The Jerusalem Inception

Chapter 12





On a frosty morning in late December, Tanya switched the eavesdropping equipment to automatic recording and left her home for the long walk to the bus station in West Jerusalem. Across the border, in the Armenian Quarter of the Old City, church bells tolled to summon the faithful to Christmas mass.

The bus took almost three hours to reach Tel Aviv, often stopping to wait for the army to scout the road ahead for Arab terrorists. Getting off the bus at the central station, Tanya walked west toward the Mediterranean coast.

The first Jewish city in modern times, Tel Aviv, which meant Spring Hill, was nothing like Jerusalem. Its inhabitants were secular Israelis. Women wore outfits that revealed the contours of their bodies, and men were muscular and sun-beaten in a healthy, exuberant way that contrasted with the pale Jews of Jerusalem. The sea air was fresh, and the sun shone as if summer hadn’t yet departed.

She changed into a bathing suit in the public showers at the beach and walked across the strip of soft sand to the water. The sea was almost flat, only shallow waves lapping at her feet. She took a deep breath and ran into the chilly water of the Mediterranean.

By early afternoon, the unseasonably mild weather had drawn hundreds of bathers, who rose and fell with the waves, squealing in a blend of Hebrew, English, German, and Arabic. A lifeguard with bronze skin and a hairy chest rowed his white fiberglass board toward Tanya and offered to take her for a ride. She declined, and he continued on his patrol.

After drying herself, she spread a towel on the sand and lay down in the sun.

Bira and Eytan met her for dinner at an outdoor café near the beach. He was a dark Israeli with a sunny smile, and seemed unconcerned when the two women lapsed into German, reminiscing how Tanya had taught Bira to ride a bicycle in a Munich park until they both fell into a shallow reflecting pool.

Tanya spent the night in the tiny apartment Bira shared with five other soldiers. They chatted late into the night, and Tanya went to bed content that her daughter had acclimated to life in Israel. Bira had grown up in a succession of European cities, their frequent relocations dictated by Mossad needs. But the disadvantage of a rootless childhood was balanced out by a multilingual fluency that served Bira well in her IDF research duties, while she easily made new friends among her fellow troops.

Well before sunrise, Tanya walked the short distance to the Kirya, the fenced-off IDF headquarters in the center of Tel Aviv. She passed through several checkpoints, and took a long elevator ride down to the Pit—the underground command center.

The meeting convened in a large room with solid concrete walls and mechanical ventilation. Prime Minster Levi Eshkol sat at one end of a long table, his thick eyeglasses on his forehead, his eyes buried in a document. The IDF chief of staff, General Yitzhak Rabin, sat at the other end, puffing on a cigarette. The rest of the seats around the table were taken by IDF generals and the civilian chiefs of Shin Bet and Mossad, all much younger than Eshkol. Plastic chairs lined the walls, occupied by aides and advisors.

On the opposite side of the room Tanya noticed Elie Weiss, diminutive and brooding. His wool cap covered his ears. He beckoned Tanya to an adjoining seat, but she sat near the door.

General Rabin approached a large wall map, the cigarette dangling from his lips. “Boker Tov,” he said.

A few voices replied, “Good morning.”

“What morning?” the prime minister asked, looking up from his papers. “It’s still the middle of the night!”

Rabin smiled. At forty-five, he was a handsome man with reddish-brown hair and a healthy tan. “As I see it, our goal is to avoid war. But our duty is to prepare for one.”

Several generals nodded. They seemed accustomed to Rabin’s slow, deliberate manner of speech.

“The tension on the borders,” Rabin continued, “is growing. In the north, Syrian bombardments rain down from the Golan Heights. In the east, PLO terrorists infiltrate from Jordan and kill civilians. In the south, Egypt is building up its forces in Sinai. In the west, terrorists attack us from Gaza. The daily casualties on every front erode our citizens’ morale.”

“It’s a chronic disease,” the prime minister said, “like bronchitis, or cataract.”

Everyone laughed, knowing that he was suffering from both.

“It’s becoming a fatal disease,” Rabin said. “The Arabs smell blood. They’re finally strong enough to overrun Israel.”

“The world won’t allow it,” the prime minister argued. “The UN will confront the Arab leaders. I sent Abba Eban to urge General Bull.”

“Our intelligence reports,” Rabin continued, “indicate that Egypt might block the Straits of Tiran.”

