by Shlomi Tal
When I remember that I omitted to give the gas vouchers to Eldad and Itzik from Bonn, that they’re still in my pocket, I realize that my tension is easing.
As instructed by the CDSE, I call him immediately and briefly tell him my situation. I give him the number to Monsieur Molard’s direct line. He says he will call him at once and will update me about what will follow. “Just sit there and wait for new instructions from me.” The CDSE hangs up without waiting for my reaction.
I sit holding the receiver to my ear, listening to the dial tone so as not to give explanations to the El Al security officer sitting opposite me, watching. After quite a while, I speak to the empty line: “I understand. Thank you, good-bye.” I put down the receiver. I need to decide what to say to the security officer, so I go to the door, explaining on my way, “I need to take a leak. I’ll be back right away.”
As soon as I return, I ask the security officer, “Tell me, is this telephone secured? Why did the CDSE instruct me to come here to call him?”
“The telephone is not secured,” he replies. “We haven’t even tried to secure it. I know how the CDSE’s mind works. The chances are greater that Molard’s phone, which you used to call him, is tapped and tape-recorded. That’s why he sent you to call him from here.” While I wait for the CDSE to call me back, I fill in the security officer on the latest events, cautiously choosing what to tell and what not to. My fear of the CDSE’s anger at what I did or did not divulge to Monsieur Molard makes me think of the security officer as a Secret Service man when he is actually one of us. A quarter of an hour later, Emi happily joins me. He is completely unruffled by the whole drama going on around us and says, “Come, we’re going back to the embassy.”
“What happened? How come we’re being released?”
Emi doesn’t reply immediately. We leave, walk in silence to our car and depart for the embassy. As soon as we exit the area of the airport, Emi explains: “The CDSE reached an agreement with Monsieur Molard to update him in the morning. At first, Monsieur Molard demanded that the CDSE come to the airport immediately. The CDSE refused and insisted on Monsieur Molard coming to the embassy. The CDSE explained that he could not leave the embassy now, and told Molard that he is the highest authority and can give information to Molard. Molard worked it out for himself and concluded that it wasn’t worth hanging out there and waiting as a matter of principle; he could not keep us under arrest without causing a diplomatic incident, so he gave in. The meeting with the CDSE was fixed for tomorrow at precisely seven o’clock at the CDSE’s office at the embassy. You will wait for Monsieur Molard at the entrance to the embassy and accompany him to the CDSE. Molard must report back to his office at nine o’clock with answers.”
The trip to the embassy takes us fifty minutes. On the way, I recall that we have left the Peugeot 504 with the diplomatic registration plates in the parking structure at the airport. It will have to wait till tomorrow. I have to remember to register this El Al vehicle with the security officer so that I won’t get scolded for transporting DIP in a vehicle with private registration.
The daily routine continues. I go up to the administrative officer, return the gas vouchers that were meant for the guys from Bonn, update and get updated, and go up to the CDSE, who is always in his office. He sleeps overnight at the embassy, going home midday to shower and change his clothes. Sometimes he doesn’t even manage to do that. Over a steaming cup of strong coffee, I relate my adventures to the CDSE and report all the details of my conversation with Monsieur Molard. He instructs, “Prepare a memo about everything that happened and exactly what you said to them. It’s vital and it will help me prepare for the meeting with that Monsieur Molard at seven o’clock tomorrow morning.” I put together a documented outline because I have already given the full explanation verbally. I feel relieved.
Chaos and noise have overtaken the ambassador’s floor. They tell me that his son has fallen in battle and that it was the opening item on the television news this evening. They were dealing with that while we were busy loading the plane. Many messages have arrived, and more condolence letters are coming all the time. I’m told that messages of sympathy have come from President Pompidou, the prime minister, Pierre Messmer, ministers, and members of the Senate and the House of Representatives. I suddenly get gooseflesh. If this is the case, now it will be even easier to do whatever we like at the airport.
