“You’re right.” Levi Eshkol wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. “Not only I have a lingering fever, I also exemplify Isaiah’s words: Your destroyers shall come from within. How can I save our people when my own party leadership betrays me?”
Elie placed the Dayan file on the table. “Perhaps this will help.”
“Ah!” Eshkol’s face lit up. “You got the goods on the pirate?”
“As promised.” He pulled photos and notes from the file and commenced his presentation. There was the excavation at Megido, where Dayan had used soldiers, army trucks, and even a helicopter to remove hundreds of archeological objects of unimaginable value. A mosaic floor of an ancient synagogue near Nazareth, which Dayan had lifted-literally-courtesy of the IDF corps of engineers. Statements from officers and civilians attested to General Dayan’s actions, including testimony from a middleman who had delivered Dayan’s antiques to a buyer in Brussels.
When Elie finished, the prime minister clapped his hands. “Weiss, you’re a man of your word!”
“General Dayan is a compulsive risk-taker. I think his courage under fire matches his contempt for the law, especially the law governing archeological findings.”
“This stuff will sink him.” The prime minister blew his nose into a handkerchief. “You know, Abba Eban once told me that Moshe Dayan is the first Jew ever to succeed in violating all Ten Commandments!”
“Funny.” Elie put everything back into the file. He didn’t tell Eshkol about his meeting with Professor Gileadi at the Antique Authority. Let Dayan defend himself.
An assistant walked in and handed Eshkol two pages held with a clip. “Your speech, sir. We’ve made additional changes to clarify some points.”
Elie saw the penciled scribbling between the printed lines and along the margins. He knew Eshkol was due to speak directly to the nation in a live radio broadcast that night. “You should have it retyped. It would be easier to read.”
“Nonsense. If there’s one thing I do well, it’s talking!” Eshkol stood, sliding his feet into his slippers. “Leave the evidence here. I’ll give Dayan a chance to withdraw his candidacy quietly. He’ll take a reserve command in the south, keep himself busy.”
“Of course.” Elie got up, holding the file to his chest. “As soon as you announce my appointment as Mossad chief.”
“Right now? Let’s deal with the Egyptians first!”
“A deal is a deal.”
“The country is on the ropes, and you worry about a deal? Mossad isn’t running away. Once the crisis is over, we’ll see what can be done, okay?”
“I’d rather not wait.” Elie pointed to a newspaper on the table. “Meir Amit screwed up. He estimated there was no risk of war until 1970 at the earliest. I heard him say that. His mistake gives you a perfect excuse to dismiss him and appoint me.”
Prime Minister Eshkol sat back, shaking his head. “I can’t do that. Not now.”
“But you promised.”
“Yes, but I didn’t promise to keep my promise!”
“Not funny.”
“Come on, Weiss, how can you expect me to dismiss the chief of Mossad at a time like this? And appoint someone like you, with limited experience-”
“My experience, Prime Minster, has been more diversified than you can imagine.”
Eshkol gave him a wary look. “Let’s first get rid of Dayan,” he said, almost pleading. “Those sabra boys are daredevils. The good of the country demands it.”
“The good of the country,” Elie said, turning to leave, “demands that Dayan take over the defense portfolio. That seems to be the consensus.”
E ven though it wasn’t cold, the summer evening was cool enough to give Lemmy the idea of starting a fire in the brick stove that had once been the center of the house. They found a broken chair in one of the rooms and smashed it into small pieces that fit into the stove. Sanani used yesterday’s newspapers as kindling.
The fire spread quickly to the dry wood, but the smoke drifted out the front of the stove and began to fill up the room. Sanani tried to close the steel door of the stove, but the smoke kept coming around the ill-fitting door.
“The chimney’s blocked!” Lemmy ran to the rear patio to bring water in the two empty tin cans they used as drinking cups. He heard a hissing sound from the living room and found Sanani urinating into the stove. He joined him, and the fire died down. They laughed until their eyes ran with tears.
The house stunk of smoke. They went to the rear patio and sat against the wall, reading the newspapers under two candles.