“Impossible!” Prime Minister Eshkol shook a finger at Rabin. “We have guarantees from the Americans. That’s why we agreed to withdraw from Sinai after the ’fifty-six campaign! Egypt will never have the chutzpah!”

“The Soviet Union is arming the Egyptians and Syrians in hopes of creating another Vietnam here. But our eastern border is the longest. To succeed against us, Egypt and Syria need Jordan.” With the point of a long stick, Rabin traced the meandering border down the middle of the Sea of Galilee to the mouth of the Jordan River and inland toward the Mediterranean Sea, where it ran parallel to the coast, creating a narrow strip where Israel was less than ten miles wide. Near the northern suburbs of Tel Aviv, the border veered east to the Judean Mountains. It sliced Jerusalem in half, with the Old City on the Jordanian side and the Jewish neighborhoods in a small peninsula. The border immediately dropped back west, circling the southern bulge of the West Bank, under Jordanian control, then east again to the desert valleys below the Dead Sea. The southern part of Israel, almost two-thirds of its odd-shaped territory, was the Negev Desert. It was dotted with isolated kibbutzim, collective farms that defied the harsh desert with green islands of alfalfa, carrots, and tomatoes.

General Rabin’s pointer returned to the narrow coastal strip north of Tel Aviv. “Here is our soft belly. Unlike the south and the north, where we have a bit of territorial depth to fight, a massive Jordan bombardment of West Jerusalem and the coastal strip will destroy us.”

“They won’t dare!” Prime Minister Eshkol leaned forward, his elbows on the table. “It would be a violation of every UN resolution!”

Drawing long from his cigarette, Rabin took his time. “If diplomacy fails, we’ll have to fend off King Hussein, or war will be lost on the first day.”

“I can’t spare any troops,” said General Dado Elazar, CO northern command. “The Syrians sit in their bunkers on the Golan Heights and shoot down at our kibbutzniks in the valleys. We have casualties every day. How long are we going to tolerate it?”

“My lines are stretched to the max,” said General Gavish, CO Southern Command. “Three hundred kilometers of desert. I have gaps wide enough for an entire Egyptian battalion to march through. We operate a phantom division in the middle section—three old tanks driving back and forth, raising dust to fool the Egyptians about our size. But if they actually attack, we’d better prepare white flags and learn Arabic.”

“Imagine that,” said a voice from the corner, “the Israelites going into Egyptian captivity all over again.”

Tanya had not noticed him before. General Moshe Dayan, veteran IDF chief of staff, wore plain khakis and his black eye patch. He joined his fingers, forming a peak. “We’d better pull out the old blueprints for the pyramids.”

“Happy Passover,” someone said, and the room erupted in laughter.

“War is coming,” Dayan said, suddenly serious. “The IDF must attack first, or we’ll all die.”

“Madness!” Prime Minister Eshkol was red in the face. “We are a tiny country, an island of Yids in an ocean of Goyim! The United Nations guaranteed our sovereignty. It’s General Bull’s responsibility!”

“What’s he going to do?” Dayan smirked. “Order his thousand UN observers to observe more closely?”

“We can’t fight alone.” Eshkol’s voice trembled. “We need America. Or France. Alone, we’ll be squashed!”

A wiry, tall man leaped from his seat and went to the map. “My team has prepared plans for a first strike.” Ezer Weitzman, nephew of Israel’s first president, had until recently commanded the air force. He was now CO operations, second only to Rabin.

Weitzman grabbed the pointer from Rabin. “A first-strike by the Arabs would disable our airfields, blast the Dimona nuclear reactor, and destroy our cities.” The pointer moved rapidly between different spots on the map. “The north and south will be cut off from central command.” He tapped the Golan Heights, the Galilee, and the Negev. “No supply lines. No reinforcements. No spare parts, ammunition, or oil refills. Our tanks and infantry will be disabled and wiped out. End of story.” Weitzman threw the stick on the table, and it slid lengthwise until it stopped, the pointer touching Prime Minister Eshkol’s white shirt. “Authorize a preemptive air strike on them, or prepare for a second Holocaust!”

Having kept the defense portfolio to himself, Eshkol was now stuck with the challenge of reining in the military brass. Tanya saw him scribble something in a little notebook. “Here we are,” he said, “an ancient nation with a great military force. But still, the people of Israel are afraid. We’re like Samson the nebishdicker.”