I can go home and sleep for an hour or two. I take the newspapers that arrived for me with the DIP, pick up Emi, and after a stop at the restroom to pee (it’s become a strange routine—need a moment to think? Go to the bathroom!), we drive home. It’s almost one in the morning. Another day is done.
Thursday, October 11
After a short nap in the room adjacent to his office at the embassy on Rue Rabelais, the CDSE wakes up at five-fifteen in the morning. In a half an hour, his aide will come into his office to prepare for the coming day. His aide comes from home and brings croissants and a baguette. On his way to the office, he picks up the telegrams from the CB, and when he arrives he prepares fresh coffee in the percolator that was purchased on the first day of the war.
“Did you read Yiftach’s report on the incident at Orly yesterday?” the CDSE asks his aide as he enters his office. The CDSE doesn’t greet his assistant with a “good morning”—they just carry on with yesterday’s conversation where they left off. The aide had left for three hours, during which he managed to drive home, sleep, shower, buy the croissants and baguette, and drive back to the office. The CDSE has gotten through examining other documents and managed to fit in a short nap.
“I haven’t been able to yet. I only went through the telegrams. There was nothing urgent. Drink some coffee, and I will read Yiftach’s report.”
After a couple of minutes, the aide says, “I don’t understand much of what Yiftach has written here. It’s all in note form.”
“Yes, yes, he explained it verbally in detail, and as you know, we have a meeting this morning with some monsieur from the SDECE. Pull out Yiftach Cohen’s personal file. I want to review it again and to decide how to solve this problem with the SDECE. I remember that when the war broke out, Yiftach’s reserve unit in the IDF wanted him urgently, and it was hard to persuade them that his presence is of vital importance to us. In the end, they relented, but only because they had no choice—I informed them that they would have to send an armed rescue unit to kidnap him from here. We have to prepare for the meeting. Perhaps we should bring someone from the Mossad which is on good terms with the SDECE.”
“Yiftach has the background to do it; he left the army with the rank of captain after serving in the elite General Staff Reconnaissance Unit (Sayeret Matkal), where he was twice decorated by the Chief of Staff for two operations carried out deep in enemy territory. After his release from the army, the Mossad recruited him, and he is on loan to the General Security Service to learn about what happens abroad as part of the embassy’s activities. His official position with us is dealing with diplomatic mail—securing its transfer from Israel to South America and West Africa. That is why they posted him here. We are lucky to benefit from his abilities during the war. Usually, his job is a routine and uninteresting one. If it were being run by an ordinary clerk, we would not be able to manage all the things we are doing.”
“Okay, leave his file, and let’s try and think what we are going to say to the man from the SDECE. He will arrive with Yiftach at seven. He was somewhat threatening toward me on the phone yesterday evening, and we have to decide what to reveal and what to hold back. I think we can manage on our own. I have an excellent idea. I will give him something of value to France: the Nigerian-Iraqi deal.”
The phone rings and the CDSE picks up the call immediately.
“Herzl! The security officer hasn’t arrived yet, and the guards want to do a physical security check on our guest!” I report from the entrance to the embassy.
The CDSE glances at his watch: It’s almost seven in the morning.
“Okay, Yiftach, I’m coming down. Has he arrived?”
“Not yet, but come. Let’s avoid unnecessary unpleasantness.”
***
Herzl wears a suit and necktie in honor of the guest. While he gives orders to the security detail at the entrance, telling them to allow the visitor to enter without searching him and to only check his identity, Monsieur Molard arrives. I introduce him to the CDSE, and we go up to his office without exchanging so much as a single word. When we enter the office, it seems that Herzl has decided to shock Monsieur Molard a little to achieve his goal in the ensuing conversation. The guest is invited to the sitting area, proof that the discussion is to be a friendly one and not formal and official.
