Marie-Antoinette's Watch: Adultery, Larceny & Perpetual Motion

Chapter 8

Jerusalem

Near midnight on April 15, 1983, a small car rolled unnoticed through down HaPalmach Street in Katamon, a leafy suburb west of the Jerusalem's Old City. Katamon, spread over a cluster of hills, had long been home to Israel's elite. They favored the area's expansive gardens and twisting tree-lined streets, and it was far from the tumult of the city. It was Friday night and the streets were empty as families prepared for the sabbath.

By day, residents were accustomed to seeing caravans of long, dark state cars threading their way to the Presidential Palace, located in the heart of the district. But few ventured into these parts at night and foot traffic was scarce. While the days were often broken by the loud clarion calls of the presidential guard welcoming visiting potentates with trumpets, the evenings were quiet and undisturbed.

The car, a tiny French Simca 1000,62 continued north along HaPalmach Street. It slowed as it neared the back of a pale, three-story building, which housed the L.A. Mayer Museum of Islamic Art. Constructed from coarse, beige Jerusalem stone, the museum resembled a strikingly well-preserved Egyptian temple. A broad set of stairs rose to the entrance, and two wings of galleries extended behind it, forming a courtyard in the rear that was invisible from the street.

For almost a decade the museum had mostly played host to Jerusalem's school children and the odd Islamic scholar. It was too far from the tourist center for most sightseers, and only odd buffs and collectors who knew its secrets made the trip past the old walls of the city to this posh district. About fifteen-thousand visitors trod its halls that year, many of them Muslims who were amazed by the richness of the Islamic collection. One visitor, a "West Bank sheikh," found the exhibits to be exhilarating, noting in a newspaper article in 1974 that "The world thinks of us Muslims as being men of the desert, with no culture of our own. Seeing what I have today, I now know better."63

The museum, however, was hardly a likely target for a thief - the Korans, textiles, and Ottoman edicts or firmans, while historically priceless, wouldn't interest the traditional burglar as it would be possible to resell them to only the most reckless of collectors. They would be identified immediately and the thief would be caught. But here he was, idling briefly, assessing the scene before popping the car back into gear.

The driver steered the car right onto a service road flanking the near side of the museum, then right into a small parking lot behind it. The car slid into a parking space and the engine cut out with a cough. The driver switched off the lights, and a moment later he stepped out onto the pavement. He was whippet-thin and sandy-haired and he moved with purpose. He blinked rapidly, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness.

He had chosen this time and place carefully. The east side of the building abutted a tree-shrouded retirement center, and to the north was an empty lot. The museum had closed early that day and the surrounding streets were empty. After assuring himself that no one was watching, the man moved confidently toward the building and disappeared into a narrow passage, which led from the parking lot into the inner courtyard.

A heavy steel gate blocked his passage, but the man was prepared. He approached the gate and ran his fingers over the bars, their institutional green paint gleaming dully in the lamplight.

Over the previous few months he had filled his home with equipment and wrote out detailed plans in a set of spiral-bound notebooks. To stay slim and alert he drank fruit juices and ate a little vegetarian food most evenings. He trained himself to work quickly and quietly and with little sleep. He kept strong and lithe, exercising on a handmade gym cobbled out of pipes and makeshift weights.

Now he was ready.

He carried with him a collection of odd tools he used for these sorts of jobs and, after listening carefully for a moment, he brought out a metal apparatus he had used many times before to ease his way into tight spots: a hydraulic jack. He inserted the jack between two of the bars and pumped the handle. Slowly, the bars spread apart, the jack releasing a muted hiss, which was quickly swallowed by the evening breeze. The man turned sideways to the gate and squeezed through the opening.