*
Back in his office, Lemmy’s eyes rested on the wooden model of The Paula, her mainsail and jib full with wind. Klaus Junior had carved it out of a pine log as a school project recently. At the stern of the boat stood tiny people-Paula, flanked by Lemmy and her father. Klaus Junior stood at the helm, adorned in a miniature blue-and-white sailor suit resembling the one Lemmy had brought from Monaco for his birthday last year.
“ Herr Horch?” It was his lanky assistant, Christopher, bowing his head to avoid the top of the doorframe. “Any news from upstairs?”
“I think Gunter’s ulcer is bleeding again.”
Christopher laughed. “That bad?”
“Worse.” He had hired Christopher Ditmahr two years earlier. The young man had an ideal resume-a graduate of Lyceum Alpin St. Nicholas and Zurich University, followed by internship at Chase Manhattan bank in New York. His application had come in just as Lemmy was ready to hire. Christopher was smart, diligent, and devoted to his boss in the unspoken camaraderie shared by non-Swiss living among Zurich’s uppity purebreds.
“I think Gunter is paranoid,” Christopher said. “I showed him how to sign in with his personal pass code, activate the program, key in each account number and password, and enter the amounts of deposits and withdrawals. He insisted that we practice with fictitious accounts. I couldn’t believe it! What did he think? That I’d memorize his secrets?”
“That could be useful.”
“Sir?”
“Just kidding.” Lemmy sat back, placing his feet on the desk. “I sympathize with the poor fellow. Gunter has been with Herr Hoffgeitz since-”
“Nineteen forty-one.”
“Correct. Imagine working for the same boss for fifty-four years.”
“ He thinks Herr Hoffgeitz is God.”
“ And bank secrecy is the Ten Commandments.” Lemmy chuckled. “By the way, has there been any activity in Prince az-Zubayr’s account?”
“All quiet on the Saudi front,” Christopher said. “Nothing since the transfer to the private account of the French Consul General in Damascus.”
*
Like every Friday night during the bitter Jerusalem winter, only the male sect members attended prayers in Neturay Karta. Their wives prepared the Sabbath meals and watched the young children at home. At the conclusion of the prayers, Rabbi Abraham Gerster recited the mourners’ Kaddish. He paused, took the required three backward steps, bowed toward the Torah ark, and chanted the last line: “ He, who brings peace to Heaven, shall bring peace upon us and upon all His people of Israel, and we say, Amen. ”
Everyone answered, “Amen.”
Rabbi Gerster put on his black coat and wrapped a scarf around his neck. He watched as Rabbi Benjamin Mashash, who had succeeded him as leader of Neturay Karta, walked down the aisle to the door and stood there to shake each man’s hand and wish them a good Sabbath.
When the synagogue was empty, Rabbi Gerster joined Benjamin and his three teenage sons, who had their father’s dark eyes and their mother’s light complexion. The oldest, Jerusalem, was named after Rabbi Gerster’s son and Benjamin’s best friend, who had died during the Six Day War, almost three decades ago. Jerusalem Mashash already showed the start of a beard, and his dangling side locks swung back and forth as he reached to open the door.
“ So, Jerusalem,” Rabbi Gerster said, exiting the sanctuary to the chilly air outside, “what do you know tonight that you didn’t know this morning?”
Benjamin’s sons were accustomed to Rabbi Gerster’s daily query. They spent every day studying Talmud and were eager to share their knowledge with the elderly rabbi.
Jerusalem said, “Today we studied a Talmudic rule: Where there are no men, be a man! One interpretation is that the rule applies to prayers. In other words, even in a place that has no minyan of ten Jewish men to pray together, one must pray alone.”
“ That’s a convenient interpretation,” Rabbi Gerster said.
“ Convenient?” The boy wasn’t afraid to argue, just like his dead namesake. “To pray is a duty. A task. The rule creates a chore where there wasn’t one. What’s convenient about that?”
