“Wait!” Itah Orr stood. “I’m sorry. I guess I’m still angry about my story getting killed.”
“Twenty years ago?”
“I had enough material for a great piece. Your son was very popular with his boot camp buddies, an excellent soldier and loyal teammate. And there was a mysterious woman he was carrying on a relationship with, much older than him and very attractive. Petite, black hair, pale face. She came to the base once, caused quite a stir.”
He kept his face straight, hiding the storm that Tanya’s description whipped up inside him. “Are you fishing for information?”
Itah smiled, looking much younger. “Just curious. I can’t do anything with it now. It’s too old a story.”
“ Why didn’t you publish it back then?”
“ Because a little creep from some secret service came to the studio and threatened me and my editor with immediate arrest on trumped up charges. He took all my drafts and notes and all the roughs we had filmed. It was as if I had touched a live wire.”
“ Perhaps you had.” He chuckled. “But that’s ancient history. I didn’t contact you to speak about my Jerusalem, may he rest in peace. Now will you grant me the respect of answering my questions?”
“ Will you answer mine?”
“ When a time comes for me to tell my story, I promise to speak only to you.”
“ Give me something now.”
“ Okay. How about this: I don’t believe in God.”
The reporter’s eyebrows rose almost to her hairline.
“ It’s true.” He placed a hand against his heart. “I swear.”
“ Okay, Rabbi Gerster. You don’t believe in God, and we are in business.” She offered her hand.
He glanced around furtively, making sure no one was watching, and shook it. “Tell me about the ILOT ceremony.”
“ They were young,” she said, “late teens or early twenties. Almost like boy scouts, except that the pistols were real and the vows were sincere.”
“Why did they allow you to attend?”
“In my profession, you don’t argue with a good source. Their leader is a true Jewish fascist.”
“ The chubby guy?”
“ Yes. Freckles. That’s his moniker. He’s very clever in using the media, has given me great stories-the type of stories any journalist would grab and run with.”
“ Do you believe these boys are for real?”
“ Absolutely. Classic right-wing extremists. A few months ago they incited a riot and beat up Arabs in Hebron, turned over market stalls, and destroyed produce. They set up fake military checkpoints in the West Bank and body-searched Arabs. They went into Old Jerusalem with clubs and broke windows and a few bones, forced Arab merchants to shut down their stores.”
“ All this was done by Freckles’ group?”
“ Oh, ILOT isn’t the only one. There are several other militias just like it-Kahane Chai, EYAL, Geva’ot. Each group numbers a handful of youths. They engage in violent attacks on Palestinians in order to scare the Arabs out of the West Bank and ensure Jewish control over biblical Israel. They’re not deadly like the Palestinian attacks on Jews. I mean, these kids don’t shoot and bomb innocent civilians, but they engage in harassment, and they’re aggressive enough to draw attention.”
Rabbi Gerster picked up a teaspoon and turned it around in his hand, using the curved back as a mirror to scan the view behind his back. “But their anti-Arab activities, distasteful as they are, could be a prelude to something worse.” He put down the spoon. “Violence against fellow Jews.”
“ It’s a natural progression. Take a look at this.” She handed him a stapled stack of papers. The cover said: ILOT – Member Manual – Top Secret
He browsed the pages. “Can I keep it?”
She nodded.
“ Anything else about that ceremony? Any leads?”
She hesitated. “I noticed their backpacks. It was really dark out there, but I could see the university logo-”
“ Which one?”
“ Bar Ilan Law School.”
*
Gideon saw a gendarme signaling the green Peugeot to move forward, which it did. A taxicab picked up a heavy matron with hefty Galeries Lafayette shopping bags. The department store spanned both sides of the street, each wing taking up a whole block. A glass-walled overpass connected the two buildings, and Gideon saw the man in the green coat and fur hat walking from left to right. Seconds later Bathsheba glanced down at him, swung a finger under her chin, and disappeared to the right. A sense of doom began acidulating in Gideon’s stomach.