They laughed, and Tanya understood Eshkol’s clever metaphor of the biblical superhero, Samson the nerd, Israel being simultaneously mighty and meek, ferocious and fearful. In contrast to the Israeli-born sabra generals, who were confident and eager to fight, Eshkol belonged to the older, Diaspora-born politicians, whose worldview had been formed in Eastern Europe, where Jewish men cowered under kitchen tables while the Goyim ransacked their homes and raped their wives and daughters.

“We should avoid both complacency and hysteria,” General Rabin said. “If the Egyptians blockade the Straits of Tiran, our oil supplies from Iran will be cut. Our factories will stop. Buses and trains too. And our reservists won’t be able to reach their units.”

“We could,” Eshkol said, “ask the Iranians to ship the oil around Africa to Haifa.”

“The real wild card is Jordan,” said Moshe Dayan. “King Hussein doesn’t want to risk losing East Jerusalem and the West Bank, but he can’t appear disloyal to his Arab brothers.”

“Which is fine,” General Weitzman said. “We’ll capture Temple Mount and reunite Jerusalem!”

“We don’t want the West Bank, though,” Rabin said.

“Why not?” Weitzman asked. “The hills of Judea and Samaria are filled with the biblical sites where Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob lived. Imagine the Cave of the Patriarchs in Hebron, the first piece of land Abraham bought in the Promised Land. Jericho, which Joshua captured upon returning from Egyptian slavery—”

“And imagine,” Rabin said, “ruling over a half-million Arabs.”

“They’ll run away,” Weitzman said, waving his hand, “like they did in ’forty-eight.”

“I don’t think so,” Rabin said. “The IDF is a defense force. The military occupation of a large Arab population will be morally problematic.”

Prime Minister Eshkol pointed at Elie. “Weiss, tell us about the Jewish fundamentalists. Will they be grateful to the government if we capture the holy places?”

“They’ll be grateful to God.” Elie stood up. “I estimate that capturing the biblical sites will cause a rise in religious nationalism centered on old ruins and ancient tombs. Thousands of observant families will pick up and move to Hebron, Jericho, and Bethlehem. Depending on your political leaning, this could be viewed as a wonderful new wave of laudable Zionist pioneering or as a power grab of territories needed for a future bargain with the Arabs. I believe that if Israel conquers the West Bank and East Jerusalem, future governments will face a political fait accompli—no withdrawals and no peace with the Arabs.”

There was a long silence, broken by Ezer Weitzman. “That’s a bunch of nonsense. Who is this guy?”

The chief of Mossad, Meir Amit, cleared his throat. “Until recently, our assessment was that the Arabs would not be ready for war before 1970. However, six months ago the Soviet Union began shipping massive amounts of arms, accompanied by thousands of military personnel, including field commanders, tank officers, and fighter pilots. They’re acting as advisors, but they’ll fight, just like in Vietnam.”

“Why?” The question came from Rabin.

“Dimona,” the Mossad chief responded without hesitation. “The Kremlin considers our nuclear program to be a direct challenge to Soviet influence in the Middle East. By early summer, June or July, they’ll have Egypt, Jordan, and the Syrians, as well as supporting brigades from Iraq, Saudi Arabia, and Lebanon, ready to attack Israel.”

“They won’t!” Prime Minister Eshkol sat back, removed his glasses. “The UN will stop them!”

The Mossad chief glanced at Tanya. “A very telling conversation took place when the General Bull called King Hussein to wish him a happy birthday.”

“Some neutrality,” Prime Minister Eshkol said. “He didn’t call on my birthday!”

Amit smiled. “They’re friends. The young king is a flying enthusiast, so Bull treats him as sort of a protégé. He invited Hussein to tour the new UN radar station at Government House. We’re still gathering intel on it. But when Bull told King Hussein that his family will be visiting Jerusalem in the spring, the king offered his villa in the south of France instead.”

Tanya had her notes ready. “The king responded that it’s going to be a very hot spring in the Middle East, but by summer they’ll be able to vacation together in Tel Aviv.”

The prime minster swiveled his chair to face Tanya. “What was Bull’s reply?”

She quoted from her notes. “It’s a date!”

Lemmy woke up to an explosion of banging and knocking that made him sit up in his bed fighting for air. The room was completely dark, and it took him a moment to realize the noise was coming from his alarm clock. He hit it, and the noise died.

The apartment was not heated during the night, and the sweat on his forehead was icy. The wind rattled the window. He turned on his reading light and sat for a moment. His body ached. He wished he could stay in bed. He had slept for less than two hours, having finished a novel about young Italian lovers whose passion led to tragedy.

