Fuckin' French Assassin

What was to be a normal childhood never came to pass. The chaos surrounding my literary father transformed my simple beginnings into an imaginary world of suspense, intrigue and danger.

At the age of fourteen, I couldn’t tell my classmates that my father ranked near the top of several nation’s hit lists, or that he was obsessed with an assassin hired by the French government to knock him off. What I did understand, was that I had to grow up expediently. Overnight I transformed from a scared child into an armed protector, vowing to save my family from the dangers that waited in the shadows to strike. I harbored deep pride in my father’s accomplishments, speaking out for those who had no voice, standing up to unforgiving nations, willing to sacrifice his life and freedom to wage a personal war against the Cold War giants and irrational ideologies that ruled the masses.

In this excerpt, my parents were in the midst of a turbulent divorce. Dad lived in Colorado, my brother Mark and I lived in Santa Monica. That evening we were invited to visit our father at his hotel suite on the Sunset Strip where he had just interviewed Clint Eastwood for a leading role in a movie adaptation of his novel Mila 18.

The following is excerpted from The Uris Trinity, now available on Amazon.  

My father’s novel Topaz was published that year. Topaz is a fictionalized account of how French Intelligence turned a blind eye and allowed Soviet nuclear missiles to be sent to Cuba during the Cuban Missile Crisis in 1962, six days that culminated in a nuclear showdown between President Kennedy and Soviet Premier Khrushchev.

In almost a panic, Dad exclaimed, “He’s an assassin hired by—I don’t know who—probably French Intelligence—or should I say those fucking French—are just a little agitated that I exposed their pact with the Soviets in Topaz. Those bastards are sending this coward to murder me!”…

… Earlier that same year, during the Six Day War (June 1967), the Israeli army captured East Jerusalem from Jordanian control. When the Israeli troops stormed one of the highest-ranking Arab strongholds within the ancient city, they discovered the ‘Arab Nation’s least popular people in the world list.’ It listed top benefactors, statesmen, and general contributors to the State of Israel. Topping the list were the two Rothschild brothers, but third on the list was Leon Uris. Not only had Lee written Exodus and Mila 18, he had also given numerous speeches at fundraisers to benefit the growth of Israel and bring acceptance and support for the Jewish struggle in the Middle East and throughout the world.

The Israeli Government informed Dad about his appearance on the list. Dad found it necessary to inform my brother and me that he might not have long to live. Lee had no idea of the exact meaning of his placement on the list, but he was not going to take any chances when it came to the overall safety of his family. Lee wasn’t trying to frighten or panic us. He just wanted us to be more conscious of our surroundings and the people we dealt with.

Though my brother remained silently cautious, I started to collect firearms and various instruments of war. I carried concealed weapons most wherever I went. Back in those days anyone could buy a firearm or gunpowder at any drug or hardware store. A junior high school buddy of mine taught me how to make bombs. I never used guns to hunt; I only kept weapons for self-defense, just in case a small invading army came to our house. Death threats on my father’s life came in the mail on a regular basis. He wrote about the vilest acts of humanity and was not afraid to point his finger at the responsible parties, and they were not afraid to point right back. While other kids at school stressed over a pimple or whom to invite to their birthday parties, I calmly wondered if the Syrians were going to torture me, then kill me, or just surprise me with a high velocity sniper bullet.

My mother became concerned when she discovered a new weapon hidden in my room every couple of days. She sent me to a psychiatrist who I saw on a weekly basis. Looking back, I do not regret my actions, and in spite of her concern I continued to arm myself whenever I ventured out into the vast wasteland of the real world.

Sometimes, my brother and I could barely figure out if our father was telling us the truth, or just using us as sounding boards for his imagination. A great deal of our lives with Dad was borderline theater of the absurd.

 “I wish it was a joke!” Dad feverishly pointed to the reverse side of the photo. The back of the photo listed the man’s name, height, weight, other unique physical characteristics, and last known address. The list included the phone numbers for the FBI (and Interpol) field offices in Los Angeles, Denver, and Grand Junction. As I pretended to study the information, Dad stole the Playboy from my brother and became mesmerized by some blossoming hussy…

… Lee sat down in a chair facing the couch, leaned back and closed his eyes. My brother aggressively thumbed through the Playboy, and I polished off the last grape. A couple of minutes later, Dad took the Playboy from my brother and gently tossed it just out of reach.

“Boys, if anything should ever happen to me, if I die for any reason, I want you to immediately order an autopsy and then kill that fucking French assassin.” Dad pointed at the photograph.

“You die. Get an autopsy. Then kill the fucking guy. Okay. Got it,” I said. “Now can we go to that deli down the street?”

“And don’t forget to call the FBI!” Dad pointed at me in all sincerity.

“When do we call the FBI?”

“As soon as you suspect anything!”

I looked out the window. “Is the FBI watching us right now?”

“Who knows?” Dad answered, “Maybe they’re tracking the whereabouts of the assassin.”

“Doesn’t sound like they are doing anything other than scaring us. Maybe we should go after this guy ourselves,” I said.

Dad smiled.

Mark Jay chuckled. “Any more brilliant ideas?”

“We can use Dad as a decoy to flush out the guy.” I thought for a moment. “We’ll hire a group of actors… and then have a makeup specialist disguise all of them to look like Dad… and then the fucking assassin will get confused and…”

“Can we go to dinner?” Mark Jay asked.

“I think we should call the FBI right now,” I said.

Frustrated, Dad’s eyes turned red. “Are you still seeing that psychiatrist?”

