The Jerusalem Inception - By Avraham Azrieli Page 0,60

black shoes drumming the floor in honor of their beloved rabbi, who had returned to lead them.

But Lemmy broke off from the circle and went outside to the forecourt. The breeze was cool on his moist face. The sun had descended below the horizon. Sabbath had arrived.

“Turning your head saved your eyes.” The doctor on call at the Sharay Tzedek Hospital smeared ointment on Elie’s left cheek, neck, and upper chest, where the tea had scalded him. “Eyes are like eggs. Hot water would boil them.” He was young and not too happy about having to work on Friday night.

Elie wasn’t listening. His mind was filled with vengeful images of Tanya suffering all kinds of torture. But those images would have to remain in his mind. Hurting Tanya in any way was outside the realm of possibility. It had been his fault anyway. His infatuation with her had loosened his tongue, and he had bragged like a schoolboy on a pubescent date, receiving his just reward in the form of second-degree burns. Now she was under guard at a safe house on the outskirts of Jerusalem, where she would remain until after tomorrow morning’s operation. The doctor put down the ointment jar and pulled off the gloves. “We’ll keep you overnight with a fluid drip. I can prescribe something to make you comfortable.”

“No.” Elie gave him a look that discouraged any argument. “Pain isn’t a problem. I’ll take this.” He pointed at the jar of ointment.

Ten minutes later, he walked out of the hospital, all the records of his treatment already in the trash. He wore a cotton undershirt, separating the rough khaki shirt from the ointment and his angry-red skin. One of the agents was waiting for him in the car.

“Drive me to the police compound at the Russian Yard,” Elie said. “They’re waiting for me.”

The Special Force combined experienced police officers and veterans of elite IDF units, men who engaged in extreme violence without raising their pulse. The group filled a conference room on the second floor of the building. Pinned to the wall was a street map of the Rehavia neighborhood, marked with green, blue, and black pushpins that represented the troops, the commanders, and the attackers respectively. The prime minister’s residence was circled in red.

Elie listened as Major Buskilah assigned men to positions, discussed the chain of command, the range from each position to the targets, the lines of fire assigned to each team, and the need to avoid civilian casualties.

When Major Buskilah was done, Elie addressed them. “This operation is based on a tip we received from an informant that two members of Neturay Karta plan to attack the prime minister in the morning. We don’t know their identity or appearance,” he lied, “and unfortunately, senior members of the media have already been invited to a press conference tomorrow on the roof of the prime minister’s residence.” He cleared his throat, and the movement shot burning pain across his scalded skin. “We suspect that the conspirators have obtained some kind of explosives. We’re still investigating how and what they have, but time is running out.”

He looked around the room, waiting for his lies to sink in. The faces he browsed showed no doubts. They were eager and attentive, open faces of men accustomed to trusting their commanding officers and adhering to a plan of action.

One of them raised his hand. “Why don’t we raid Meah Shearim tonight and search door to door?”

Elie was ready with an answer. “The political situation, especially with the abortion vote coming up, would make such a search appear to be politically motivated to harass the religious community.”

Another man said, “We can shoot them on approach, before they attack.”

“Israeli forces don’t shoot at unarmed Jews,” Elie said, “especially while a bunch of journalists are watching from the roof. A mishap like that could turn the whole Jewish world against this government. As you know, our desperate armament needs depend on the generosity of the Diaspora, especially American Jews.”

Some of the men nodded.

“You may only—and I emphasize the word only—shoot after you have clearly witnessed one or both of them using deadly weapons. Now, that’s me.” He pointed to a black pushpin at the intersection of King George and Ramban streets. “I’ll be scouting their probable approach path, dressed as an ultra-Orthodox Jew for the occasion, so make sure not to shoot me.”

Several of the soldiers laughed.

“Remember that on Sabbath morning many religious Jews go to their synagogues. Watch carefully, but do