The Jerusalem Assassin

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The flight from Damascus touched down at Charles De Gaulle Airport at lunch time-an opportune time for long lines and lax immigration scrutiny. The Hawaiian shirt stuck to Al-Mazir’s sweaty back, but he counted on the flowery design to convey the vacationer’s image he aimed to fake. He walked down the drab hallways and joined the queue of mustachioed men in striped suits, elders in checkered kafiyas, and veiled matrons clutching droopy children. Progress was slow, paced by the thumping of stamps on passports. He breathed deeply, calming himself. He had no reason to worry. The French consul general in Damascus had personally handed him this passport, which belonged to a recently deceased Frenchman but carried Al-Mazir’s own photo.

The butterflies in his stomach fluttered urgently as he stepped up to the counter and placed the passport before a uniformed woman. His French was barely conversational, and if she made any inquiries…

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