by J Randall
The new Director of the Mossad vowed that it would never happen again—at least not on his watch. When he initiated a review of the Institute’s policies, as well as those of Military Intelligence and the General Security Service, bits and pieces of a story came to light surrounding a nerve agent that had been secretly hidden before it was ordered destroyed.
Speculation over the military’s complicity, particularly that of the Army, surfaced slowly, but no evidence could be substantiated.
Upon hearing rumors pointing to a cache of nerve agent’s having been hidden before it could be destroyed, the Director ordered all branches of the intelligence community to report anything that might help verify whether all of the agent had been destroyed or not.
* * *
Zvi Admoni had worked in the Technology Department—one of eight departments in the Mossad—since his discharge from the military two years earlier. His training in computer programming prior to his mandatory service in the military made him a prime candidate for the Institute and his exceptional service record with the T’Zanhanim Infantry Brigade cinched it.
One day, Zvi’s supervisor tapped him on the shoulder while he was concentrating on a new program that would covertly track visited web sites by placing an undetectable cookie on the unsuspecting individual’s computer.
“Zvi, I need you to go through the reading file and initial it.”
Annoyed at being interrupted, but seeing that it was his supervisor, Zvi stopped what he was doing. “Sir?”
“It’s policy that everyone reviews the reading file and acknowledges it with their initials.”
“Yes, sir.” Zvi took the folder.
“What do you want me to do with it after I’ve read it?”
“Give it to the next man on the routing slip.”
As he read through the file, he realized that it was the one Abraham had mentioned during their lunch the previous week.
The first three items were travel warnings dated since his recruitment. Unless on a mission, employees of the Institute were forbidden from visiting specific countries where members of the various Islamic militant groups had been seen or were suspected to be operating.
The remaining memos preceded his arrival and some were faded and yellow, though none of them was dated before his birth.
He quickly skimmed the documents and was going to close the folder and initial it, when something caught his eye.
It was a memo from the Director asking for information pertaining to the loss of classified items from a government facility in Nes Ziona. The two-page memo didn’t identify the missing items, but the date of the incident hit him between the eyes like a closed fist. It jarred loose memories of a military action he had participated in three years earlier and where he had found two strange silver canisters.
Reading the memo a second time, Zvi remembered being briefed at the time of the search that the military were tracking someone who had stolen their equipment. The name Nes Ziona had sounded familiar when he heard two officers mention it later.
He couldn’t tell whether the two cylinders had anything to do with the loss of the classified items, but he would bring them in when he returned to work the next day.
* * *
The interrogation lasted three hours before the specialists were satisfied that Zvi Admoni was telling the truth and that everything he knew about the canisters had been coached from his memory.
He was dismissed with the warning, “The incident never occurred and you know nothing, if you expect to continue in the service of the Institute.”
He was thanked quietly by the department head for coming forward and given the rest of the afternoon and two days off.
* * *
An hour later the Director of the Mossad sat at the head of a conference table being briefed by the Chief of the Technology Department on the appearance of the two canisters.
The Director was a smallish man with thinning black hair, a pair of frameless glasses usually bestraddling his bent nose. Ironically, he would have looked more at home behind a library desk.
Also present at the briefing were the Chief of the Collections Department, responsible for espionage operations, and the Chief of the Special Operations Division, responsible for prosecuting highly sensitive assassinations, sabotage and paramilitary operations.
“I knew that General Yadin was lying,” gloated the Director, his adam’s apple bobbing up and down like a fishing float.
He removed his tan linen coat and flung it over the back of a chair. “We should have the Prime Minister recall him to active duty and court martial him.”
Next, the Director rolled up his sleeves and would probably have removed his tie if he had been wearing one.
“Highly unlikely, sir,” offered the Chief of Special Operations. “He’s one of Israel’s most decorated soldiers.”
The Chief of Special Operations was the lone man in the room wearing khaki, though the many decorations and awards he had earned while on active duty were absent from his heavily starched shirt. He wore his graying hair in the short-cropped military style, which made his gaunt, pale face look as if he had just stumbled out of a concentration camp.
“That may be, but the son of a bitch lied about the nerve agent. I reread the file on the incident at Nez Ziona and his statement about it. He said there were only four containers of agent, the same four that were destroyed.”
“Their destruction was witnessed by one of our people,” said the Chief of the Technology Department.
“I have no doubt it was, but if everything was destroyed, how did the two canisters survive? Are we sure the other canisters aren’t buried in the sand where the young soldier found his two souvenirs?”
“The two that Admoni found must have been a fluke. The crash site was scrutinized for three days after the incident and nothing was found.” The Chief of Special Operations adjusted the volume of the hearing aid hanging over his right ear.
The Director looked sharply at the Chief of Special Operations. “And how can we be sure that there aren’t more canisters hidden away in other soldiers’ boxes of memorabilia?”
“When they arrived at their base camp their gear was searched. Admoni was taken to the aid station with a broken ankle and apparently fell through the crack.”