Going through Ma’ariv, Lemmy saw a photo of black-garbed men leaning on their shovels and picks, smiling at the camera. The caption read: Neturay Karta Members Complete Trench from Meah Shearim to Musrara Neighborhood. He examined the tiny, familiar faces in the photo. Benjamin wasn’t there. Lemmy folded the newspaper and put it away. He had nothing in common with the men in the photo, as if the years at Neturay Karta and his friendship with Benjamin had been experienced by someone else.
Sanani showed him the report in Ha’aretz that Egyptian submarines had reached the Straits of Tiran, while heavy guns were deployed at Sharem Al-Sheikh. UN General Rikhye predicted a major Middle East war, declaring: “ I think we will be sorting it out 50 years from now. ” Meanwhile, in Jerusalem, Citizens for Eshkol, an organization that had helped Eshkol win the 1965 elections, turned against him: Give Dayan the defense portfolio before it’s too late!
That night, Lemmy and Sanani decided that, in the morning, they would demand a brief furlough from their confinement. They crawled into their sleeping bags determined to see the outside world tomorrow, or to hear a good explanation as to why they were wasting time on learning to speak English with funny accents while their friends were preparing to fight the real enemies of Israel.
A fter the initial rage had subsided and murderous images receded from his mind, Elie decided that Prime Minister Eshkol’s broken promise was a good omen. Assuming the top Mossad position would be better after acquiring Klaus von Koenig’s vast fortune. And without the account number and password, he would have to plant a mole inside the Hoffgeitz Bank, which hired only graduates of Lyceum Alpin St. Nicholas-a long-term operation that would require careful planning and execution.
He arrived at the IDF Jerusalem command to find everyone huddled around the radio in anticipation of Eshkol’s speech. By that night, May 28, every Israeli citizen was on edge, desperate for reassurance that the Arab posturing did not pose existential danger to the Jewish state. The prime minister had to convince the people that his diplomatic overtures would avert war.
At first, Levi Eshkol sounded confident. He greeted the nation and read verbatim the text of the government’s decision to send Abba Eban to America yet again. But when he turned to speak about the IDF’s readiness to defend the country, Eshkol stuttered and became incoherent. The broadcast continued while the prime minister whispered to an assistant, mumbled in confusion, and attempted to read on, his voice breaking into incessant coughing.
The crowded room uttered a collective groan. Brigadier General Tappuzi turned off the radio.
Elie saw some of the men wiping their eyes. A young officer said, “Eshkol is leading us to another Holocaust.” Some nodded in agreement.
As the men ambled out of the office, Elie stayed behind.
“Can you believe it?” Tappuzi’s voice shook. “If our leader is afraid, what are we supposed to do?”
“He’s not afraid. He’s got a bad cold, bad eyes, and a bad copy of a poorly typed speech that even Ben Gurion would have a hard time reading.”
“Ben Gurion spoke without notes, from the heart.”
“Nostalgia is a waste of time,” Elie said. “Have you seen the Mossad report on the UN radar?”
“Worse than we expected.” The gray-haired officer dropped into his chair. “It’s an American-made system, built under contract for the UN.” He pulled the papers from a pile on his desk. “Semi Automatic Ground Environment radar, model
AN/SPS-35, shipped directly from Alabama to Amman on a UN cargo plane. It operates at 420 to 450 megahertz, capable of tracking planes up to two hundred miles away, which means they see all of Israel and well into the Sinai and the Mediterranean.”
“That far?” Elie lit a cigarette.
“The antenna reflector is over eighty feet wide!”
“If that’s true, defending Jerusalem is the least of it.” He drew deeply, and the smoke petered out as he spoke. “The UN boys won’t miss more than two hundred planes taking off from every airfield in Israel and heading for Egypt. They’ll report to the Arabs within minutes, every Egyptian plane will take off, and our first strike will turn into a one-way trip.”
“You don’t say.” Tappuzi tossed the Mossad report back on his desk. “If your plan fails, this radar will cost us the war, possibly our very survival!”
“It’s a good plan.” Elie stubbed his cigarette in an ashtray that resembled a step-triggered landmine. “But it’s going to rest on very young shoulders.”
