“You said you suspect him of switching sides. How can you be sure he won’t give the details of your plan to the Hezbollah?” Cornfield was interested to know.
“He won’t know a thing. All he’ll know is that he needs to wait at a certain place and at a certain time, and if he receives an order, he must get into his car, follow a particular vehicle, and cause it to go off the road.”
Jonathan Souderi, the head of Tzomet, spoke up. “You’re taking too many chances. Why not simply blow up his lover’s apartment and disguise it as a gas cylinder explosion?”
“We’ve thought about that and checked the destructive effect of such an explosion. We’re afraid it might bring down the entire building,” said Arik.
Cornfield looked at him thoughtfully. The more he thought of the plan, the more he liked it. Should it succeed, he could take credit for it as the only Mossad figure the public was familiar with. Should it fail, he could get rid of Arik permanently. Two birds with one stone indeed. “All right, I approve the plan,” he said. “When are we going out there?”
Chapter 18
Operation “Elusive Shadow Two”—Damascus, Syria
The night skies filled with lightning, and the Mediterranean stormed. Heavy clouds obscured the moon, and visibility on the Syrian shore, south of Tartus Port was minimal. Arik stood on the deck of a navy landing craft. Two reconnaissance unit teams squatted beside him, wearing Russian army combat uniforms and holding short-barreled Kalashnikov rifles with foldable stocks and silencers, normally used by the Spetsnaz.[11]
The glare of a green laser flashlight emerged from the shore. That was the signal. The landing craft approached the barren sand strip, a door opened, and five Russian SUVs, bearing the insignia of the Russian navy, emerged from it. They descended to the shallow water and effortlessly continued to the rock-strewn beach. A Mossad operative replaced the driver in the first SUV. He was going to be their navigator for the drive to Damascus.
High above the soldiers flew an airplane stacked with sophisticated equipment for electronic warfare. While the ship had still been at sea, all radar and communication systems belonging to the Syrian and Russian naval bases in Tartus had been tampered with. Mossad operatives cut off the power lines providing electricity to the local military bases. The Syrian and Russian soldiers cursed their misfortune and the bad weather, which they blamed for yet another power outage.
At Tartus Port, about 120 miles northwest of Damascus, Russian soldiers were permanently stationed, so there was nothing new or surprising about the small convoy of Russian vehicles driving toward Damascus. The Syrian soldiers who manned the roadblock at the exit from Tartus Port didn’t even bother to get out of their booth because of the heavy rain. They simply opened the electric gate for the SUVs and shouted “Spasiba!” from a safe distance.
After three hours of driving through the pouring rain, the forces reached the gathering point: a large hangar situated in an industrial zone on the outskirts of western Damascus. The doors closed behind them. The head of Mossad’s Tzomet Division was already waiting for them there along with his local operatives.
A light meal had been prepared for the soldiers and placed on tables lined across the walls. After they ate, they each found their own corner in the hangar and fell asleep on straw mattresses prepared in advance. Twenty-four hours remained before zero-hour.
In the morning, Kidon soldiers landed at the Damascus International Airport disguised as businessmen, tourists, and members of a Dutch archeological expedition. They all settled in hotels or pilgrim hostels throughout the city. Support teams crossed the southern Jordanian border, disguised as truck drivers transporting sheep and cattle. Inside the trucks, concealed in hidden compartments beneath the floor, were weapons and medical and electronic equipment the soldiers might need. At one PM, pairs of soldiers waited at different points for a small tourist bus to pick them up. On its windshield, a sign was hung with the words, both in Arabic and English: Tour of the Citadel of Damascus and the Army Museum.
Following a thirty-minute drive toward the northwestern side of the city, accompanied by a fast Honda motorcycle making sure no one followed, the minibus turned to the industrial zone and entered straight into the hangar in which the reconnaissance unit soldiers were already waiting.
