Blind Mission: A Thrilling Espionage Novel

by Schmidt, Avichai

  “So, what do you think? Will it work?” the prime minister pressed gently, after a moment’s silence.

  The head of the Mossad slouched in his chair. He weighed his words with great seriousness before replying. “There is a chance, but a slight one, and only if we use the services of ‘Batman’. Under the present circumstances, we cannot use one of our people.”

  “Why not?”

  Porat could not help but recall the malicious, but stubborn, rumors about the premier that were flying around defense establishment circles – according to which he would not hesitate to silence his subordinates by any means, if he thought they knew too much. Was he hinting at this possibility?

  “First of all, because some of our people are marked,” he replied. “Secondly, because the man might fail, and then… Of course you don’t want to be at the center of a new Lavon affair – compared to that, the years of the freeze in relations with the US will seem like a summer’s day.”

  “And you think that using ‘Batman’ is the only way to keep things from blowing up if – God forbid – the man should fail…”

  “Yes. The one chosen to carry out the mission must be someone whose actions we can control by means of the information we have.”

  “In other words, blackmail.”

  The head of the Mossad laughed to himself at the prime minister’s self-righteous expression of disgust. “You could call it that, if you want,” he replied. “But as you know, ‘Batman’ is actually an unwilling agent, feeling around in the dark; in other words, a blind agent. We have the task of guiding his steps so that, ultimately, he acts in accordance with our plans. This type of operation is one of the most complex performed by the world’s intelligence services. The man must act in accordance with some kind of personal motivation that is appropriate to our needs – but simultaneously he must be convinced that the idea and the method of action are his own. Only this way will we be completely protected in case of failure.”

  “You’re right,” said the prime minister. “But we both know how complicated this kind of an operation is!”

  “Certainly,” replied Porat. “The problem is that we can never be sure that things go the way we want. It is extremely difficult to point a man toward a given act, and the fear always exists that something will go wrong without us being able to control what happens. After all, there are so many factors which influence events!”

  “What about operating a number of ‘batmen’ at the same time?” The prime minister wondered aloud.

  “Not only would this not increase the chances for success, but even reduce them,” returned Porat. “We must focus on one man, who is very carefully chosen, and even then – guiding events and controlling them is very complicated. We don’t need a bunch of crazies moving toward the objective, when everyone is moving in the dark.”

  “I understand,” said the prime minister quietly.

  “How much time do we have?” asked Porat, pushing back his chair. His experience told him there was no practical value in expressions such as “as soon as possible.”

  The prime minister looked at his watch as if to help him in his calculations. “For initial planning – only along general lines – I would say about 70 hours. After that, if the plan is approved –“

  “Seventy hours!” interjected Porat unbelievingly. “What are you talking about? You of all people know what an operation like his entails! Seventy hours isn’t even enough time to rough out a method of action; not to mention choosing the right agent, superficially checking out the necessary data, surveillance, organizing and processing the many technical details. For all this we need at least three – no, four months!”

  “Seventy hours are exactly how long the defense establishment had when it planned the Entebbe operation,” the prime minister countered.

  “It’s not the same thing, and the comparison is unfair!” stormed the head of the Mossad at his superior. “You know very well that the force that took part in Entebbe in 1976 was specially set up following the murders of our 11 athletes at the Munich Olympics in ’72. You undoubtedly recall that the force was trained for years in carrying out rescue operations, and when the hijacking occurred they were ready, willing, and properly equipped; just waiting for the signal to go. Don’t forget as well that we used our people in the operation, that we knew exactly who we were dealing with, and we could define precisely what obstacles we were likely to encounter. Moreover – and most important! – it was a legitimate operation. Nobody expected us to sit with our hands folded when dozens of our citizens were at the mercy of conscienceless terrorists, and no one would have come to us with complaints about the very attempt to rescue the hostages had the operation failed! By the way: where, if I may ask, do you see a similarity between rescuing a hijacked airliner and – an operation like the one under discussion?” Despite himself, the Mossad head’s voice quavered ironically.

  “In any event –“

  “In any event – what?” Porat cut him off. “What do you want, for the matter to end in failure, as happened to us in Lillehammer? You know what a disaster that was: not only were most of our team captured, but in the end we didn’t even get the right man!”

  If Porat had succeeded in shocking his interlocutor by bringing up the well remembered affair, this was not evident on the prime minister’s face.

  “I—“

  “Or perhaps you’re interested in a scandal like that of Anne and Jonathan Pollard? You of all people know what terrible political damage was caused by that mess! And the damage to security – the need to blow the cover of some of our best people because of the capture of those two amateurs, with all their good intentions! And I’m not speaking about all the money that went to waste, just the work – how much we invested for all those years on agents who were burned because of the Pollard affair.”

  “Pardon me, but there is no connection –“ the prime minister coldly tried to cut him off.