Chapter 41
Lemmy woke up at sunrise and sat on the patio to read a travel book about Munich. He had been ordered to memorize a second cover story as a backup in case his first cover, as a UN observer, was blown. His name was Wilhelm Horch, born and raised near Munich. He had been recruited into the youth training program at the BND, the West German secret service, which had sent him on a practice drill to infiltrate the UN Mideast Command and obtain details of the American-made radar system, which was far more advanced than anything Germany was making.
When the two civilians showed up later that morning, Lemmy and Sanani were ready with a speech demanding a day off. Yosh carried a cardboard box with pastries, still warm from the oven. Dor brought a thermos of coffee and the morning newspapers. “Let’s eat,” he said, “then go for a drive.”
Lemmy looked at Sanani, who shrugged and reached into the box of pastries.
Outside they found a dark-green Jeep Wagoneer, an expensive vehicle that few Israelis could afford. Dor tossed the keys to Sanani, who cheered and broke into a little dance.
New-car smell welcomed them like perfume. The dashboard, doors, and seats were smooth and shining. Sanani had a wide grin on his face as he turned the key. He floored the gas pedal, causing the engine to roar. “Mama, I’m in love!”
“Drive,” Yosh said from the back seat, “if you know how.”
“This beauty?” Sanani engaged first gear. “It’ll drive itself!” He threw the clutch, and the tires screeched. They sped down a narrow street of deserted Arab homes, the Jeep rattling over potholes, and stopped at the corner.
Nablus Road stretched in both directions. A short distance to the left was the border crossing at the Mandelbaum Gate, which sported Israeli, Jordanian, and UN flags.
“Turn right,” Yosh said. “And take it easy.”
The road passed through the Musrara neighborhood, occupied mostly by Sephardic Jews and recent immigrants from Arab countries. Farther to the right was Meah Shearim. When the Jeep crossed Shivtay Israel Street, Lemmy caught a glimpse of his former neighborhood.
A few minutes later, Sanani veered to the shoulder and stopped.
“Look over there.” Dor pointed at the Old City. “From the Mandelbaum Gate, down Salah Al-Din Road, you end up at Herod’s Gate. Do you see it?”
Sanani pounded the steering wheel. “If only we could go there!”
“You will,” Dor said. “Very soon.”
Lemmy thought the civilian was joking, but his tone was serious.
“At Herod’s Gate, you’ll turn left, down Jericho Road,” Dor said. “We can’t see it from here, but Jericho Road goes around the eastern wall of the Old City, just under the Mount of Olives, past the Lions Gate, and ends in an intersection-left to Jericho and the Dead Sea, right to Government House. That will be your destination.”
“Dressed as UN observers,” Lemmy said.
“Correct.”
“But how do we cross the border?”
“All in good time.” Dor tapped Sanani’s shoulder. “Drive.”
They continued south, the border on their left, and beyond it the views of the Jaffa Gate, the Zion Gate, and the Abu Tor neighborhood. On the high ridge ahead, the massive stone building of Government House flew the UN flag. The radar reflector rotated atop a concrete structure on a low hill in the rear of the compound.
“There,” Dor said, “you’ll be coming from the other side, up from the intersection with Jericho road, to the gate of Government House.”
“Easy,” Sanani said. “We’ll roll down the window and yell Open sesame! ”
“Seriously,” Lemmy said, “what do we say to the UN sentries? Boker tov? ”
“Good morning,” Sanani announced in the singsong Indian accent he’d been practicing, “we brought you samossas, beef biryani, chicken masala, and basmati rice. Do you want some chutney with that?”
E lie drove to Tel Aviv that afternoon. He went down into the Pit. The IDF underground complex was a beehive. In the operations center, a meeting of the general staff was just getting underway, the concrete ceiling almost invisible through the cloud of cigarette smoke.
Chief of Staff Yitzhak Rabin said, “When U Thant pulled all UN observers from Sinai, I thought of a fire brigade that runs away at the first sign of fire.” He waited for the laughter to die. “As some of you already know, on the same day, May seventeen, two MiGs flew over our reactor in Dimona, probably taking photos.”
There was something different about the chief of staff, and Elie suddenly realized that the characteristic slow delivery was gone, replaced with a confident, eloquent presentation that kept the officers’ attention. Perhaps it was the experience of witnessing the disastrous impact of Eshkol’s stuttering broadcast, or the prepared notes Rabin was holding, which appeared to be cleanly typed.
