Spies Against Armageddon

by Dan Raviv

  The Mossad recruited agents among the foreign, mainly French, workers who were involved in the project in Baghdad. Operatives made efforts to learn all they could from scientists involved with the Iraqis. Occasionally, Caesarea operatives would terrorize them—and European companies involved—to pressure them into quitting the program.

  In 1979, when Begin realized that the intimidation campaign and diplomacy were failing and the French government would not back out from its long-term, lucrative deal with Iraq, he ordered Hofi to shift gears and step up sabotage planning.

  Begin’s conviction was that Israel had to do everything in its power to stop the Iraqi program. He approved the Mossad’s plan to bomb the reactor cores in the French harbor, an attack meant to cause substantial delay in Iraq’s plans—and, hopefully, to make the French think again.

  Caesarea operatives collected everything they could learn about the planned delivery of the cores from La Seyne sur Mer: when they would leave the factory, how they would be trucked to the port, at what time the transfers would take place, and where they would be held before the ship sailed. The point of maximum vulnerability seemed to be the warehouse near the piers, and the best time to strike appeared to be over the weekend—when very few people would be around to notice interlopers or to be injured by a blast. There also would be fewer guards than on a weekday.

  Caesarea smuggled a large quantity of explosives into France, and then Kidon teams planted five bombs all around the two reactor cores. The blasts that followed caused severe damage to the cores.

  A few hours later, another Mossad unit went into action. This was the psychological warfare department, which composed a press release on behalf of the nonexistent French Ecological Group, claiming credit for the bombing at the harbor to express its opposition to nuclear power. News agencies and TV stations duly reported the claim.

  Diverting attention from Israel did not last long. It seemed obvious to the international media that the notorious Mossad was behind the blasts. It was barely believable that unknown amateurs could penetrate the perimeter, evade the guards, use the exact amount of explosives needed to crack the cores without collateral damage, and not leave any fingerprints or other evidence. And Israel, after all its public and private complaints about Iraq, certainly had a motive.

  Successful as it was, the sabotage in the south of France did not change the reality much. France still refused to cancel the contracts and offered Iraq replacement cores. Saddam Hussein was not deterred, either, and his engineers and scientists continued building Osirak.

  Menachem Begin and his cabinet also realized, to their disappointment, that little or nothing had been accomplished. Back at Square One, Begin was as determined as ever to stop Saddam’s push for nuclear might.

  In mid-1980, he ordered the intelligence community and the Israel Defense Forces to come up with a military option: a strike that would be more likely to derail Iraq’s plans.

  Several scenarios were produced and discussed. These included using agents—or Israeli special operations soldiers—to plant bombs at the reactor site. But in the middle of Iraq? That was dismissed as too risky, especially when operatives would have to carry a large amount of explosives with them.

  Sayeret Matkal commandos had managed many deep incursions into Arab countries, but had never done something as big as this would entail—perhaps hundreds of soldiers, hundreds of miles away, near an enemy capital.

  Israeli leaders were left with only one option: an air option. That was not bad at all, as Israel’s air force was always considered the long arm of Israeli defense.

  A bureaucratic process was put into motion. First, Begin had to persuade his cabinet colleagues that sending the air force to attack Tammuz/Osirak—its longest bombing mission ever—would be doable and its ramifications limited. After long deliberations, he got the majority he needed.

  Simultaneously, instructions were passed from Begin, via the defense minister, to the IDF chief of staff and the air force: Start preparing for a secret mission, which was not revealed or fully defined to them. The pilots selected did not know where, when, and how they would be flying. As they practiced bombing runs from various angles, they did not know what the target was.

  Aman analysts had begun in 1979 to accumulate all possible information about the Iraqi reactor: how it was built, and what spot on the structure would be most vulnerable. Intelligence exchanges with counterparts in a few other countries produced a lot of data about the building and also about anti-aircraft guns, missiles, and radar around the reactor.

  The Mossad was still needed to provide updated information on developments at the Osirak complex, and the Israelis managed to recruit some of the Iraqi technicians being trained in France for reactor operations. That was a Mossad technique, which could be called a “travel-trap.” It might be hard to reach and recruit an Arab in his own country, but he is more vulnerable when he is enjoying the promiscuous environment of a Western country, something he lacks at home. He might be open to offers of entertainment, cash, and favors, or to threats of blackmail or violence.

  The air force’s own intelligence unit focused on the best route to fly, how many planes were needed, what load of munitions would be required for maximum effective destruction, how best to avoid detection by friendly or enemy radars along the way, and what resistance the pilots might meet from Iraqi air defenses. Some knowledge came from Israeli advance reconnaissance flights, some of them intentionally skirting the borders of Jordan and Saudi Arabia to get those nations’ militaries accustomed to Israeli warplanes.

  Planning to have the attack planes flying very low for most of the 90-minute journey to Baghdad, Israeli intelligence located and charted electricity and communication cables in several enemy countries—and that mission alone involved putting spies at risk, in every sense behind the lines.