  “NO CONNEC-TION!” Porat retorted loudly, enunciating each syllable. “You don’t think that faulty recruitment procedures and amateurish control were what doomed our miserable espionage affair in the United States? And look what happened when faulty judgment enabled the enlistment of Victor Ostrovsky – you of all people know what damage was caused following the publication of that renegade bastard’s memoirs.”

  “All right,” the prime minister had come to a decision. “I’ll try to get you an extension.”

  “There’s no need,” replied Porat with undisguised contempt. “Under the present circumstances, there’s no point in outlining a plan of operations.” On his way home he would analyze the conversation and understand that he had spoken not only out of concern for his personal future. Even if he had many more years of service to look forward to, he would have had to answer as he did.

  “You mean –“

  “I mean that an extension of a few hours, or even a few days, won’t make any difference. In any case, we would be forced to improvise – with the appropriate results. I cannot accept responsibility for the consequences. This is not the way to run an operation of this kind! The lack of time will doom us. To run an operation like this under pressure of time is too dangerous; in my opinion, it would be better not to try. Failure is practically guaranteed!”

  For a long moment the prime minister was silent, as if considering Porat’s words. Then he mused, “From my experience, I’d say we shouldn’t be afraid of improvisation. Just the opposite: the best achievements of the Mossad and the Israel Defense Forces were produced under conditions of pressure and distress. The original plans were nothing but a base around which changes were made to fit the circumstances. I trust you to do your best under the present circumstances.”

  Nahum Porat did not respond. He rose from his chair and quickly strode from the room. The sound of the door slamming echoed through the house for several long seconds afterwards.

  Chapter 10

  The gray intercom at the edge of Yitzhak Eitan’s desk buzzed.

  The c
hief archivist of the Mossad lifted his head from the pile of documents he was perusing as he punched the speaker button. Nahum Porat’s familiar voice bellowed impatiently from the plastic box:

  “I need the X-list right away.”

  “Immediately,” answered Eitan, the thought registering that it had been a long time since they had needed the list.

  It took him about 15 minutes to locate the requested file in the basement vault. “Looking for something in particular?” he asked his superior when he put the file on Porat’s desk.

  “Batman,” said Porat. He opened the file at random and browsed through some of the hundreds of names of people in Israel and abroad it included. Alongside each name was a brief curriculum vitae and some personal details. All were persons who, for one reason or another, were considered likely to be of service to Israeli intelligence whenever a given operation demanded their rare talents; talents not found among the regular operatives of the Mossad. Such people were utilized only rarely – and then usually without their knowledge.

  “Special attributes?” asked Eitan matter-of-factly.

  “The usual,” answered Porat. “The impossible combination of the swindler genius. A man whose sharpness is wrapped in innocence; a well-balanced man with a wild imagination; and the main thing – a man with a conscience who won’t hesitate at the crucial moment. You know, it’s quiet simple, isn’t it?” Porat laughed bitterly.

  The archivist considered the matter silently then, as he stepped toward the door, said as if in afterthought, “Number 832; I think he might fit your requirements precisely.”

  * * *

  A summary of the personal file bearing the control number 832 included, among other things, a collection of old newspaper clippings stapled together. Above each article the date of publication and newspaper name was noted by hand. The various articles were gathered in chronological order – a cursory glance was sufficient to see that they were all from the period of the fighting in Syria.

  Nahum Porat pried out the staples and picked up the first item, dated October 15, from Le Monde. He read the headline with interest: “Le Soir military correspondent missing.”

  The second item was clipped from Ma’ariv and bore the following day’s date:

  “Body of missing foreign journalist found

  by MENAHEM BARAK

  The body of French journalist Serge Leclaire, military reporter and special Middle East affairs correspondent for the Parisian journal Le Soir, was discovered yesterday by an Israel Defense Forces unit at the foot of Mount Hermon. He had apparently been killed during the previous day’s battle.”

  However, the next clipping in the file did not jibe with the first. It appeared in the French-language Syrian paper, Al-Yom, and its date, October 16, was underlined in black:

  Captured French journalist released

  Serge Leclaire, a reporter for the French newspaper Le Soir, who was captured by our forces some two days ago, has been released.”

  Meanwhile, Le Soir itself, on October 17, declared:

  “Leclaire’s fate unclear

  What has happened to our military reporter, Serge Leclaire? Reports from Israel and Syria are contradictory…”

  A day later the Tel Aviv daily, Yediot Aharonot provided a sort of answer to the question:

  “IDF Spokesman: Body of French journalist positively identified

  by Military Reporter MOSHE TAMIR

  Catherine Dubois, sister of military reporter Serge Leclaire – who was killed last week during a Syrian bombardment – arrived in Israel last night and positively identified her brother’s body.