Lowering his feet to the cold floor, Lemmy resisted an overwhelming desire to slip back under the warm blanket. In a moment, he would be late for morning prayers. He dressed quickly, grabbed the black hat from the hook, and rushed out of his room.

The small sink by the bathroom had a single iron faucet. He used the copper cup to rinse his hands three times as prescribed by Talmud. He splashed cold water on his face and dried his hands and face on a towel while reciting the blessing: “Grateful I am before you, Master of the Universe, for giving my soul back to me in your mercy. I believe in your grace.”

His father had already gone to the synagogue for an hour of predawn studying. Lemmy passed by the kitchen without stopping, crossed the foyer, and reached for the door handle.

“Jerusalem?” His mother’s quick footsteps sounded, and she appeared in the foyer. “Here. Drink it.”

He took the mug and filled his mouth with sweet, hot chocolate. It was always at the right temperature, soothing away the bitter residue of a restless night without burning his palate. He gulped it, looking at his mother over the mug. The vapor between them softened her untimely wrinkles.

“Thanks.” He handed her the empty mug.

“May God bless your day,” she said while he headed down the stairs.

He knew she was watching from the window as he ran through the rain, holding his hat, his shoes splashing through puddles.

He entered the synagogue foyer and brushed the drops off his coat. Monotonous chanting came through the open doors of the main sanctuary. In the far corner of the foyer, Benjamin stood with Redhead Dan and his study companion, Yoram.

Lemmy approached them. “What nasty weather!”

“It’s better than famine,” Benjamin said. “You want us to starve?”

“Why starve?” Lemmy waved his hand. “Couldn’t God create a better irrigation system? This rain gets everything wet—buildings, roads, dogs, roaches. Even the sea gets wet! It’s stupid, isn’t it?”

Redhead Dan said, “God isn’t stupid!”

“He didn’t say it about God.” Benjamin said. “Just about getting wet in the rain. Surely our merciful God knows best how to run the world He created, right?”

“That’s a given,” Lemmy said. “But God should deliver water where it’s needed—olive groves in the Galilee, orange trees near Jaffa, and so on. The current system—”

“Are you questioning God’s wisdom?” Redhead Dan folded his arms on his chest. He was in his early twenties, burly and freckle-faced. His red hair, spiraling payos, and bushy beard created a blaze that kept his head constantly boiling. His young wife had given birth a few days earlier to a baby boy—their first child. “God will punish the sinners! The filthy Zionists will pay for their abortion law.” His voice grew louder. “We’ll destroy their Knesset, flush their law books down the toilet, and drown their heresy in a bath of blood!”

“You mean a river,” Lemmy said, “not a bath.”

“What?”

“A river of blood. It’s hard to drown in a bath.”

“Whatever!” Redhead Dan made a cutting gesture with his hand.

“And whose blood will it be,” Lemmy inquired, “in which they’ll drown?”

“Zionist blood! What else?”

“You mean Jewish blood?”

“No!” Redhead Dan stepped back, his fists clenched as if he was about to attack. “Zionist blood! Zionists are Goyim!”

“But according to Talmud every child of a Jewish mother is a Jew. Even a Jew who converts to Christianity remains a Jew. So how could Zionists become Gentiles?”

Redhead Dan glared at Lemmy. “Don’t you hate the Zionists?”

“Hate is a sin. Rabbi Akivah said, Love your fellow Jew as you love yourself.”

Benjamin said, “Come on, who has energy to hate the Zionists before breakfast?”

“Heretics aren’t Jews!” Redhead Dan poked Lemmy’s chest with his finger. “We must stone them to death at the city gates. It’s written!”

“A lot of things are written.” Lemmy left them and entered the main sanctuary. Benjamin followed him to their bench, and they joined the rest of the men in chanting Adon Olam, Master of the Universe.

When the chanting ended, Rabbi Gerster walked up to the elevated dais in the center and recited the first Blessing of Dawn: “Greatness to You, Master of the Universe, for giving the rooster eyesight to know day from night.”

The men repeated after Rabbi Gerster, and he continued to the next blessing, “For not making me a Gentile.”

They recited the line.

Benjamin whispered, “What’s gotten into you?”

Lemmy shrugged, repeating the next blessing, “Greatness to You, Master of the Universe, for not making me a woman.”

“You should be more careful,” Benjamin whispered, “Redhead Dan is crazy.”