“ To pray is a chore?”
“ Easier to be free from the duty to pray, right?”
“ Praying is a ritual,” Rabbi Gerster said, “which gives men comfort, peace of mind, and a sense of fulfillment. It’s a privilege, isn’t it?”
“ Couldn’t a privilege be also a chore?”
“ Telling a Jew to be a man where there are no men sounds more serious than a mere technicality about prayer quorum, don’t you think?”
“ One commentator suggests that the rule imposes a duty to be a Jew where there are no Jews.”
Rabbi Gerster rested his arm on the youth’s shoulders. “But isn’t a Jew still a Jew, whether he’s with other Jews or alone?”
“ The rule isn’t about technical hereditary Jewishness. It’s about being a good Jew when no one else behaves like a Jew.”
“ Behaves like a Jew? What’s that?”
“ To observe God’s laws, like keeping the Sabbath, eating only kosher food, and so on.”
“ Then the rule should have said: Where everyone else is a sinner, be righteous! But Talmud said to be a man even where there are no other men. What does it mean to be a man?”
“ To do the right thing?”
“ Do we need a special rule for that?” Benjamin spoke for the first time since they had left the synagogue. “Shouldn’t we always do the right thing, whether we’re alone or not?”
Jerusalem tugged on his payos. “If everyone else says that wrong is right, a man must still follow his conscience and do what’s right without fear of others.”
“ Very good!” Rabbi Gerster winked at Benjamin, who smiled with fatherly pride.
They climbed the stairs to the second-floor apartment and entered the small foyer, taking off their coats and hats.
Benjamin’s wife, Sorkeh, appeared from the kitchen, her round face glistening with sweat. “Here you are!” She wiped her hands on her apron. “Come, let’s start. The little ones are starving.”
In the dining room, Benjamin’s younger children-another boy and three girls under ten years old, sat at the table, chattering with careless innocence. Rabbi Gerster lingered alone in the foyer in front of a small frame on the wall. A military photographer had snapped the photo twenty-eight years ago. It showed the youthful chief of staff, General Yitzhak Rabin, shaking hands with a fresh paratrooper who had graduated with the highest honors from basic training. Clean-shaven and bright-eyed, his red beret was tilted to the right with a sharp crease. A strip of brass was glued to the bottom part of the frame: Private Jerusalem (“Lemmy”) Gerster 1949-1967
Rabbi Gerster touched the face in the photo and kissed his fingertips. “Good Sabbath, my son.”
*
Lemmy punched in a series of numbers on a pad, and the steel door clicked open. The data center, set up in a converted underground vault, held the massive computer system the bank had purchased last year.
“ Gentlemen!” He approached Christopher and Gunter, who sat together at a terminal. “This has been a productive week, hasn’t it?” He watched Gunter expectantly.
“ Of course, Herr Horch.” The elderly man grimaced, as if his words tasted bitter.
“ I’m glad the two of you are working together so well.”
“It’s a pleasure,” Christopher said, playing along. “We’re making great progress with these fictitious accounts.”
“Very good. Be sure to cover all the security features.”
“Of course,” Christopher said. “We’ll stay here as long as it takes.”
“ At least you won’t get cold,” Lemmy said. Unlike the other subterranean vaults, this one was warmed up by the computer servers, electrical boards, and thick bundles of colorful wires. He glanced at his watch. “I should be going. Herr Hoffgeitz is joining us for dinner. Paula’s cooking his favorite-crock-pot Swiss beef with mashed potatoes and cheese fondue.”
“ Yum.” Christopher smacked his lips, and Gunter turned to him with raised eyebrows.
Lemmy chuckled. “Have a good weekend.”
*
Gideon replaced each audio tape with the next while the Jackal cleverly evaded his pursuers and got closer to his target. A few Peugeot sedans passed by during the afternoon, one of them green, which caused a brief excitement until they saw the driver, an old Frenchwoman who could not possibly belong to Abu Yusef’s group.