Free The Jerusalem Assassin by Avraham Azrieli Page A

narrow, one-way street.
    Nothing.
    They looked down the first side street.
    Clear.
    The second.
    Clear again.
    At Rue de Mogador, a one-way street going south, the green Peugeot was parked at the curb. Gideon made the turn and pulled over.
    Bathsheba brought the binoculars to her eyes. “He’s dropping off the passenger. Fur hat and a long coat. I can’t see his damn face!”
    “Even the coat is green,” Gideon said.
    “I’m going after him.” Bathsheba took out her gun and screwed on a silencer.
    “Don’t shoot!”
    “If it’s Abu Yusef, I’ll give him my father’s regards.”
    Gideon knew he couldn’t stop her. He shoved the camera into her hand. “If it’s not him, take a picture. Maybe it’s one of his men. Elie would know.”
    *
    Café Atarah on Ben Yehuda Street in Jerusalem was almost empty. “I am Rabbi Abraham Gerster,” he said, joining the lone woman at a corner table. “Thanks for agreeing to meet with me.”
    “How could I decline?” Itah Orr, a veteran reporter for Channel One TV , held the note he had left for her at the office that morning. “I tried to do a story about you years ago, on the tenth anniversary of the Six Day War. It would have been a good story.”
    Rabbi Gerster smiled. “There are many stories that are far more interesting than mine.”
    “More interesting than the leader of the anti-Zionist Neturay Karta sect, who sacrificed his only son for Israel’s greatest victory?”
    “The former leader. Rabbi Benjamin Mashash took over my duties a long time ago.”
    “You were still Neturay Karta’s leader when you sacrificed your son.”
    “I didn’t sacrifice him. Jerusalem rejected our faith and joined the army without my blessing.”
    A waitress brought two cups and poured black coffee. The reporter added cream and sugar, mixing it in. “Lemmy, wasn’t it?”
    “His nickname, yes.”
    “He graduated paratroopers training first in his class and went on to serve courageously on the Golan Heights.”
    “While ignoring his mother’s desperate letters until she killed herself!” Rabbi Gerster immediately regretted his outburst. Temimah’s despair had been caused by his own behavior no less than by Lemmy’s silence. “Please. These are old wounds. My son and wife deserve to rest in peace.”
    “So why did you contact me?”
    Rabbi Gerster glanced over his shoulder. The few patrons in the café did not appear to pay attention to him. “I watched your report on Saturday night.”
    “I thought you people don’t watch TV.”
    “Those boys, taking the oath, were they for real? Or was it some kind of a show, a make-believe piece of propaganda?”
    “Wait a minute.” Itah Orr jerked her head, clearing away shoulder-length gray hair. “What do you care about those kids? Or about Israel? You people live in your ghetto in Meah Shearim, don’t pay taxes, don’t serve in the army, don’t even recognize the State of Israel—except for its social security checks, of course.”
    “We object to Zionism, but we study Talmud every waking moment to make up for all the Jews who neglect their sacred duty.”
    “And how exactly would your Talmudists feed their hordes of children without Zionist tax money?”
    “Questions, questions.” Rabbi Gerster sighed. “You’re like a vacuum cleaner for information. I need a peek inside your dustbin, that’s all.”
    She laughed. “Fair enough.”
    “About that swearing-in of ILOT, tell me what you think. Please.”
    “Tit for tat. First tell me why you—a lifelong anti-Zionist rabbi—are suddenly concerned with a tiny nationalist militia? What’s going on?”
    Rabbi Gerster stood up and buttoned his black coat. “I was mistaken in approaching you. May God bless your day.”
    “Wait!” Itah Orr stood. “I’m sorry. I guess I’m still angry about my story getting killed.”
    “Twenty years ago?”
    “I had enough material for a great piece. Your son was very popular with his boot camp buddies, an excellent soldier