“What, he’ll smash my face with a brick?”

Benjamin grinned. “Only if you perform an abortion.”

Elie Weiss watched Tanya exit the main gate of the IDF headquarters. His Citroën’s two-stroke engine idled noisily. He was parked under a large eucalyptus tree on Kiryat Shaul Street, waiting for her after the strategy conference. She headed north toward the bus station. It was a busy morning, with many soldiers and civilians on their way to work. She walked fast in sensible shoes, blue pants, and a beige shirt that resembled a uniform. Her hair was collected in a bun, and large sunglasses covered most of her face. He turned on the engine and proceeded slowly. A gap in traffic allowed him to jump the curb and come abreast with her, moving at the same pace.

“Hi there,” he called through the open window. “Need a lift?”

Tanya glanced at him, not slowing down.

“That’s no way to treat your commanding officer.”

She stopped walking.

Elie hit the brakes, and the little car rocked back and forth on its soft springs. A bus screeched to a halt behind the Citroën and honked repeatedly. A few pedestrians stopped to look.

Tanya got into the car and slammed the door.

He started driving, keeping pace with traffic. “I like Tel Aviv. Not as cold as Jerusalem.”

“I won’t work for you.”

Making a right-hand turn, Elie accelerated. The tiny boxer engine rattled like a lawnmower. “You’re a soldier, an expert in gathering information about Israel’s enemies. What’s the difference between spying on Arabs or on nutty Jews who threaten Israel from within?”

“It’s the difference between a soldier, which I’m proud to be, and a snitch, which I won’t become. And anyway, I don’t buy your theory. Religious Jews will never turn violent.”

“It’s not a theory. Last time we had an independent Jewish state, the zealots killed the high priest and butchered all fellow Jews who opposed them, which allowed the Romans to burn down Jerusalem. It can happen again. Don’t you want to save Jerusalem?”

She pointed. “There, drop me off at the bus station.”

“How close are you getting with Abraham’s son? Is he in love with you yet?”

Tanya removed her sunglasses and looked at him.

“Be reasonable.” Elie stopped at the curb. “Mossad agreed to share your services with my department. Work with me.”

“You don’t need my work. I know what you really want.”

“Whatever it is, you have no choice.”

“But I do.” Tanya opened the door. “I have records of interesting conversations between the UN observers on a certain Friday afternoon. There was a shooting. The bullets barely missed Abraham.”

“It happens. The Jordanian soldiers get bored.”

“According to the UN observers, the shooter was sitting on a roof on the Israeli side of the border. They got a pretty good description of him. A smallish guy in a beggar’s cloak. They didn’t miss the prominent nose.”

He chuckled, touching his nose.

“Keep yours out of my business, and I’ll keep mine out of yours. If you try to force me to work for you, I’ll share the information with my colleagues. They would like nothing better than to investigate you. Verstehen Sie mich?”

“I understand.” Elie knew there was no point in lying to her. Perhaps a dose of openness would work better. “It’s all part of the plan. Religious fanatics love miracles. These Neturay Karta men saw God interfere to save their rabbi from the sniper. They revere Abraham even more now, which helps him do his job, control them, prevent a repeat of our sad history.”

“History doesn’t repeat itself.”

“But Ecclesiastes said: What happened then shall happen again, and what was done then shall be done again, for there’s nothing new under the sun. And as you have correctly guessed, what I wanted back then, I still want.”

“Elie Weiss speaks honestly?” Tanya closed the door. “I’m shocked.”

“Do you still have the ledger?”

“Let’s drive. I hate to travel by bus.”

Leaving Tel Aviv behind, they crossed open fields and passed by the airport. The road dropped into a wide valley, approaching the Judean Mountains and a thick layer of clouds. He took his time gathering enough resolve to speak openly to her.

“The wealth,” he said, “which General Klaus von Koenig deposited in Switzerland, was Jewish property. You spent four years with him, so you know how he collected all those precious stones and jewelry.”

She nodded.

“The dead Jews are gone. They’ll never reclaim it. But Israel is their moral heir. Imagine what we could accomplish with such a fortune.”

“You’re right. I’ll hand over Klaus’s ledger to the Ministry of the Treasury.”

Finally! She admitted to possessing the ledger! Elie knew he had to speak the truth, or her sudden openness would vanish for another twenty years. “In the hands of the government the money will come to nothing. They’ll waste it, pay more bureaucrats. We must use this fortune, which came from the Holocaust, to prevent another Holocaust.”