The minutes passed slowly. Too slowly.
He turned off the engine and got out of the car.
As he began to cross the street, Bathsheba showed up, trotting toward him. “Shot him in the nuts,” she said. “He’s a screaming soprano in menswear upstairs.”
“ Shit!” Gideon jumped back into the car.
“ It’s quite a scene.” She slammed the door. “You should go look.”
“ Damn!” He started the engine. “I told you not to-”
“ Relax,” Bathsheba laughed. “I didn’t shoot anyone.”
He took a deep breath, exhaling slowly.
“It wasn’t him.”
“You’re sick.” He motioned at the green Peugeot, still waiting for its passenger down the street. “Did you take a photo?”
“He’s just a boy. Fourteen or fifteen. And he’s from Jordan.”
“How do you know?”
“I got close enough to hear his conversation with the salesman. And to smell his Cacharel. He must’ve bathed in it-a typical teenage faggot.”
“Here he is.”
The passenger with the green coat, fur hat in hand, approach the Peugeot. Bathsheba snapped a photo.
“We’ll follow them,” Gideon said.
“Waste of time. He’s just a rich boy.”
“How do you know?”
“He bought two Pierre Cardin suits for a small fortune, plus alteration charges. You were right-not every Arab in a green Peugeot is Abu Yusef.” Bathsheba leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. “See? I can admit a mistake when I make one.”
“You’re an angel.” He glanced at his watch. It was too late to drive all the way back to Ermenonville.
*
In the apartment on Rue Buffault, Elie was taking a nap on the cot when he heard the front door being unlocked. He sat up and reached for the sheathed blade, but Bathsheba’s voice sounded in the hallway. They were back early.
He listened to Gideon’s report and looked at the photos. The driver was in profile, shown through the open window. “That’s Bashir Hamami, Abu Yusef’s deputy.”
“Can’t be!” Bathsheba’s face turned red. “Who would take such a risk for shopping?”
Elie picked up the other photo. “Abu Yusef’s boy toy.”
“Expensive toy,” Gideon said. “I thought he’s short on cash?”
“ Not just a toy,” Elie said. “Remember the bomb at the Jewish school in Marseilles? Nineteen kids dead, almost thirty injured. The investigators found video footage of an unidentified youth entering the school ten minutes before the explosion. His face was turned away from the security cameras, but he had dark skin and short hair, just like this kid. And he wore a skullcap, even carried a Hebrew prayer book, but police later verified he wasn’t a student.” Elie fingered the photo. “This must be the guy who planted the bomb in Marseilles.”
“He’ll be back on Wednesday,” Bathsheba said, “to pick up the suits. I heard him give his name to the salesman. Latif.”
“Good,” Gideon said. “We’ll follow them back to Ermenonville.”
Elie considered it. “Bashir is a fox. He’ll notice you, if he hasn’t already. Maybe you should just kill the boy at the store.”
“Just like that?” She clicked her fingers. “What if he’s not the bomber from Marseilles? Maybe he’s just a skinny teenager who bends over for Abu Yusef?”
“Doesn’t matter,” Elie said. “Clearly the boy is Abu Yusef’s soft spot. Why else would he allow a shopping spree at a time like this? This boy’s death would shake up Abu Yusef, cause him to make mistakes.”
She glared at him. “What kind of a monster are you?”
Gideon got up. “Bathsheba!”
“Have you considered the possibility of pushing Abu Yusef over the edge? What if he throws caution into the wind and runs out to kill a bunch of Jews?”
“Unlikely,” Elie said. “But I sympathize with your sensibilities. You don’t want to kill the boy? No problem. Wait on Wednesday at Galeries Lafayette, follow the green Peugeot to Ermenonville, and find out where they’re hiding.” He collected the photos and put them in his pocket. “Let’s get something to eat.”