“Nasser has about one hundred thousand soldiers in Sinai,” Rabin continued, “eight hundred tanks, and over a thousand artillery guns, with more pouring in. He placed a de facto blockade on the Straits of Tiran while pursuing a joint command with Jordan and Syria, reinforced by Iraq and Saudi Arabia, as well as smaller units from other countries. Meanwhile our government continues to seek international support.” He glanced at his notes. “The Americans won’t interfere. De Gaulle again told Abba Eban, Ne faites pas la guerre! As if we started this crisis. British Prime Minister Harold Wilson declined to make a statement in our favor. And Soviet Ambassador Chuvakhin, who has accused us of amassing aggressive forces along the borders, declined a helicopter tour to see for himself, saying that his job is to repeat Soviet truths, not to check their veracity.”
Everyone laughed, and General Ariel Sharon said, “Maybe Chuvakhin should become our defense minister.”
“Arik!” Rabin shook a finger at him. “What you say here appears on the front page of Ma’ariv tomorrow.”
When the room quieted down, Rabin continued. “Our enemies are optimistic. PLO Chief Shuqayri said yesterday that he expects Israel’s complete destruction, and Hafez al-Assad predicted the eradication of Zionist presence in the Arab homeland. We have reports of Iraqi units moving into Syria, Saudis into Jordan. All over the Middle East, the Arab street is in fever. Meanwhile, our reservists are sitting idle in their tents, and their families are anxious. The politicians are still trying diplomacy, but we must prepare to attack as soon as we get government approval.”
“Or without it,” General Sharon said, earning another finger-shaking from Rabin.
Moshe Dayan stood up. He wore a dusty uniform, and even his trademark eye patch was more gray than black. “I toured the southern front and watched the Egyptians take over the UN monitoring posts. They’re mobilizing for an invasion. War is inevitable. If the Arabs attack first, Israel will be destroyed.”
No one argued with Dayan.
“I think Abba Eban is coming around,” Yitzhak Rabin said. “He told the ministers yesterday: A nation that could not protect its basic maritime interests would presumably find reason for
not repelling other assaults on its rights. As the song goes,” Rabin smiled, “Nasser sits and waits for Rabin, and Rabin waits for Eshkol, and Eshkol waits for his cabinet, and the cabinet waits for Eban, and Eban waits for President Johnson!”
The room exploded in laughter, and Rabin beckoned Chief of Operations Ezer Weitzman to take over.
The famed fighter pilot swiveled the pointer with a swagger. “Code name, Mokked,” he announced. “The plan is aimed at capturing air superiority by destroying all Egyptian runways and strafing all their grounded planes.” Weitzman held up a diagram. “Our scientists have designed bombs with delay fuses, set to explode only after penetrating deep into the runways. The damage will take weeks to repair. We have detailed plans of every military airfield in Egypt, Jordan, and Syria, including exact locations, lengths of runways, construction materials, and types of planes kept at each airfield.” He pointed at Chief of Mossad Meir Amit. “I don’t know how your guys got it all, but thank you.”
Elie saw the Mossad chief nod in acknowledgment.
Weitzman went into some details about schedules, risks, and the necessity of acting before the enemy realized what was happening. “This is a first-strike plan,” he concluded. “If the Egyptians attack us first, they’ll destroy Dimona and all our airfields. What I need is a green light for a preemptive strike.”
“Call Eshkol,” someone said.
“What about detection?” General Arik Sharon shoved a piece of cake into his mouth, but continued speaking with a mouthful. “Our planes will be in the air for at least a half-hour, right? Won’t the Egyptians notice us? And scramble their jets to meet us?”
“They’re practically blind,” Weitzman said. “The Soviets gave them the best weaponry, but the most primitive radars.”
“Ever since Prague,” the Mossad chief, General Amit explained, “the Soviets are careful not to provide their client-states with defensive measures that could hamper a Soviet attack, should the friendship turn sour.”
“But still,” Arik Sharon said, “the Egyptian forces along the Sinai border could notice our planes and alert the airfields inland. How will you avoid that?”
The Jerusalem inception Page 30