“I want everyone to gather around me,” called Arik. During the night, he had glued a thick Arabic mustache above his upper lip, dyed his hair black, and dressed in a gray safari suit, making him look like a local businessman. “Welcome to Damascus. I’m the commander of the operation you’ve been training for by using simulations and models. The objective of this operation is to take out Imad Husniyah, the man responsible for numerous terrorist attacks against Jewish institutes abroad, as well as the kidnapping and killing of Israeli and American soldiers. We have some solid intelligence that this afternoon, Husniyah is intending to pay a visit to a certain lady residing in a high-rise building in southern Damascus. The man is a mastermind escape artist and has slipped through our fingers several times, causing the death of many of our men in the process. I have no intention of letting him get away this time.”
A large aerial photo was spread on the floor. Arik approached it and pointed at a map on which several streets appeared. One of them was surrounded by a red circle. “Our men have been surveilling this building for quite some time. An American satellite is providing us information as well. The Americans will let us know when Husniyah gets out of Beirut and begins the drive up the Beirut-Damascus highway. It’s a two hour drive, give or take. We’ve placed operatives across the road to make sure he doesn’t linger or decide to go elsewhere.”
Arik walked away from the aerial photo and stood at the center of the circle of soldiers, passing his eyes from one to the other. “The objective given us by the government is to make sure that man doesn’t get out of here alive. Nevertheless, we don’t want innocent casualties or an armed conflict with the local police or the Syrian army. That is why I want you to open fire only as a last resort and only if your life or the lives of others depends on it. The building and its surroundings will be sterile. You are not going to enter it. The only ones operating inside will be members of a reinforced Kidon team. I don’t want to see improvisations or personal initiatives that were not part of your original assignments, is that clear?”
The commander of the General Staff Reconnaissance Unit nodded reluctantly.
Arik distributed the scene maps among the team commanders and briefed them. “Team One will be positioned at the end of the street and will block it under the pretense of a vehicle mechanical dysfunction. Team Two will block the exit from the neighborhood using the same pretext. In case of any contact with the local police or any other hostile element, you will pretend to speak Russian only. You will have our local drivers who speak the native dialect. Let them do all the talking. Let me repeat this one more time: you do not open fire unless your life or the lives of others are under immediate danger. Is that clear?” Arik looked at the commander of the military force, who appeared to be craving some action. “We’re not going to have another Entebbe Operation here, are we?”[12] The officer nodded with embarrassment.
“The moment the street is blocked,” Arik continued, “Kidon teams will go into action. The first team will open Husniyah’s vehicle, using a remote we’ve decoded, and replace the headrest of the driver’s seat with an identical headrest filled with explosives. You have one minute to get the job done and take cover. Wait for my call before remotely detonating the charge. This will happen only after the target enters his vehicle and starts the engine and only following my direct instruction. Are we clear?”
The commander of team one blurted a quick, “Yes.”
“Team Two will serve as a backup for the first team. While the first team replaces the headrest, the second team will get into the vehicle and place a deadly poison on the steering wheel. The poison, neurotoxin forte, is tasteless and odorless. A single touch with an uncovered hand causes the toxin to be absorb
ed into the body. Within minutes, his red blood cell will explode and he will die in agony, completely paralyzed and lacking the ability to call for help.”
The men of the various teams stirred impatiently. They’d already heard the briefing a number of times during their training in Israel. Arik noticed their growing impatience. “I know you’ve heard it all before, but in my experience, the final briefing always reveals something you’ve missed. Let’s move on. Team Three will serve as backup. It will be parked right outside the parking lot where Husniyah is supposed to park his vehicle. The team will arrive in a gray Mitsubishi Pajero, very similar to one owned by one of the neighbors who will be at work. The vehicle will be loaded with over two hundred pounds of explosives. The explosives in the SUV will be used only if the booby-trapped headrest or the poison don’t work as planned. Exploding the SUV next to the building would demolish it and cause the death of dozens of innocent civilians. Therefore, the explosion is planned to take place only next to Husniyah’s car and only while he is on the road back to Beirut. The team will exit of the vehicle after it is parked, then go up to one of the roofs in the area to surveil the situation. A local operator will be stationed next to the vehicle and keep watch. Is everything clear so far?”
