Free The Jerusalem Assassin by Avraham Azrieli Page B

and loyal teammate. And there was a mysterious woman he was carrying on a relationship with, much older than him and very attractive. Petite, black hair, pale face. She came to the base once, caused quite a stir.”
    He kept his face straight, hiding the storm that Tanya’s description whipped up inside him. “Are you fishing for information?”
    Itah smiled, looking much younger. “Just curious. I can’t do anything with it now. It’s too old a story.”
    “Why didn’t you publish it back then?”
    “Because a little creep from some secret service came to the studio and threatened me and my editor with immediate arrest on trumped up charges. He took all my drafts and notes and all the roughs we had filmed. It was as if I had touched a live wire.”
    “Perhaps you had.” He chuckled. “But that’s ancient history. I didn’t contact you to speak about my Jerusalem, may he rest in peace. Now will you grant me the respect of answering my questions?”
    “Will you answer mine?”
    “When a time comes for me to tell my story, I promise to speak only to you.”
    “Give me something now.”
    “Okay. How about this: I don’t believe in God.”
    The reporter’s eyebrows rose almost to her hairline.
    “It’s true.” He placed a hand against his heart. “I swear.”
    “Okay, Rabbi Gerster. You don’t believe in God, and we are in business.” She offered her hand.
    He glanced around furtively, making sure no one was watching, and shook it. “Tell me about the ILOT ceremony.”
    “They were young,” she said, “late teens or early twenties. Almost like boy scouts, except that the pistols were real and the vows were sincere.”
    “Why did they allow you to attend?”
    “In my profession, you don’t argue with a good source. Their leader is a true Jewish fascist.”
    “The chubby guy?”
    “Yes. Freckles. That’s his moniker. He’s very clever in using the media, has given me great stories—the type of stories any journalist would grab and run with.”
    “Do you believe these boys are for real?”
    “Absolutely. Classic right-wing extremists. A few months ago they incited a riot and beat up Arabs in Hebron, turned over market stalls, and destroyed produce. They set up fake military checkpoints in the West Bank and body-searched Arabs. They went into Old Jerusalem with clubs and broke windows and a few bones, forced Arab merchants to shut down their stores.”
    “All this was done by Freckles’ group?”
    “Oh, ILOT isn’t the only one. There are several other militias just like it—Kahane Chai, EYAL, Geva’ot. Each group numbers a handful of youths. They engage in violent attacks on Palestinians in order to scare the Arabs out of the West Bank and ensure Jewish control over biblical Israel. They’re not deadly like the Palestinian attacks on Jews. I mean, these kids don’t shoot and bomb innocent civilians, but they engage in harassment, and they’re aggressive enough to draw attention.”
    Rabbi Gerster picked up a teaspoon and turned it around in his hand, using the curved back as a mirror to scan the view behind his back. “But their anti-Arab activities, distasteful as they are, could be a prelude to something worse.” He put down the spoon. “Violence against fellow Jews.”
    “It’s a natural progression. Take a look at this.” She handed him a stapled stack of papers. The cover said: ILOT – Member Manual – Top Secret
    He browsed the pages. “Can I keep it?”
    She nodded.
    “Anything else about that ceremony? Any leads?”
    She hesitated. “I noticed their backpacks. It was really dark out there, but I could see the university logo—”
    “Which one?”
    “Bar Ilan Law School.”
    *
    Gideon saw a gendarme signaling the green Peugeot to move forward, which it did. A taxicab picked up a heavy matron with hefty Galeries Lafayette shopping bags. The department store spanned both sides of the street, each wing taking up a whole block. A glass-walled overpass connected the two