“Are you angry with me?”

“Son, sometimes I don’t know if you’re serious or just joking. Either case, this is really no laughing matter, nor is it a reason to do something foolish.” Dad took a couple of deep breaths and scratched his forehead. Then he looked at me and said, “Your mother is pretty upset, and worried about you.”

“Don’t worry about Mike. He’s not the type to hunt down an assassin,” my brother said.

“If something happened to Dad what would you do?” I asked my brother.

“I’ll worry about it when the time comes,” Mark Jay said.

“When the time comes it will be too late.” I stared at my brother.

Dad faced Mark Jay. “Your little brother isn’t the type to wait for the phone to ring. And when he says he thinks it’s a good idea to go after the French assassin, don’t think for a moment he’s not serious. Just look at him. Something’s going on in that head.”

“He looks stupid,” Mark Jay said.

“Don’t call your little brother stupid.”

“I said he looks stupid, not that he is stupid,” my brother corrected.

“I’m hungry.” I said. “Either we go to dinner or we call the FBI.”

“And tell them what?” Dad was barking now. He was getting aggravated with me.

“Do I have to do your thinking for you?” I said.

Mark Jay laughed. Dad gave me one of those ‘this had better be good’ looks.

“See if they even care,” I said. “Speak to the guy in charge of the investigation. Dad, do you even know his fucking name? I don’t care, ask them what the hell is going on and demand a daily update. Let them know you are watching their moves as well. Open up a fucking line of communication… you know Dad… like the one you demand that Mark and I have with you… tell those gum shoe dicks at the bureau anything you want… tell them that you’re going to a Jewish deli for dinner and you’re worried about being mobbed by Holocaust survivors.”

“Mike, promise me you won’t do anything foolish.”

Mark laughed.

I looked at my father with sincerity in my eyes. “I’m not trying to be foolish.” I walked over and gave my dad a hug. “You mean a lot to me and I don’t want you getting hurt, or dead. My psychiatrist said if you have a good reason, it is smart to be somewhat paranoid. If having a fucking French assassin trying to kill my dad is not a good enough reason to be seriously paranoid, then what is?”

Lee just stared at me. I had no idea what was going through his head.

I pointed directly at Lee, just like he had always pointed at us boys. “You taught us not to take chances, and when we turn our backs, you take those chances anyway. To protect the ones you love, there is no question about sacrificing your life. Now it’s my turn to show you how it’s done. So, don’t even try to stop me. I am going to do it anyway. You can’t stop an assassin with words. I’m going to get him before he has you in his crosshairs.”

Dad smiled and nodded in respect. “I think it’s time to get some dinner.”

Canters on Fairfax is one of those tacky old world Jewish delis, with the art deco low-backed booths made out of laminated plastic, and a brightly lit warm and friendly fifties style atmosphere. Every Jew within fifty miles is magnetically drawn to Canter’s schmaltzy charm.

The three of us chose a booth somewhere near the middle of the room in hopes of being able to grab the attention of one of Canter’s lovely and sweet, yet nearly blind and hard of hearing, geriatric waitresses.

After our waitress brought our dinner the three of us couldn’t have been happier. While eating matzo ball soup and Swiss cheese on rye sandwiches with our father by our side, we tried our best to relax. Although we didn’t talk about assassination attempts or French Intelligence during dinner, my brother and I were faced with sudden responsibility. We would have to grow a foot taller before the morning. And there would never be any chance of reverting back to the age of innocence. From now on we would have to be watchful of our surroundings, and be constantly aware of the dangers that waited for us.

Dad had given us our wake-up call. We were supposed to grow up and pay attention. Arising from the ashes of a broken family, the three male members of the Uris family would have to remain united and form a lifelong bond. That bond had little to do with foiling international assassination plots; it meant we would always be there for each other.

I remember a recording of Segovia playing in the background. The classical guitarist played a beautiful arrangement from his heart. Although surrealistic in nature, considering the imminent danger involved, these were perfect moments in time.

Near the end of the meal I said, “The reason why I started collecting weapons is because I want to be prepared. I didn’t tell Mom what they were for. Dad, does she know about all of this, the French and the Arab Nations?”

“I’ve been meaning to tell her...”

My brother cut Lee off. “It’s okay, Dad. She doesn’t need to know about the French and the Arabs. She already knows people are angry with you. No reason to piss her off more than she already is.”

“Your mother has enough to worry about, with the divorce and starting a new life.”

“That’s why I didn’t tell her the truth. I let her think I’m just a suicidal nutcase.” I took a final bite of my sandwich.

“You are a fucking nutcase,” my brother said.

I gave him a stern expression and then flipped him the bird.

Mark Jay made silly faces at me and scratched under his arms like a monkey.

“All of us are nutcases.” Dad turned to Mark. “Did you think for just one minute that maybe your brother is trying to look out for your safety, and your mother’s? Maybe it’s time we all start appreciating each other, before it’s too late.”

“I’m not trying to be funny,” Mark replied. “Dad, you told us there were several Arab nations that wish you were dead. Well, that sucks. I’ll go all Chuck Norris on them if you want me to. Now you tell us a French assassin is targeting you. I’m not happy about it. I want to know who is in charge of your case at the bureau. I want updates and answers. And that French fry had better take a good long look in the mirror—and say au revoir. If my brother goes after that Frenchman, he’s not going to be alone. I’m going to be right there by his side.”
 

Find The Uris Trinity; The Father, The Son & The Trophy Wife on Amazon.com