Lemmy let go of Haim. “What color skullcap is Yoni wearing?”
“ I don’t know. Blue and white, I think.”
*
The immensity of the crowd surprised Gideon. Israelis of all ages, ethnicity, and economic status stood shoulder-to-shoulder, straining to see the stage. The mayor of Tel Aviv, a retired IDF general, spoke about his dream of peace with the Arabs, his voice booming from hundreds of loudspeakers. “And that’s why I’m honored, on behalf of the people of Tel Aviv, to host this peace rally and to support my courageous comrade and brother-in-arms, Prime Minister Yitzhak Rabin!”
A deafening cheer came from the crowd, and Rabin could be seen in the front line of the public figures on the stage, waving at his supporters.
Agent Cohen stopped and listened to a report on his walkie-talkie. A man fitting Spinoza’s description was stopped on King Saul Avenue. He was carrying a licensed pistol. His ID had an address of a kibbutz in the south, and he claimed to be a veteran major in the IDF. “I don’t care! Arrest him!”
More people were arriving. Many waved Israeli flags on little sticks or held up placards in support of Labor, Meretz, or Shalom Now! As expected, the hundreds of balconies overlooking the plaza were filled with spectators. Near the stage, a bunch of youths jumped into the reflecting pool, splashing each other to the delight of the TV cameras.
A singer took the mike, his hair long, his face heavily made up. He broke into a familiar tune with lyrics that Gideon couldn’t follow. The crowd went crazy, clapping, dancing, squealing at the top of their voices.
Gideon smiled, then remembered the reality of Spinoza on the loose. This happy night could still end in tragedy.
Behind the rear of the stage, Agent Cohen entered the sterile area, which was guarded by police officers and Shin Bet agents in civilian clothes. “Wait here,” he told Gideon and consulted quietly with a few colleagues who, Gideon assumed, were also members of Shin Bet’s VIP Protection Unit.
At the far end of the sterile area, the prime minister’s official car-a gray Cadillac-waited with its doors open, the driver standing by, smoking a cigarette.
*
Lemmy rode the Bonneville as hard as he dared. He cut in front of cars, passed in narrow spaces between lanes, bypassed stationary traffic on the shoulder, and took chances at busy intersections. After the restful Sabbath, when most businesses were closed and families spent time together at home, Israelis flooded the streets, especially teenagers and young professionals, patronizing restaurants, bars, and movie theaters. Many were young and inexperienced drivers, though it took nothing away from their confident aggression at the wheel.
But the risk paid off when Lemmy saw bus number 247 ahead, ascending the bridge over the Yarkon River at the entrance to Tel Aviv. The motorbike sputtered a bit on the upswing, but caught up on the downward stretch of the bridge. A pickup truck separated him from the bus, but the street lamps briefly illuminated the interior. Through the rear window Lemmy could see the head of a young man with black hair and a knitted blue-and-white skullcap.
He leaned into the opposite lane to pass the pickup truck, catching a glimpse of the side of the bus, which bore an ad showing a swimsuit model lounging in the curves of a giant green pepper. The pickup truck accelerated, the youths in the cabin hollering. Lemmy downshifted and pulled the throttle all the way. He barely had time to cut in, avoiding an oncoming car whose headlights beamed into his eyes with intensity that left him momentarily blinded. As he struggled to regain focus, his vision concentrating on the rear of the bus, Lemmy failed to notice the lights turn red above the next intersection. He approached it at full speed just as a woman and a child stepped down from the curb.
*
An elderly nurse came in to plump up Elie’s pillows. She raised the head of the bed and brought a cup of apple juice to his lips. On the TV screen across the room, a live broadcast from the peace rally showed happy faces singing in Hebrew. Colorful banners swayed in the gentle breeze:
Peace Now!
Yes to Peace!
We Love Rabin!
Kibbutz Movement Supports Peace!
Labor Students for Peace!
The anchor described the unprecedented high attendance-possibly half a million people.
The singing ended, and the mayor of Tel Aviv invited Prime Minister Yitzhak Rabin to speak. The crowd cheered.
Rabin’s face filled the screen. He smiled sheepishly at his perennial political rival, Foreign Minister Shimon Peres, who stood beside him.
When the crowd finally quieted down, Rabin spoke. “I was a soldier for twenty-seven years. I fought as long as there was no prospect of peace. But I believe that there is now a chance for peace. A great chance! And it must be seized!”
More cheers while Rabin leaned on the podium with a lopsided grin. Elie wondered if his posture meant that Rabin had relented and put on a bulletproof vest, its weight causing him to lean on the podium. He watched Rabin’s familiar yet aged face. They had both spent a lifetime in the service of the Jewish people. Elie wondered what was going through Rabin’s mind, how it felt to receive such explicit adulation, to be embraced by the loving masses, to bask in the glow of popular gratitude, rather than lie alone in a starched hospital room.
“ I have always believed,” Rabin continued, “that most of the nation wants peace and is prepared to take risks for peace. You, by coming here, are taking a stand for peace. You prove that the nation truly wants peace. And rejects violence!”
The last word generated booing through the plaza, and the TV camera captured individual faces, mouths open, hands waving.
“ Violence is undermining the foundations of Israeli democracy.” Rabin’s voice grew angrier. “Violence must be rejected! Condemned! And contained! Violence is not the way of the State of Israel! Democracy is our way!”
“ Exactly,” Elie said quietly. “Exactly!”
*
Lemmy knew that the old brakes wouldn’t manage to stop the motorcycle in time. The woman gripped her daughter’s hand, both of them paralyzed in his path. Paula’s face flashed in his mind, the girl she may be carrying. His foot pressed the rear-brake pedal, locking the wheel, and he shifted his weight left, leaning the Triumph as it slid sideways, both wheels now perpendicular to the direction of travel, sliding rather than turning. The tires uttered a hiss as they scraped against the road, slowing him down. Just before hitting the two, he straightened up, swerved right, and hit the curb. The bike became airborne. In slow motion it flew over the street corner, into the main cross street, bounced a few times without falling over, and reached the median, where the front wheel lodged into thick shrubs, throwing Lemmy off.
He lay on his back for a moment, only the dark sky filling his view.
People ran over and helped him up. They asked him questions, their voices indistinct. He didn’t reply.
Traffic was stationary. A siren sounded in the distance. He checked himself. Each of his limbs worked fine, nothing broken.
More questions. Someone held Lemmy’s arm.
He pulled the Triumph out of the bushes, off the median, and mounted it. The people around him stood back, stunned. He stepped on the kick start, the engine roared, and he took off, using the pedestrian crossing to return to his original direction.
Despite pulling the throttle all the way, the bike rewarded him with meek acceleration. Possible causes flew through his mind. A failing cylinder? A cracked fuel line? A misaligned sparkplug? Anything worse than that and the bike would croak!
As his speed increased, he noticed a wriggle in the handlebar. Was the front wheel bent?
Yoni’s bus was out of sight.
*
Elie Weiss watched Prime Minister Yitzhak Rabin waiting for the applause to quiet down. He stood straight now, an old soldier’s proud bearing. So much for a bulletproof vest. “Peace is not just a prayer,” Rabin declared. “It starts with a prayer, but it’s also the primary aspiration of the Jewish people. Peace has its enemies. They are trying to harm us. Torpedo the peace.”