  The key element to prepare for the attack by combining the vast array of quantitative and qualitative data was the use of “operational research” by the air force. This is a field of applied mathematics that originated in Great Britain before World War II. It uses mathematical methods to compute the optimal use of limited resources. Israel’s operational research team, mostly young mathematicians, calculated that the best way to cause the maximum damage to the reactor would be by dropping heavy bombs—old-style and “stupid,” in defense parlance—rather than laser-guided “smart bombs.”

  Planners in the air force examined the humiliating failure suffered by United States special forces in Iran in April 1980, when a mission to rescue diplomats held hostage ended in a collision on a desert airstrip, one airplane and seven helicopters lost, and eight American servicemen dead. The entire plan had been too complicated, as the Israelis saw it, and that strengthened their determination to make the air strike on Iraq’s reactor “a KISS operation,” as they dubbed it in English: “Keep it simple, stupid.”

  There was also the issue of what day and time would be best for hitting the Iraqi reactor in terms of weather, natural light and glare, and work patterns at the facility. Again, Israel preferred to strike when a minimal number of employees would be present.

  Still, a debate continued within Israeli intelligence and the military about the wisdom of such an attack. International reaction might be highly negative, and there was great concern that hitting Iraq would ruin the implementation of the Camp David peace accords with Egypt. Iraq might strike back at Israel. And even if the raid were successful, for how long would the Iraqi nuclear program be stopped?

  These were the same questions Israel’s security establishment—decades later—would face when similar nuclear threats were detected in other Middle East countries.

  The discussion about Osirak crossed the usual lines, as the positions held did not take the form of agency versus agency. Although the entire subject was cloaked in secrecy, the internal debate was relatively open: Mossad and Aman analysts were encouraged to express their views.

  Some of the most senior intelligence officials opposed attac
king Iraq at that time—including the Mossad director, Hofi, who preferred sabotage and diplomatic pressure. His deputy and future successor, Nahum Admoni, favored an attack. The same divisions were found in Aman, where the director—General Yehoshua Saguy—was against launching a strike, at least at that stage, while his deputies were generally in favor.

  The only voice that really mattered was Menachem Begin’s. And he was intent on demolishing Iraq’s nuclear potential.

  Preparing for the attack meant that more people were brought into the circle of knowledge, but not a word was leaked to the public.

  Dates for an attack in 1981 were chosen at least three times, only to be postponed. Time was running out. The attack would have to be done, in the Israeli view, before the reactor would go “hot” by installing uranium rods. Showing concern for radioactive fallout, Begin said, “The children of Baghdad should not suffer.”

  The cancellations were usually because of weather conditions, but once because there was a leak within political circles. The opposition leader, Shimon Peres, who considers himself one of the founding fathers of Israel’s nuclear arsenal and thus an expert on these topics, expressed his concern.

  Peres had received information about the attack plan from Uzi Even, a member of the Israel Atomic Energy Commission who had worked at Dimona. Professor Even was also a member of a special task force, created by Aman’s technical department, to assess Iraq’s nuclear progress. His study concluded that the Osirak reactor would not be able to produce fissile material, suitable for bombs, for a very long time. Uzi Even breached his secrecy pledge and, without authorization, told what he knew to Peres.

  The opposition leader went to Begin and warned him not to launch an attack, because Israel would be so strongly condemned internationally that it would be a pariah state. “We will be like a thistle standing alone in the desert,” Peres intoned.

  Begin, angry about the leak, was unstoppable. He decided to postpone the operation, but he insisted that a new date be set right away.

  Finally, eight attack planes would fly on Sunday morning, June 7. American-made F-16A fighter-bombers were to carry out the attack, escorted by F-15 fighter planes to defend the bombers, if necessary.

  They flew over Jordan, and King Hussein looked up from his yacht in the Gulf of Aqaba and noticed Israeli airplanes heading east on some mission unknown. Aman overheard a report from the king to a military control post in his capital, but it seemed that neighboring Iraq was not informed. The jets continued at a very low altitude—as low as 150 feet—over Saudi Arabia, heading into Iraqi airspace.

  The pilots had, in their gear, Iraqi money provided by the Mossad—just in case they had to bail out and somehow buy their way to freedom.

  While they were flying, around a dozen military and intelligence chiefs gathered in the situation room—known in Hebrew as ha-Bor (the “Pit”)—inside the defense ministry headquarters compound in Tel Aviv.

  One senior officer was missing. Yehoshua Saguy was not invited—by order of the IDF chief of staff, Rafael Eitan. This was a pre-emptive strike by the top general who suspected that his intelligence chief, because he opposed the operation, would leak it and force another cancellation.

  The 90-minute flight to Baghdad was smooth. The reactor dome came into sight, “shining in the sun,” said Relik Shafir, one of the eight pilots in the formation who later would be a brigadier general in the air force. “We faced no problems. I was much more emotional about the historical significance of the mission, rather than any operational difficulties. Everything went according to plan. The training was actually much more difficult than the real thing.”

  As the Israeli pilots flew away, heading almost straight up to 42,000 feet, they felt the massive gravity of seven times their weight. The Iraqis did fire at them from the ground, including at least one missile, but they missed. And one Iraqi air force MiG scrambled but never caught up with the Israelis.