“Monsieur Molard,” Herzl begins, as he approaches his desk to fetch some documents, “according to international law, you are now in Israeli territory, but I won’t ask you to speak Hebrew. My French is fairly good. I beg you to allow us to drop the French conversation formalities, but to speak in French as we would in Israel and address one another in the singular. Let’s put the vous-voi aside and remain with tu-toi so that I won’t have to think so hard and will be able to speak more freely. Do you agree?”
Without waiting for an answer from Monsieur Molard, Herzl approaches him with his arm extended and a broad smile and says, “My name is Herzl Ben-Shaul—to you, just Herzl. What is your name?”
Molard is astounded by this show of warmth as well as by the excessive warmth of the office, the well-known weakness of the CDSE. He gets up from his seat, shakes Herzl’s outstretched hand, and says, “That is fine. I am Jean-Jacques Molard; to you, Jean-Jacques, or as my friends call me, JJ (which is actually English, because in French, it would be Zi-Zi).” Like Herzl, the visitor also drops the customary French title “Monsieur” from his name. When Herzl takes off his jacket and loosens his tie, I follow his lead very naturally, and Jean-Jacques, surrendering to the overheated room or in a display of camaraderie, or both, also takes off his jacket.
“Before we get down to business,” Herzl suggests, “our tradition is to serve a guest who visits at this time of the morning with breakfast.” When he says this, his assistant arrives with a plate of croissants and sets it down on the table.
“What kind of coffee do you drink, Jean-Jacques? We have anything you want, as long as it’s black coffee that comes out of that machine in the corner. But you can decide whether you want a short one or a long one.”
“A long one, for me, thank you,” replies Jean-Jacques, who, all at once, by some miracle, appears to be completely at ease.
The three of us drink coffee and eat croissants in silence; Jean-Jacques eats one and Herzl and I each eat three, leaving two on the plate out of politeness. Both of them will be devoured by the CDSE’s assistant in a few minutes.
“Well then, Jean-Jacques, since I am certain that you did not come here just to drink coffee with our charming selves, but because we have a little business to discuss, I will begin. Perhaps you want some more coffee? Don’t be shy, please feel at home. This is Israel.” Jean-Jacques refuses politely and glances at his watch. It is a few minutes after seven thirty, and he has to report to his office by nine with answers. Herzl feels that he has strained his guest’s patience almost to its limit.
“Jean-Jacques—yes, forgive me, JJ—come, first let’s put all the facts on the table. Yiftach reported that he brought you up to date on the most important points yesterday, so I will not repeat them. I am certain that you and all of the SDECE, together with the police and the CRS,[11] are taking care that nothing untoward happens to us—just look at the number of policemen surrounding the embassy and the Israeli institutions here. For that, we are grateful. Your job and that of the SDECE is to protect France’s visitors, which we are, and France’s sovereignty, which is why you are here. Are we in agreement so far?”
“That is correct, Monsieur Herzl, we agree on everything, but let us assume that since we are among friends, I can tell you wholeheartedly that everyone in SDECE and outside it admires you and wants to help you. Please continue.”
“Well said, JJ, my friend. I would only like to tell you that I am asking you not to tell anyone else about this conversation of ours. Try to behave as though it never happened, because I want to give you something that will help to promote you in the SDECE.”
I tense up. My feeling is that Herzl is going to sacrifice something to make a big killing.
“Look here, my friend, we are not sending ammunition and bombs to Israel. Nor are we sending missiles and rifle bullets. But we are carrying spare parts of one kind and another that we classify as auto and heavy equipment parts. That is the full extent of the crime we are committing here. No damage is being caused to the citizens of France or to the French government. On the contrary, we are giving French companies a lot of business, and they are taking advantage of it to make big money—they hike up their prices because of our pressure for supplies. I assure you that the smugglers in North Africa bring contraband into France that is much more detrimental and causes you tremendous damage. If you do a thorough check on the El Al warehouses at Orly or examine what we are sending directly in the diplomatic mail, you will find that it is no more than the usual equipment that is exported without any problems in normal times.”
