At the forecourt of the synagogue, hundreds of Neturay Karta members congregated to exchange greetings and share news of recent engagements, new babies, and illnesses. Everyone was dressed in their best clothes, the men in tailored black coats and wide-brim felt hats, the women in colorful headdresses, and the kids in miniature outfits resembling the adults, except that the unmarried girls wore their hair uncovered.
“One day,” Lemmy said, “I’ll bring my wife and son to visit, see how I grew up, what gave me a solid foundation in life.”
“And what is that?”
“Talmud,” Lemmy said. “Everything you see here is the direct result of a communal, lifelong devotion to the study of Talmud, which is a boundless intellectual world spanning ten thousand pages of debates over right and wrong. A student of Talmud spends his days agonizing over what constitutes an ethical behavior in every aspect of one’s life-worship, family, business, politics. There’s nothing like it.”
“Do you miss it?”
“Yes, I miss Talmud. I miss it terribly. But I don’t miss the insular lifestyle. And I couldn’t live without cars.”
Itah laughed. “Cars?”
“Love them,” he said. “Have you ever fooled around with a Porsche? Made out with a classic Citroen?”
“Shhh!” She gestured at the people around them. “It’s Sabbath!”
They made their way between the people of Neturay Karta into the foyer of the synagogue. At the foot of the stairs leading to the women’s section, Itah said, “You could have been their rabbi.”
Lemmy looked at the animated faces of bearded men, the kind smiles of untimely aged women, the cacophony of Yiddish and Hebrew, and the little boys with kiddie black hats and dangling side locks, running around, squealing in joy. It was so familiar, yet so alien. He tugged at his fake beard. “I guess…it wasn’t meant to be.”
*
Rabbi Gerster spent the night in a small hotel overlooking a muddy canal. When he checked out, the Dutch proprietor said, “Good-bye, Herr Horch.” It took him a moment to remember this was his last name-same as his son’s, yet again.
According to the phonebook, Doctor Mullenhuis Data Recovery operated out of a warehouse in the southern outskirts of Amsterdam, on the road to Leiden. He didn’t have much hope of finding the office open on a Saturday morning, but to his surprise, a man opened the door as soon as the taxi stopped in front of the building. Rabbi Gerster asked, “Are you Carl?”
“It depends.”
“My name is Abelard Horch.”
Carl’s eyes lit up, but he didn’t volunteer anything.
“ I’m Lemmy’s father.” He put down the bag and patted his chest. “Back from the dead.”
“ Yes,” Carl said, “I can tell by the sense of humor!”
They went inside, where floor-wide workrooms were filled with computer terminals and bundles of color-coded wires. If there was a method to the madness, it was well concealed. Carl collected his keys and led the way to an underground garage, a large space occupied by about twenty cars. He went for a red Ferrari. “This is a real sport car,” he said, holding the door open for Rabbi Gerster, “not like your son’s wimpy Porsche.”
He sat with his bag on his lap as Carl maneuvered the grunting Ferrari out of the garage. “I don’t know my son as an adult. Do you like him?”
“ He’s the best.” Carl drove fast through the deserted industrial area toward the highway. “And if I ever marry, it will be someone like his Paula. Body and soul, that woman is perfect. Delicious!”
*
A map of the neighborhood was pinned to the wall, and within it, an area was marked with a red border that started and ended at the gate on Shivtay Israel Street. “This is our area of activity.” Gideon tapped the map with his pointer. “The vehicles will drop us at the gate. We’ll have sixty seconds to run up the alley to their synagogue. We must place a tight ring around the building before they notice what’s happening. Neturay Karta is a fundamentalist sect, and the men are accustomed to evading police during demonstrations. We don’t want them running out of the synagogue and alerting other neighborhoods. Surprise and speed are the keys to our success today.”
The briefing room at the Jerusalem central police station was almost full. In addition to Agent Cohen’s four subordinates, there were forty police officers and two medics.
“Our intelligence,” Gideon continued, “indicates that all the members of Neturay Karta attend Sabbath morning services, including women and children. This is our only chance. A door-to-door search would incite a full-scale riot here, possibly spreading to the rest of the city.” He tapped on the enlarged photos beside the map, showing Spinoza and Itah Orr. “Former TV reporter Itah Orr, accused of banking fraud and identity theft. The man with her uses the name Baruch Spinoza, but is also known as Wilhelm Horch, a Swiss national. He’s probably dressed as an ultra-Orthodox man. Study his face in the flyer you’re about to receive. Be alert and careful. He’s a professional assassin.”
Each of them had been given a printout of a photo from Hadassah Hospital’s security cameras, which had captured Spinoza’s bearded face as he had entered the hospital on Friday with the other Neturay Karta men.
“The plan is simple,” Gideon continued. “We’ll enter through the main synagogue doors and run up the side walls to surround the congregation. Two of you will go upstairs to the women’s section.” He selected them with his pointer. “As soon as we surround the crowd, I will explain to them that we have no hostile intentions other than to apprehend the two criminals. At this point, either they’ll hand the suspects over to us or we’ll search the rows in the prayer hall and in the upstairs mezzanine until we find them. Questions?”
One of the police officers raised his hand. “What are the engagement rules? Should we have guns at the ready, or keep them holstered?”
“Holstered,” Gideon said. “We won’t give him a reason to shoot. He’s a professional, not a fanatic. He doesn’t want to die. As soon as he realizes he’s trapped by an overwhelming force, he’ll surrender.”
“What about the rest of them. How can we defend against them?”
“Are you afraid of a bunch of Talmudic scholars? The worst they can do is spit on you. Do you carry a handkerchief?”
Everybody laughed, and another officer asked, “What if the two suspects aren’t in the synagogue?”
“ They’ve taken cover inside a sect with strict rules of behavior, which include mandatory attendance at Sabbath morning prayers. We expect them to adhere to their hosts’ customs in order to blend in.”
“That’s correct.” Agent Cohen stepped forward. “However, we have identified Rabbi Mashash’s apartment as an alternative hideout. My team will raid it. We’re experienced in urban warfare from our work in the West Bank and Gaza. If the suspects are hiding there, I’m confident we can apprehend them easily. Or eliminate them.”
*
An hour into the service, the Torah scroll was carried up to the dais and rolled open on the table for the reading of the weekly chapter. The men stood in honor of the sacred scroll. They all wore striped prayer shawls draped over their heads and shoulders, providing each man with spiritual privacy.
The reading was divided into seven portions, and one man was honored to come up to the dais and make a blessing over each portion. Lemmy followed the verses, his finger proceeding under the Hebrew words in his book as Cantor Toiterlich read them from the scroll on the dais. The familiar ritual calmed him, taking away the worries that had plowed his mind all night. He felt at home, yet this wasn’t home. Zurich was home, Paula and Klaus Junior were home, and the coming baby was home.
An hour later, for the last portion, Rabbi Benjamin Mashash announced, “Ascend and rise for the seventh Aliya, our guest, who took the name Baruch.”
A murmur passed through the congregants. Normally a person was called up to the Torah by his first name and his father’s name. Lemmy hesitated. Everyone in this hall, except Benjamin, knew that Rabbi Gerster’s only son, Jerusalem, had been dead for almost three decades. What if someone recognized him?