  They left behind a completely destroyed burning ruin of a nuclear facility. The iconic dome of the reactor collapsed inward and was erased from the face of the Earth.

  The successful mission was meant to be kept secret, with Israel preserving deniability. There was even a deception option. For two days, the Iraqis thought the attack was the work of the Iranians—as they were near the beginning of a bitter eight-year war with them.

  Prime Minister Begin, however, decided to change the strategy. He ordered his press secretary to issue a statement taking responsibility for the attack on Osirak. Begin was proud, not ashamed, and he wanted to send a double message: not only “never again” in a Holocaust context, but also that Israel would not tolerate any effort by any country in the Middle East to have nuclear weapons.

  He did not say it in so many words, but this strategy could be interpreted as the Begin Doctrine. A lot of it was based on fear and the feeling that Jews were always in peril. The State of Israel, in his perception, was besieged and in danger of annihilation. But also hidden between the lines was a fortress mentality: an Israeli determination to maintain its nuclear monopoly in the region.

  While the attack was admired by many in the world, it was formally denounced by many governments—including Israel’s friends in the West. They were concerned about the implications. For the first time, one country holding nuclear weapons had taken violent action against another nation on the nuclear threshold.

  The Reagan Administration joined in the condemnation and even punished Israel—postponing the delivery of the next set of American-made planes, but for only two months. Privately, Ronald Reagan was delighted, as he told a top aide: “It shows that the Israelis have claws, a sense of strategy, and are able to take care of problems before they develop.”

  The same sentiment was expressed, though in secret, by some Arab and European officials. Even France seemed quite happy that its customer had been knocked out of the nuclear market. The French could not say it in public, but they admitted—years later—that the Israeli decision had been bold and correct.

  Israel did not take much time, however, to rest on its laurels. Israeli intelligence noted that Saddam Hussein drew some lessons from the Osirak attack and re-started his program, but this time diversifying it: building facilities in various locations and not putting all his nuclear eggs in one basket. Instead of a plutonium-based program at a reactor, Saddam opted for a uranium-based track using centrifuges.

  Of even more concern was the development of nuclear weapons in Pakistan. True, that nation was far away from Israel and—despite its Islamic and often radical sentiments—it never joined with Arab countries in their wars against the Jewish state. Yet, there were reasons for the Mossad to pay close attention.

  Pakistan had developed its own nuclear arsenal, based on drawings that showed how to enrich weapons-grade uranium by using centrifuges—without the need for a nuclear reactor. A Pakistani scientist who was considered the father of his country’s nuclear bomb, A. Q. Khan, stole the drawings from a European consortium in the Netherlands called Urenco.

  When Israel’s Lakam obtained similar drawings, with future Hollywood mogul Arnon Milchan facilitating, that was from another part of the same Dutch-based consortium.

  Israeli intelligence feared that the Pakistani bomb would eventually become an Islamic bomb. It was a reasonable fear. In the late 1970s, when Khan was helping his nation build its first bomb, Pakistani leaders were approached by Libya’s Colonel Qaddafi, who offered them money in return for one nuclear device. Fortunately for most of the world, the offer was rejected.

  There was a possibility that Saudi Arabia, a close religious and strategic ally of Pakistan, would also share in a widened nuclear arsenal. It was quite natural that the Mossad would try to find out as much as possible about Pakistan’s nuclear capabilities and intentions.

  In that era, when Israel did not yet have spy satellites and Pakistan was too far away for reconnaissance aircraft flights, the Mossad had to be inventive to keep an eye on Pakistan. Teaming up with India—always highly vig
ilant toward its hostile neighbor—was one route. Most Indians were not friendly toward Israel, however, as they enjoyed status as leaders of the Non-Aligned Movement that had close links with the Arab world.

  An excellent opportunity arose in 1985, when Pakistan was hoping to hire experts who could renovate and upgrade Soviet military equipment. Israeli defense contractors had a lot of experience at that, so some of them teamed up with a Belgian company to make a pitch to the Pakistanis.

  Negotiations advanced to the point that the Pakistani military invited a delegation from Israel. Several Israeli corporations that did military work sent representatives, and so did the Defense Ministry’s Lakam unit, in its capacity as the guardian of technological secrets. Lakam wanted to ensure that these companies would not sell or reveal more than they were permitted to share.

  When the Mossad heard about the group getting ready to leave for Pakistan, it decided to jump on the wagon. But it had very different intentions, not rooted in Israeli-Pakistani commerce. A senior Mossad operative joined the delegation, and all the Israelis had false foreign passports provided by the spy agency.

  Everything went smoothly, and the business meetings in the capital, Islamabad, with defense officials seemed promising. But then, one afternoon, when the delegation had a half-day off, the man from the Mossad suggested—actually, he ordered—his fellow Israelis to board their bus, and they traveled to a location outside the capital. It was Kahuta, where Pakistan assembled its nuclear weapons.

  Posing as innocent tourists, the Mossad guy and the group—somehow imagining that they were not under surveillance—went about taking photographs and soil samples. Upon returning to their hotel, they were confronted by a senior officer from Pakistani intelligence. He demanded that the rolls of film be handed over, though the Mossad man probably managed to keep one of the rolls.