Tanya touched her forehead, still tender. She had searched her memory repeatedly, but could not remember any suspicious person or unusual behavior prior to the explosions. She had not even seen the grenades fly, because at that moment she was reaching down into a bag of candy. The darkness had lifted only when she woke up in the hospital.
“We’re done here,” one of her agents said. He pointed to the dismantled box of the computer. “They ripped out the hard drive.”
“Pack up everything. I want hair samples, gun residue, prints, anything you can find.”
She was already in the hallway when another agent stopped her. He held up an empty pill bottle. “Found it behind the bed. Pain killers. No patient’s name, though. It’s from a pharmacy near Gare du Nord.”
“ Go see the pharmacist,” Tanya said. “Samples go to doctors who do regular business at the shop. This could be our lead.”
*
The hajj sliced downward with the crooked blade. It sank into the flesh of the open palm. Prince Abusalim flinched and let out a cry. The hajj pulled the shabriya sideways, carving the flesh, and let go of the prince’s wrist. He wiped the blade on his galabiya and slid it into the sheath.
Prince Abusalim pressed his hands together and fell forward, his face in the sand. His hand was on fire, wet with blood, but the pain was mixed with relief. His father could have ordered the hand severed completely, as done to ordinary thieves, but instead his palm was cut symbolically, the wrist unharmed, the fingers working normally.
Sheik az-Zubayr knelt in the sand and bowed before Allah. The men around them did the same, and for a few moments the small group was an island of stillness in the midst of a bustling sea of pilgrims.
The hajj helped Sheik az-Zubayr to his feet. Prince Abusalim remained bowed, more out of feebleness than of devoutness. The kafiya fell from his head, and his unkempt black hair turned gray from the dust. One of the men bandaged the wound while the prince fought back tears of pain and relief.
*
In Zurich, the pastor spoke about gratitude for God’s gift of life on earth. The old church of the Fraumunster, with its towering stained-glass windows, glowed on sunny days, and this Sunday was especially glorious. Lemmy sat in the front row with his wife, son, and father-in-law. The church was almost full, though most were tourists. Every Zurich guidebook recommended the Fraumunster for its Chagall windows, whose incredibly vivid biblical figures dominated the sanctuary in bold colors. Lemmy was tickled by the irony-a Christian place of worship, glorified by the creations of a Jewish artist.
He felt Klaus Junior squeeze his hand as they stood to sing a hymn. Looking up at the impossibly high window depicting Jesus, he wondered what Chagall had been thinking as he painted the man whose life and death had inspired two millennia of Christian anti-Semitism, of bloody crusades, riotous burnings at the stake, a torturous inquisition, deadly pogroms, and a Holocaust perpetrated by Nazis bearing a swastika-a version of Christ’s cross with twisted tips. Illuminated by the unseasonal sun, the face of Jesus glowed as if it had an internal source of energy. The primary colors signaled joy, but on closer inspection Lemmy saw no happiness in the face of Chagall’s Jesus. His expression was severe, almost angry, glaring down at the full church, as if the hymned prayers were nothing but distasteful banter. Had this been Chagall’s private joke-to accept the hefty fee raised by Armande Hoffgeitz and his colleagues back in the sixties for the beautification of the ancient church, only to deliver a towering portrait of their savior as an angry Jew, his face expressing revulsion at their misuse of his name to justify mass murders of his kin?
Lemmy realized his father-in-law was watching him. They smiled at each other and continued to sing. Klaus Junior stood between them, holding both their hands, his thin voice sounding over the adults’ chorus. He was secure in his world of church and school, of doting parents and a loving grandfather. How would he react when told of Armande’s death? How well would a ten-year-old recover from the shock of hearing that his grandfather was shot by an assassin? And it could be worse! Every assassination on Lemmy’s secret record had been accomplished under the cover of anonymity, a quick jab of violence in a faraway location, followed by immediate departure, leaving no trace. He was a professional, his training was excellent and his preparations meticulous. He had never before feared capture, even when Elie had sent him on uniquely dangerous jobs. In his mind, the survival of the Jewish people was more important than the fate of one man, including himself. But what about the fate of one boy? What, Lemmy wondered, if he got caught this time, exposed as Herr Hoffgeitz’s killer? After all, being the next in line to lead the bank, he would automatically become a suspect. And this was Zurich, the place where he lived and worked and possessed a wide circle of acquaintances, which would make the scandal even worse. How could Klaus Junior survive the loss of both his father and grandfather at the same time in such horrific, outrageous circumstances? This was a risk Lemmy could not take. He would not chance breaking his son’s heart!
Elie’s admonishment rang in Lemmy’s ears. Your wife and son are Gentiles. Goyim. They’re your cover. Nothing more!
*
The Boeing 747 brought them back to the az-Zubayr oasis. The sheik’s personal physician sewed up Prince Abusalim’s hand. He changed into a clean galabiya and went to bid his father farewell.
The sheik embraced his son. “I now understand that Allah wanted me to see my own error in allowing my son to live among the infidels, where evil temptations led you to stumble.”
“ Don’t blame yourself, Father. It was my error. But don’t worry. It won’t happen again.”
“ We must remove you from the den of sins. Go back to Paris and wrap up our business there. Have all the files and your personal possessions packed up and ready. I will fly over next week in person to bring you home.”
Home! All he could do was bow so that his father couldn’t see the disgust on his face.
“ You will live right here by my side, with your wives and children and our tribesmen. It’s where you belong, Abusalim.”
The prospect nauseated the prince, and he struggled to control his voice. “That would be…wonderful.”
Hajj Ibn Saroah escorted him through the long hallways. “Do not disappoint your father again.”
Prince Abusalim did not respond.
“ I haven’t told him everything.”
“ Everything?”
“ The bribes from other vendors. I trust you will return the money to each one-”
“ Stay out of it!” The prince’s sharp voice hid his panic. The situation was worse than he had imagined. “How dare you spy on my affairs?”
The hajj held the door for the prince, and they stepped outside into the bright sun. A black limousine was waiting at the bottom of the steps to drive him to the plane.
“ Have a safe trip, Excellency. May Allah-”
“Don’t mention Allah!” Prince Abusalim shook a fist in the hajj’s face, realizing too late that it was his injured hand, which now pulsated with pain. “You’re a slave who forgot his place!”
Hajj Ibn Saroah bowed and walked back to the house.
As soon as the Lear jet began taxiing down the runway, Prince Abusalim pulled off the kafiya and galabiya and threw them on the floor. He sat in his underwear on the wide chair and yelled, “Come here!”
An attendant walked in and blushed at the sight of the prince.
“Jack Daniel’s!”
“Excellency, we are not out of Saudi airspace yet-”
“On the rocks! And bring the bottle!”
*
In Jerusalem, the day of study for Neturay Karta men didn’t end until close to midnight. The last group left the synagogue, still arguing about a Talmudic question of animal sacrifice, which had occupied them since that morning: Would one cow satisfy the collective sacrificial obligations at the temple on the Passover holiday or was each pilgrim required to bring his own animal for slaughter at the altar?