  But the Syrian Al Yom of the 19th persisted:

  “Journalist Leclaire handed over to Red Cross”

  The Swiss newspaper Neue Zurische Zeitung of the next day following up the Syrian report:

  “Red Cross confirms: Leclaire buried in Paris”

  Then on October 24 the American weekly, Time, published the headline:

  “French journalist’s death in Israel – reality or myth?”

  The special investigation conducted by the magazine’s reporter, Jennifer Robbins, did not add anything new to the picture. But the last sentence in the report seemed to sum up the whole puzzle: “…and the question – who was the anonymous man who presented himself to the Syrians as Serge Leclaire, was released, and then flown to Switzerland – still remains unanswered.”

  A slight smile came to Nahum Porat’s face as he studied the file. Perhaps the newspaperwoman had not succeeded in answering the question – but the Mossad had. An Israeli army reservist had come to the conclusion during the fighting on the Golan Heights that being captured by the Syrians was inevitable; so in the middle of the battle he took the documents, clothing, and identity of a foreign journalist whose body he found. The question whether the journalist was still alive when the soldier found him, or whether the soldier killed him in order to save himself, remained unanswered. But what did it matter, anyway? To the Mossad, the important thing was one ability demonstrated by the soldier: incredible initiative under pressure. Would I myself be capable of thinking up such a thing in the heat of battle? Porat asked himself. He wondered at the thought for another moment, then resumed reading.

  After managing to trick his Syrian captors and avoid enemy captivity by means of the borrowed identity of the French journalist, the Israeli soldier succeeded in returning immediately to Israel, this time using Serge Leclaire’s passport to enter the country. He did not realize it, but this continued us of the passport – apparently for lack of an alternative – is what enabled the Mossad to uncover his tracks, when it was decided to examine the matter several years later; after all, during the war they had more urgent tasks. The investigators discovered that he had rejoined his unit in battle as if nothing had happened. At the time there were more than a few companies that had been almost totally wiped out, and a soldier could present himself as a survivor of one and join a new company without arousing any suspicion among his comrades. His assumption had been utterly logical and simple: as long as he wasn’t missing, nobody had a reason to search for him; therefore there was also nothing to connect him with the dead Frenchman.

  This was not the only difficulty faced by the investigators of the affair. In order to confirm with finality that Leclaire was indeed dead – and to establish how he had died – an autopsy had to be performed; something that had not been done during the war. At the time, it was claimed he had been hit by a Syrian shell, and nobody suspected there was another possibility. But these definitive questions had to remain unanswered. Leclaire’s mutilated body had been cremated immediately after being returned to Paris.

  As he read on, Porat could not help but be amazed by the man. Even after the Mossad knew that he had returned to Israel, it had been extremely difficult to find him. The investigators found their own self-esteem on the line: one man was hoodwinking their experienced and smoothly running system; his capture became a matter of principle. Reality dictated the one and only thing they could still do in order to try to track him down: the person who performed such a deception probably spoke French well. The military computers were fed the appropriate data and promptly printed out a list that included the names of thousands of French-speaking soldiers. After these were filtered for age and education, the investigators were left with some 400 names to sift through, one by one—under the assumption that the man they were looking for had not been killed in battle in the end, or had left the world in a different manner in the course of time. In the nature of things, much more important and urgent operations came up and the Leclaire affair was sidetracked. From the beginning of the investigation till the time the research department came up with the name of only a single man took almost 10 years.

  Nahum Porat put down the file summary, pushed back his chair, and got up. He walked around the desk and over to the window. For long moments he stood there without moving. Finally he took himself from his thoughts, went over to the intercom, and punched the buzzer.

&
nbsp; * * *

  Personal file No. 832 lay on the desk of the head of the Mossad, inside a special protective envelope. The archive clerk who had brought it had carefully removed its sophisticated seal, and before leaving the room had taken Nahum Porat’s thumbprint.

  Like all personal files, this one was also composed of several parts. First, the curriculum vitae: dozens of pages describing the subject’s life history in minute detail and devoting considerable space to his previous personal, family, and social connections; with evaluations regarding their possible exploitation in the future. There were dozens more pages containing the separate professional evaluations of a military and a civilian psychologist, plus other experts, who had examined the subject through various methods; in most cases without his knowledge. Their evaluations covered the physical fitness, state of health, reactions under stress, expertise, and professional accomplishments of the subject.

  In the center of every file was another sealed envelope. This bore the red seal of the research division and contained the fruit of a meticulous harvest: innumerable documents and photographs which precisely reconstructed the subject’s history. The first document, as always, was a copy of the birth certificate. Then, in chronological order, were copies of medical records, immunization certificates, school records, military service records, licenses, permits, purchase agreements, personal and family photographs, class photos, marriage and divorce certificates, and – sometimes – a copy of a death certificate. (The file of a subject who had died was transferred immediately to the “borrowed identity” division, which mainly provided identities to secret agents for operations outside Israel. Mossad insiders often smirked at the fact that a subject could be much more productive after his death than when he was alive.)