Once more, the team members responded by nodding.
“Team Four will operate as a cleanup team and will also be in charge of securing the scene against any possible interruptions. If Husniyah arrives with a bodyguard remains behind to guard the vehicle, he must either be distracted or quietly annihilated and disposed of before teams One and Two get into action. My radio code is Assad Wahid. Each of you will receive his own code name and needs to memorize it. All communication between us will be in Arabic only. In the beginning of the operation, I will say, basal, and at its end, I will say asal. The minute you hear the code word ‘asal,’ you all clear the area quickly and, with the aid of our local operatives, get to the evacuation area, south of the gathering point. The minibus, the five Russian SUVs, the equipment truck, and an evacuation vehicle disguised as an ambulance will be waiting for you. Each team will head out in a different vehicle and take a different route. You each have a cover story you’ve been memorizing. At the end of the operation, all routes will meet at the evacuation point close to the border between the Golan Heights and Jordan. There, we will be picked up by helicopters. It should take you about an hour and a quarter to get there.” He glanced at his watch. “It is now two PM. Get a move on, and start taking your positions. I’ll be positioned in a location which will allow me to overview the entire operation. Questions?”
No one raised his hand, and Arik rushed outside the hangar to empty his tormented bladder in a quiet corner.
At five PM, they all heard Arik’s baritone voice on the radio: “Basal.” Imad Husniyah was on his way to the neighborhood. A gray Mitsubishi SUV was parked in the predetermined spot by two soldiers, a man and a woman, from Team Three. The two of them then left the scene with the woman pushing a baby carriage with a doll inside. The SUV’s intended driver waited close by in the company of a local agent. The men of teams One and Two sat in a coffee shop and watched a black Mercedes SUV enter the parking area of the building complex. A chubby man in his mid-forties exited the vehicle. His silver beard was carefully trimmed, a baseball cap rested on his head, and his eyes were concealed by sunglasses. Arik sat in an apartment that had been rented in advance, situated right in front of Husniyah’s lover’s apartment, and watched the intended victim through a pair of binoculars. He looked for a bodyguard or an escort, but couldn’t see one. “Teams One and Two, hold your positions and wait,” he whispered in Arabic into the microphone and looked at the large screen which broadcast, through a tiny camera hidden in a fan above Layla Tarawa’s bedroom, watching everything that took place in her bedroom. Thirty minutes had passed before he saw the chubby man entering the bedroom, and the two of them began to make love. “Teams One and Two, go,” Arik whispered in Arabic.
The electronic device with the vehicle’s remote code was activated, and its door opened. The driver’s seat headrest was replaced. At the same time, a soldier from team two entered the SUV, wearing a gas mask and double-layer rubber gloves. He smeared the deadly poison on the vehicle’s steering wheel with a special brush he unscrewed from a tiny flask. A minute later, the vehicle’s alarm system kicked in, and its doors relocked. The beeping sound marking the alarm system’s activation was swallowed by the noise of children playing soccer in the parking lot.
A police car drove slowly down the street. Arik watched it with concern. The police car stopped next to the coffee shop where the Kidon teams were sitting and waiting, and two cops came out of it. One headed to the restroom while the other took a pita with spicy tuna salad from the counter, then got back to the police car without paying.
Arik held his breath. The team members at the coffee shop grabbed the butts of their guns under the jellabiyas they wore. One of them slowly pushed the headrest under his chair. Five tense minutes passed before the policeman came out of the restroom. On his way out, he went to the refrigerator and offhandedly took a bottle of Coke. The police car slowly moved away. Everyone emitted a sigh of relief.
Two hours later, Imad Husniyah went down to the parking lot, wrapped in a warm coat. He circled his car, bent, and peeked underneath. Nothing aroused his suspicion. Mothers called their children, who were playing in the parking lot, to come up for dinner. Fathers came back from work. Everything looked normal.
