Abu Yusef and Bashir Hamami!
A groan escaped his lips, and it must have been loud enough to overcome the clamor, because Abu Yusef’s head turned and his eyes met Elie’s.
For a brief moment, the world stood still around them.
Abu Yusef’s hand went under his suit jacket, reaching for a gun, but it came out empty. He moved a thumb under his throat and hurried after Bashir.
Elie watched the two Arabs until they disappeared around the corner. He stepped back into the room and found himself on the floor, gasping for air.
*
The blue BMW 740iL waited with its engine on. They jumped in. Bashir barked at the driver to go. They drove for five minutes, taking sharp turns, verifying that no one was following.
“ There!” Bashir pointed to a pay phone near a metro station.
The driver stopped at the curb and Bashir stepped out. Abu Yusef joined him. They put their heads together as the phone rang at the newsroom of Paris-1. Like all incoming calls, Abu Yusef knew it would be recorded, and he had instructed Bashir in advance what to say.
“ Paris-Une. Oui? ”
“This is the Abu Yusef group.” Bashir spoke English.
“Yes?”
“We attacked the synagogue on Rue Buffault. Our freedom fighters committed this brave attack under the command of our leader, Abu Yusef, the future president of Palestine.”
“Wait a minute! Who are you?”
“Our leader is Abu Yusef, the future president of Palestine. We will continue our struggle until Palestine is free again! Long live Palestine!”
Bashir hung up, they got back in the car, and the driver hit the gas, merging back into traffic.
*
The first wave of ambulances departed with the bloodied victims to several Paris hospitals. Under gathering clouds, uniformed gendarmes loaded black plastic bags into the hearses. The only sound was the crackling of glass fragments under their boots.
Gideon and Bathsheba returned from Ermenonville after hearing the news on the radio. They found Elie in the crowd, a small man in a gray coat and a wool cap pulled down over his ears. He looked the same as the other Parisian spectators, ogling the scene of disaster, memorizing the ghastly details to be shared with friends in the local cafe. But at a closer look, Elie’s gray face showed no curiosity. The black eyes narrowed to hateful slits, the lips pressed together tightly.
When the last body bag was gone, a fireman rolled a hose off a fire engine and began washing the pavement.
“Seventeen dead,” Elie said. “Let’s go.”
As soon as they entered the apartment, Bathsheba exploded. “I told you we should shoot Abu Yusef in Senlis! It’s your fault!”
“Your assumption is wrong.” Elie looked at her coldly. “This bombing wasn’t done by Abu Yusuf. And if you disapprove of my command, you may leave. Reapply to Mossad, see if they take you now.”
“She has a point,” Gideon said. “We should have-”
“Abu Yusef didn’t have time to plan something like this,” Elie said. “This was done by someone else, maybe even the PLO itself, trying to jack up the price for the next phase of the Oslo negotiations.”
“Didn’t you hear the news?” Bathsheba followed him into the room. “Abu Yusef took credit!”
“You believe the news?”
Gideon watched Elie’s face. Was he lying?
“Taking credit means nothing,” Elie continued. “Abu Yusef was first to call a TV station. An Algerian group also took credit, claiming they targeted the minister of art and culture. Others will follow. You’ll see.”
Bathsheba seemed unconvinced.
“We’re leaving,” Elie said. “This apartment is no longer safe for us.” He gathered his papers into a small pile, topped by his heavy copy of the Bible, a decorated edition that was bound between two plates of carved wood.
They packed their clothes, equipment, and weapons-two mini-Uzis and three handguns with silencers.
Gideon drove. On Rue de Rivoli, across from the public gardens, Elie told him to park at the curb.
No. 4 Palace de La Concorde had once been a hotel, but in the sixties an American law firm had turned it into its Parisian branch office. Now it had a wood-paneled lobby, which was bustling with men in business suits and strained faces. Elie led the way to a bank of pay phones in the back and ran a phone card through the slot. Gideon noticed the first numbers he was punching. Forty-one for Switzerland. One for Zurich. Then Elie moved and blocked the view.
*
Paula started working on a beef stew for dinner. The pot was hissing on the stove while she sliced a large sweet onion. The telephone rang. “Can one of you gentlemen get it?”
Klaus Junior moved the white knight to B-4. “Check!”
“What?” Lemmy examined the board. “Are you trying to kill my queen?”
The phone on the kitchen counter rang again.
Paula said, “Guys?”
“ Sorry,” Lemmy said, “but we’re at war here!”
She dropped the kitchen knife on the cutting board and picked up the receiver. “Hello?” She listened for a moment. “Herr Horch will be right with you.”
Lemmy got up. “Don’t move anything. I’ve memorized the battlefield, and I’m winning.”
“You’re dreaming, Papa!”
He twisted his face at Paula, who picked up the knife threateningly. He circled her at a safe distance and snatched the receiver. “Yes?”
“Are you watching the news?” The voice was meek and scratchy, but Lemmy recognized it instantly.
“Excuse me?”
Paula gave him a curious look.
Elie Weiss coughed. “Turn on your TV.”
Lemmy’s hand tightened around the receiver. Elie had never called him at home.
“Watch the report from Paris.”
“What is this about?” Lemmy glanced at Paula, whose eyes moistened from the sliced onion.
Elie said, “Here’s what I need you to do. First-”
“I beg your pardon.” Lemmy tried to keep his voice formal, professional. “Please call my office on Monday morning. I’m sure we can assist you.”
“Shut up!” Elie’s voice was still hushed, but the rage came through clearly. “Security is not important anymore.”
Lemmy wiped the sweat off his forehead with the sleeve of his shirt. He could feel Paula and Klaus Junior watching him.
“Listen carefully. First, as soon as the prince contacts you, call me at the Hilton Paris under the name Rupert Danzig. Second, you must take over the bank ASAP. We’re out of time.”
Lemmy almost choked. He couldn’t believe Elie was saying this on an open line. “This is highly irregular-”
“Get rid of your father-in-law. Tomorrow. It’s an order!”
“Who is this?”
“Remember who you are! Nekamah! ”
The line went dead.
“ Is everything all right?” Paula asked.
“An odd duck. Some clients are just…weird.”
“Papa? What’s your next move?”
“Coming.” Lemmy could hardly believe what had just happened. Elie’s voice on his home phone, with Paula and Klaus Junior a few feet away. Such an invasion was never supposed to happen. Complete separation was the only way things worked. Otherwise Wilhelm Horch’s life would collapse like a tower of cards.
Get rid of your father-in-law. Tomorrow. It’s an order!
Was Elie losing it? Armande Hoffgeitz as a target? A job inside the family? It was madness! Why the sudden urgency?
The news!
“Papa? Are you playing? Check! ”
Lemmy advanced a pawn, an irrelevant move.
Klaus Junior moved in for the kill and announced, “ Check mate! ”
“Great game.” Lemmy got up and walked out of the kitchen, not looking at Paula. He could not face her.
In the living room, he turned the TV on to CNN.
Klaus Junior followed him. Lemmy put his arm around the boy’s shoulders, and they watched the broadcast from Paris, a procession of injured people and body bags moving across the screen.
*
Everything was white-the walls, the ceiling, the door, the sheets that covered Tanya. Even the curtain hanging from a circular rail around the bed was white. A woman appeared, her coat white, hair white, face white, only her lips were red as rose petals. “Ah! Madame is awake!”