The Director continued his probing. “The military said the helicopter that went down was merely supporting the other four. I believe it too was carrying agent…How many canisters were in each container?”
“Fifty.”
“Then, gentlemen, someone out there possesses a minimum of forty-eight canisters—and possibly more, if more than one container was on the helicopter.”
“Sir, if you’re correct, the problem could be bigger than we suspect.”
“How could it get any worse?”
The Chief of Special Operations checked his notes. “Two Hezbollah were killed after the aircraft guarding the helicopters went down—the first one twelve kilometers from the crash site and the second one at the crash site…after he killed the pilots and destroyed both helicopters that were sent to secure the area. It was assumed that the third Hezbollah was able to get away when the search teams were recalled.”
“You’re sure there were three?”
“Three sets of boot prints were found in the zone and they didn’t match the prints of our soldiers’ boots. Two sets were identical to the boots worn by the dead guerilla.”
“Why didn’t a search team track the third pair?”
“Unfortunately, by the time the commander on the ground realized there was a third man, a sandstorm made it impossible.”
The Director rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I suspect that if the Hezbollah had the agent and knew its capabilities, we would’ve heard from them at some point over the last three years. Your thoughts?”
The Chief of Collections loosened his tie and glanced at the other men. “The Hezbollah collect as many weapons from their victims as they can physically carry, unless there’s something more
valuable that they can sell on the black market. Every weapon was accounted for at the crash site, so I guess we can safely assume that they took something they felt had more value. And since we haven’t heard from them, we have to conclude that they sold it.”
The Director looked at the men sitting around the table before speaking. “This could explain the incidents our military have experienced in the Golan Heights, as well as the losses of men and equipment being explored in the UN.
“Gentlemen, whoever has the agent isn’t targeting Israel alone. What are our options?”
“I can think of a promising avenue,” said the Chief of Collections, who knew the others had similar thoughts but didn’t want to broach the subject. If something went wrong the finger would point at him.
“What do you propose?”
“What if we invite the Americans and the British into the hunt? They have resources and contacts in dominions denied to us. If they felt the threat could end up on their shores, they’d be proactive.”
“I’ll have to talk to the Prime Minister. If he gives the okay, how do you suggest we proceed?”
The Chief of Collections tilted his bald pate back and faced the ceiling as if looking for guidance from God. “We don’t want to create a diplomatic flap. I suggest we keep it at the lowest possible level. We brief someone at the UN Investigative Agency, say, where it will make its way to the Americans…And also brief an agent from MI6. That way we can deny any knowledge if something goes wrong.”
The Chief of Technology tugged on his right earlobe—a nervous habit—and asked, “And how do we convince them the threat is real?”
The Chief of Collections offered, “As a last resort, we give each of them one of the two canisters. Once they have it tested the hook will be set.”
The Director placed both palms flat on the table and rose. “Set up the operation. I’ll brief the Prime Minister. If I get approval, I’ll give you the green light.”
The next day—the day Bill flew from Frankfurt to Amman—the Israelis implemented Operation Hunter.
CHAPTER 12: RUMORS
WITH A SERIOUS IF NOT TROUBLED LOOK on her face, Gloria Caruthers marched into Edward Rogers’s office at two in the afternoon. There was no smile for Ed as she plopped down in one of the overstuffed beige leather chairs in front of his desk.
She gave him a worried glance and spoke with a quiver in her voice. “Ed, we have a problem.”
“Gloria, calm down and take a deep breath.”
Edward rose from behind his desk and sat in the chair next to her.
“Damn it, I am calm! Now, will you listen to me? I said we have a problem and I mean a big one.”
His eyes, when she crossed her legs and the slit in her beige Versace skirt opened, were drawn involuntarily to her thighs.
“Okay, Gloria, I’m listening.” He returned his gaze to her face and her pixie nose, which he found seductive. “Tell me what the problem is.”
Gloria lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply and recounted the story.
“I’ve met with an operative from the Israeli Mossad. I won’t tell you his name because he was never in New York. If the Mossad found out there was a meeting he would probably end up buried so deep his existence would be a figment of his family’s imagination.”
“The Israelis are our allies—what could be so secret that they would kill one of their own people?”
“That’s the point. The Israelis are our allies—when it proves beneficial to them. Ed, I’m telling you, they have some deep, dark secrets which if they came out it would turn their allies against them.”
“Gloria, everyone recognizes that they have the bomb. Hell, if they didn’t have it, the Arab world would have called for a Jihad years ago.”
“I’m not talking nuclear capabilities. I’m talking chemical and biological,” Gloria spoke out strongly.
“What do you mean, ‘chemical and biological’? They have the bomb—why would they need anything else?”
Gloria searched for an ashtray, realizing she’d been dropping ashes on Ed’s white carpet.
Edward went to his desk and came back with a crystal candy dish that had been presented to him by the German Ambassador. He handed it to her.