“How?”

“A formidable, global network of trained agents to monitor Arab leaders and sympathizers, weapon scientists and arms dealers, and those who finance the war against the Jews. We will eliminate our enemies before they manage to hurt us!”

“You’re right,” Tanya said. “I’ll hand it over to the prime minister on the condition that the money is earmarked for Mossad and Shin Bet.”

Elie downshifted and veered to the shoulder, where a convoy of vehicles was assembling for the last leg of the trip to Jerusalem, the steep climb up the mountains, where the slow pace of travel provided easy targets for the Arabs. He glanced at Tanya. Was she teasing him? Rage blurred his eyesight. He should draw his father’s shoykhet blade and put it to her throat. But the car came to a stop, the wind disappeared from the open window, and he smelled her delicate perfume. Truth was, he could never bring himself to hurt Tanya Galinski.

He lit a Lucky Strike and drew deeply, holding the smoke for a long moment. “Why are you toying with me?”

“A taste of your own medicine?”

The convoy began to move, and a truck ahead of them spewed a cloud of sooty fumes. Elie drove faster, changing gears to accelerate past the truck.

“You want that fortune,” she said, “as leverage for more power.”

“Power to defend our people. I will prevent another Holocaust.”

“You alone?”

He ignored her sarcastic tone. “I can do a better job than those desk people, who lack the stomach for action. We’re at war, and the world is our battlefield. I’ll get results!”

Tanya looked at him, saying nothing.

“You can work with me as an equal partner, apply your field experience to commanding an international army of agents. You’ll be the most powerful woman in Israel, maybe in the world.”

“I’m happy at Mossad.”

Elie didn’t tell her of his plan to become chief of Mossad, as well. She would find out in due time, become his subordinate, and despite her hostility, she would end up admiring him. “I’ll split the money with you.”

“I don’t need money.” She loosened her hair and retied it in a bun. “But there’s something else I need.”

Was she offering a trade? A dip in the road caused the car to sway from side to side. Elie struggled to control it.

“Abraham’s son deserves a chance for a normal life.”

Even though her words were uttered without intonation or dramatic gesticulations, Elie knew Tanya had just allowed him a peek into her innermost passion. “Why would he want a normal life? He’s a black hat, lives the good life in Neturay Karta, studies with his friends all day, not a worry in the world. He doesn’t know any better.”

“He does now.”

“So?”

“Tell Abraham to let him go.”

Elie considered this unexpected development. “It won’t be easy. He’s counting on the boy to get married, become a great Talmudic scholar, a leader in the sect.”

“Abraham will obey you.”

The incline slowed down the Deux Chevaux. Elie downshifted to maintain momentum. “What will you do with—what’s his name?”

“Jerusalem. I want him free of their insular religious extremism.”

“He was born into it.”

“And you were born in a kosher butcher shop in a shtetl on the eastern border of Germany. I don’t see you pursuing your birthright.”

“Abraham won’t like it.”

“I want the boy to leave the sect, enlist in the army like any young Israeli, and go on to study in the university. He’ll be a doctor, a scientist, a businessman. He has a good mind.”

“The IDF might decline to draft a religious fanatic.”

“You could pull some strings.”

“I could.” Elie threw the cigarette out the window.

“The day he starts boot camp, I’ll give you Klaus’s ledger.”

Elie downshifted to second gear. The engine struggled uphill, the noise an effective masquerade for the joy in his voice. “How do I know you won’t cross me?”

“I’m not like you.”

“Would you prove your good intentions by telling me the name of the bank?”

“The Hoffgeitz Bank of Zurich. Armande Hoffgeitz signed the ledger as the bank’s president. He and Klaus—”

“Attended boarding school together at Lyceum Alpin St. Nicholas.”

“You’ve done your homework.”

“Information is my business.” Since that night near the Swiss border, Elie had investigated General Klaus von Koenig’s personal history in detail. As a teenager, Klaus had been sent by his parents from Munich to the most prestigious Swiss boarding school in the Alps. Elie had traced each of his classmates, finding twenty-nine who in 1945 had served in senior banking positions. Armande Hoffgeitz was on Elie’s list of possible bankers in possession of the Nazi general’s loot.

“Do we have a deal?”

Elie offered his hand. “I’ll do my part, but what if Abraham refuses?”

“First day of boot camp. Or nothing.”

They shook hands, and when she let go of his hand, Elie gripped the steering wheel to conceal a tremor.