every waking moment to make up for all the Jews who neglect their sacred duty.”
“ And how exactly would your Talmudists feed their hordes of children without Zionist tax money?”
“ Questions, questions.” Rabbi Gerster sighed. “You’re like a vacuum cleaner for information. I need a peek inside your dustbin, that’s all.”
She laughed. “Fair enough.”
“About that swearing-in of ILOT, tell me what you think. Please.”
“ Tit for tat. First tell me why you-a lifelong anti-Zionist rabbi-are suddenly concerned with a tiny nationalist militia? What’s going on?”
Rabbi Gerster stood up and buttoned his black coat. “I was mistaken in approaching you. May God bless your day.”