Gloria stabbed her cigarette into the candy dish and set it between their chairs on the floor, providing Edward a jaw tightening glance down her blouse.
“You were saying?”
“I was saying that the Israelis have been working on various black projects that could destroy half the Arab population within a matter of days if they were ever deployed.”
“And what about the weapons of mass destruction that some of Israel’s neighbors have? They are why we have United Nations weapons inspectors in Iraq.”
“Ed, please listen to what I’m going to tell you. Israel developed a nerve agent that doesn’t kill individuals who are exposed to it, but leaves them temporarily as helpless as babies.”
She paused a long moment. “It was developed to create slave labor. To rebuild the country after the next war with the Arabs.”
Edward had sat patiently holding his skepticism in check, but now he voiced his disbelief. “Gloria, how could you, with all of your training, play the dupe to someone passing himself off as an operative of the government of Israel? This story is about as plausible as the Chinese declaring that democratic elections will be held next year.”
“I’m not surprised that you don’t believe the story, but I’m disappointed that you don’t give me more credit as a professional. If you’ll let me, I’ll finish my ‘tale,’ as you put it.
“The scary part isn’t that the Israeli scientists were able to develop it or that Israel wanted to use it for slave labor. What really frightens me is that a large quantity of the nerve agent was stolen from one of the most security paranoid countries in the world.”
“What do you mean, stolen?” A hint of worry had crept into Edward’s voice.
Gloria lit another cigarette and settled back into the soft leather of the chair. She debated how much she dared to tell Ed.
She went through a few minutes of mental strife and understood that the situation required more help than she or her agency had resources for.
“Ed, what I told you is the absolute truth. The nerve agent had been under development by Israeli scientists since the late ’50s. Initially it was being developed—along with other chemical and biological weapons—to be used as a retaliatory weapon if Israel’s survival was threatened.
“When they developed their nuclear capabilities, they believed that all of the biological and chemical stockpiles were destroyed.”
“Gloria, I’m aware of the measures that Israel has taken to ensure its survival. The Arab world also realizes that Israel will respond with the bomb if any country attacks with nuclear, biological or chemical weapons. I find it hard to believe that they kept a nerve agent in their arsenal.”
Leaning forward and again unconsciously attracting Edward’s eyes to her exposed cleavage, Gloria continued. “You’re as surprised as the Israeli government was when it learned that not only was the nerve agent not destroyed, as reported to the Knesset, but refinement of the agent continued.”
Noticing that his eyes were diverted, she stopped and sat back. “Are you listening to what I’m saying?”
Edward remembered his lunch time comment about the clerks. “Are you saying that this nerve agent was developed to create slave labor?”
“Not at first. From what I was told—and I have no reason to disbelieve it—an inner circle of the Armed Forces General Staff didn’t believe that the threat of nuclear destruction was sufficient to ensure the survival of Israel.
“The generals were planning a first strike using the nerve agent. The devastating effects of the agent would give them sufficient time to pinpoint and destroy all nuclear material and weapons and literally erase the minds of the scientists involved. They felt that world condemnation would be far less painful than a nuclear confrontation.”
Edward exclaimed, “And that is what the nerve agent was being developed for? That fails to explain how it was lost or who has it.”
“The generals felt that the entry of Pakistan into the world nuclear club made it inevitable that Israel could expect a nuclear conflict with its Arab neighbors. They also realized that it would be impossible to eliminate the nuclear threat from every possible source. There was no doubt that they would win the next war, but the cost of victory in Israeli lives would be tremendous. They were already planning the rebuilding of the country and knew it would take slave labor to do it.”
Gloria stood up and swayed over to the picture window directly behind Edward’s desk. She seemed to be gathering her thoughts as she watched the traffic on the East River.
She returned to her chair and continued, “They learned in ’95 that the nerve agent hadn’t been destroyed.”
“That was during the watch of Yitzhak Rabin.”
“Exactly,” agreed Gloria. “I wasn’t told how it was come upon. What I was told was that Prime Minister Rabin was briefed on its existence in October ’95. He felt that his efforts toward a peaceful Israeli-Arab settlement were jeopardized and he ordered its destruction.”
“He was assassinated in November,” Edward interjected.
“My source could neither confirm nor deny that the assassination was connected with the revelation of the nerve agent. However, he admitted that mistakes had been made within the Israeli military and they were unable to clean up their own house.
“I took this as the reason he was passing the information to me. The Israelis have been unable to recoup the nerve agent and are quietly looking for help.”
“Okay, Gloria, let us assume the story you heard is true—though there’s nothing to substantiate it. I could pass the story to the Secretary of State. He could make inquiries within the Israeli government. Then they would deny having or missing a nerve agent.”
“Why do you say that?”
“It’s a diplomatic ploy used all of the time. Plants are passed from one country to another at a very low level. If it gains the intended results, good. But if not, no damage is done.”