“Team Three, stand by,” Arik whispered.
Imad Husniyah went into his vehicle. He punched the activation code and inserted the key into the ignition switch. The car began to move. The deadly poison on the steering wheel began to be absorbed into the skin of his fingers.
“Team One, now!” Arik called.
The explosion in the driver’s seat headrest severed Imad Husniyah’s head from his body, which slumped forward. The armored windows absorbed the sound of the blast. The SUV kept moving slowly down the road, until it collided into the booby-trapped Mitsubishi parked at the parking lot entrance.
Arik’s blood froze in his veins. He feared the collision might activate the explosive mechanism. Nothing happened. Suddenly, an idea flashed through his mind. He instructed the local operative watching over the rigged SUV to drive it to the Mukhabarat[13] Headquarters in central Damascus. If does as he’s told, then he probably didn’t switch sides. If he handed the SUV over to the Mukhabarat, they could still explode it in order to create a diversion.
“Asal!” he ordered, then immediately repeated the command. He abandoned his observation point on the roof and ran down the stairs to verify the kill, his hand deep in his gray safari suit, clutching his loyal Glock pistol.
Neighbors and curious onlookers gathered to stare at the surreal scene of a headless man’s body leaning against the dashboard. Inside the vehicle, blood and brain fragments were splattered all over the armored windows. A brief glance was enough for Arik. He knew that within minutes, the neighbors would alert the police, which would be followed by the men of the Mukhabarat, who would block all the exits from the neighborhood.
The local operator went into the SUV, sat beside the wheel, and headed north to central Damascus, ignoring the curious eyes of the neighbors. He parked the SUV in front of the Mukhabarat building’s entrance as he had been ordered, then quickly took off. Another local operator followed him in his car and sent a radio signal that caused the SUV to shatter in a mighty explosion that wreaked havoc in the Mukhabarat Headquarters. The attention of the Syrian intelligence people was diverted, and no one noticed Mossad teams that slipped south toward safety.
Arik walked calmly toward his escape vehicle: an ambulance parked at the end of the neighborhood. He sat beside the driver, dressed in the white gown of a ‘Red Crescent’ paramedic, and hung a stethoscope on his neck. The ambulance went on its way, sirens wailing. Following a short drive, it stopped to pick up Team Three, a pair of soldiers, a man and a woman. The woman wore an inflat
ed rubber belt beneath her dress that made her appear like a woman in the last months of her pregnancy. A white headscarf, just like the ones worn by local Druze women, was wrapped around her head. She lay in a stretcher, and her ‘husband’ sat by her side, wearing the clothes of a Druze farmer, a round mustache proudly glued above his upper lip. They all held Micro-Tavor rifles with silencers within arm’s reach. The rest of the teams drove down rural roads and trails, parallel to the main road leading south. The soldiers of the Reconnaissance Unit, still disguised as Russian commando soldiers, moved down the fields, away from the main roads, navigating via night vision augmented equipment.
Arik took a tiny radio from his pocket, placed it against his lips and whispered, “Almagor, this is Assad Wahid requesting the evacuation of Asal within one hour.”
In the air, above the border of the Golan Heights, an Israeli Air Force plane circled, operating as a flying headquarters. Cornfield sat inside, surrounded by communication and Air Force intelligence officers. That was the company he liked to keep and the environment he felt most comfortable in. “This is Almagor One. Roger that!” he replied, then added, laughingly, “Nice work! Ya Assad.”
Chapter 19
Beehive on the Cliff Neighborhood in Palmachim Air Force Base
Arik hated the hours that followed an assassination, even if it had been a justified one. He was driven by a military SUV from the helipad to his house in the Beehive on the Cliff neighborhood. The hour was late and the weather dreary. Arik stood in his bedroom, wondering what he might do in an evening in which both the house and his heart felt so empty. The operation debriefing was scheduled for the following day at the Defense Minister’s office.
To Kill a Shadow Page 11