“And what about the gigantic plane from the United States that passed through Orly yesterday?” Jean-Jacques asks, teasingly.
“That’s a different story,” Herzl says defensively. He raises both arms in the air in a gesture that says, “What am I to do?” and continues. “It was an emergency, not something routine. We don’t do this every day. And moreover, this time a plane was in distress. We checked it out—we searched every El Al station in Europe. There weren’t enough people anywhere to deal with an aircraft like this, except for Orly. That is why we requested permission from the airport authorities,” Herzl blatantly lies without blinking. “The very fact that you know about it, and that it was reported to you, shows that we shared our problem with you, and you cooperated. And for this we thank you.” Herzl lowers his arms.
“Only you should know, as I told your friend here on yesterday evening that it was thanks to me that it all went off successfully. It was because of this plane that I came to check out what was happening, because we don’t want you to overdo this,” Jean-Jacques explains. I wait the whole time for him to mention the shipment that went to Israel in the French Air Force crate. It’s unclear whether Jean-Jacques knows about it or not. The main thing is that the subject doesn’t arise.
“I want to give you something,” Herzl announces. “What would you say if you were to know about a plot that is being hatched to explode a dirty bomb in the center of Paris? I’m not sure if I am expressing it correctly in French, so I will spell it out: We uncovered a plan to use uranium to contaminate trains in the Paris Metro with radioactivity, which would have catastrophic results. Do you know anything about this?”
Jean-Jacques grows tense immediately, “Are you serious?”
Herzl nods in the affirmative.
“Can I call from here? I’m sure your line is secured, and I don’t even care if you tape my call.”
Herzl leads Jean-Jacques to his rear office and returns at once.
“Have you completely lost your mind?” I exclaim. “That belongs to the Mossad, and you want to reveal it to him? Besides that, it’s about uranium being smuggled from Africa to Iraq. How did you suddenly come up with a story about a dirty bomb?”
“Shut up, Yiftach, wait until he leaves.”
Jean-Jacques returns and reports, “We know nothing about this. Can you give me some details to check out?”
“Sure. Sit down, Jean-Jacques. Do you have enough time? Take a page and write down some details.” Herzl goes to his desk and brings a pad of notepaper and a small file of documents on which “Top Secret” is stamped in red. Herzl opens the file and continues:
“Here’s the story, Jean-Jacques. Someone in a senior position in Nigeria—I don’t yet know who he is
or where he’s from—sold four kilos of uranium to an organization whose identity we still have no knowledge of. We are aware that the uranium will arrive here by ship in another three to four days. We will be informed in the next few hours, if we wish it, what ship it is coming in on and to which port. The truth of the matter is that we haven’t actually gone into this in depth because we are so busy with the war, and we have no time to deal with it. I am sure that you will know how to handle these criminals. We learned of this by chance because of the cash money that changed hands. If you wish, I will ask our people for all the details, and you can make use of them. It will be a major catch for you and bring you much credit. That’s what friends do for one another.”
“Thanks, thank you all, but that cannot be instead of our business, nor is it something I can pass on. I cannot return to my office and tell my boss: ‘I checked it out, everything is in order.’ You understand that, don’t you?”
“Yes, of course,” Herzl responds. “If you want a full list, it will take some time to prepare, and you said you don’t have time. So I will tell you in short. I understand that civilian equipment doesn’t concern you. For example, instruments for testing blood, bags for donated blood, various drugs, and equipment for hospitals—those are the key items that we are sending. We are also dependent on France to supply spare parts for the Mirage planes. There is an apparently valid agreement to this effect, and they continue providing us with them. The purchase is made in France under the auspices of an entity established by the Israel Aircraft Industry, and Dassault Industries is not interested what we do with it as long as the equipment is supplied to us here and not in Israel. We dispatch them as motor parts or airplane parts, without declaring that the planes are fighter planes. All the cargo we are sending to Israel is not subject to the embargo. Some of it is perhaps in the gray area, but we depend on your discretion in this matter.”