Esther's Sling (11 page)

“No, I can’t question your basic mathematics,”
Avner replied. “We have been thinking through exactly the scenario you describe. I will say that first and foremost, the Arrow is specifically set up to intercept ballistic missiles from Persia. So this system will not be used against adjacent threats. As for Iron Dome, there is a concerted effort to develop the command software so that it discriminates between different levels of missile threat.

“Stated more directly, the software for Iron Dome, once it goes operational, will discriminate between a Katyusha and a M-600 or a Scud. This is accomplished three ways. First, the radar cross-section helps to differentiate given that the bigger the missile, the greater the threat. Second is the trajectory of the inbound target. The system quickly estimates the general impact area of an incoming missile. We also know, for instance, that Hezbollah will launch their big missiles from north of the
Litani. Obviously these types of calculation will give you the range of the missile. Longer range missiles are greater threats. Finally, the speed and projected maximum altitude is critical to differentiating between missile types.”

“Ah, I see. Thank you.”

“But it is clear that we need to get Iron Dome operational as quickly as possible and we need more of these missiles sooner rather than later. Finally, we will need to integrate the Patriots, Iron Dome and the Arrows onto a network. This program is our highest priority right now.”

Cohen took a deep gulp of water and put his bottle back down. “What is your second point, Zvi?”

“Yes, yes. It is my great pleasure to report that the day after our last meeting, two U.S. Air Force C-17s landed at Hatzerim Airbase and unloaded fifty-five GBU-28s.” This was news to only Avi Gresch and Danny Stein. It would be news to Mort Yaguda at the next Kitchen Cabinet meeting.

Gresch clapped his hands. “Well, at least we are a step closer.”

“Yes, it’s about time,” Avner continued. “We are working to get the remaining forty-five bombs in our original deal, but I do not have a timeline on that yet.”

“Okay,” Cohen interrupted. He was ready to get to the point of this meeting. The reason had been established two nights earlier when Zvi Avner came to the prime minister’s home for dinner. Avner was excited and couldn’t wait to share news with his commander-in-chief. Finally a concept existed which gave Israel a real plan to destroy the Iranian program, and the man who had been the most pessimistic was now enthusiastic for the first time. “Let’s talk about why I called this meeting,” Cohen said. “I will start by reminding you all about Amit Margolis, the Mossad agent who was added to the Yahalom Group in January. I hoped at the time that he would bring some creativity to the very conventional planning that had occurred up to then. And, Ben, I think you will agree that as of year-end, despite over a year of planning, there was yet to emerge anything that seemed plausible that did not involve the U.S. Air Force.” Cohen looked at Raibani. He wanted acknowledgement that 2009 had been a fruitless exercise in conventional planning. “Ben, you agree?”

“Yes. No question. I have to admit that we do not yet have a workable solution to this challenge. Not last year or this year for that matter. But I still have not changed my mind on the nuclear option
, even one bit.”

“Good, because I am hoping that after this meeting, the nuclear option will be permanently off the table.” That comment was more than enough to get everyone in the room excited. “Zvi, please continue.”

Avner gathered his thoughts, drumming his pen on the notepad. “Last week I received a request from Amit Margolis, the man that the prime minister just mentioned. He wanted to meet me one-on-one and run an idea past me. He called it ‘Esther’s Sling.’ He had not previously mentioned this concept to anyone in Yahalom Group or anywhere else. We met in my office at the Campus. I planned for only a few minutes, but we talked for almost two hours. The prime minister and I met for dinner Sunday night and reviewed the concept.

“The whole point of this plan addresses the core tactical issue we face:
Our Air Force is simply not large enough to achieve the strategic goal in one sortie. And yet, for all the reasons we have discussed ad nauseam, we have to find a way to get the job done in one sortie. We have been racking our brains to think of a force multiplier other than nuclear weapons. Well, I think Margolis dreamed up a conventional force multiplier. The concept of Esther’s Sling starts with …”

Zvi Avner spent the next twenty minutes explaining
to the Kitchen Cabinet of Israel the plan’s conception of operations. As he spoke, expressions of surprise gave way to smiles. By the time he was done, the atmosphere in the conference room that was surrounded by reinforced concrete was electric. Cohen could not remember another meeting like this. In a room where the problems facing the State of Israel were laid out in bare detail, the feeling was that of a birthday celebration among old friends.

Ben Raibani was excited as he asked several clarifying questions. When Avner was finished, Raibani had a smile. The aging ex-chief of staff of the IDF added a simple comment. “This is brilliant. I want to meet this guy.”

“You will,” replied Cohen.

“You should put this guy under armed guard. He is the most valuable man in Israel right now.” Raibani looked at Cohen. “My apologies, Eli, but I am serious.”

“No need to apologize. I don’t disagree with you. I hadn’t thought about it, but I think you are exactly right. Zvi, can you make arrangements?”

“Certainly. I will take care of it.”

Discussions broke out among the five men around the table other than the prime minister. The excitement was igniting the thought processes of each man. Cohen’s goal of having Amit Margolis get the Yahalom Group officers to think outside the box had not worked with that group, but was doing wonders with the Kitchen Cabinet. Eli Cohen retrieved a fresh cigar from his humidor. As he prepared it for lighting, he gazed at Yavi Aitan. The prime minister needed to know what Aitan thought. Eli Cohen realized at that moment just how much he had grown to respect the mathematician turned intelligence czar.

Cohen took several puffs and then loudly interrupted everyone’s discussions. “Yavi, we have yet to hear your reaction.” The room grew quiet. Cohen realized that even the old warrior Raibani wanted to know what Aitan thought. “Please share it with us.”

Yavi Aitan pulled his seat closer to the table and leaned forward. “Well, Mister Prime Minister, I have just been thinking it through.”

“And?”

“And after thinking it through, I can see many challenges in actually pulling it off, but I have to say – and I will use General Raibani’s word – it’s simply brilliant. If we can get all of these pieces in place, I think it will work. Secrecy is paramount. If this slips out in even the smallest detail or hint, it will fail. This cannot be shared outside this room. Not with spouses or parents or even your rabbi. I am guessing this takes at least a year to prepare and the circle of people who will need to know some piece of the puzzle will grow during that year. To me, that is the challenge. Keep it secret and we achieve our strategic objective in a way that will stun the world. If the secret gets out, we will preside over one of the colossal disasters this nation has ever had to endure. In the former scenario, we are heroes and the U.S. will never be overtly involved. In the latter scenario, we will go begging to the Americans hat in hand to bail us out of disaster. I feel so strongly about secrecy that I even have my doubts about informing Director Levy.”

Cohen smiled broadly as he enjoyed his cigar, the first puffs always being the most satisfying. “We will have to see, but I appreciate your point. Secrecy is everything and it will be difficult to maintain. I want the commitment from everyone here to not discuss this outside of this room or the Yahalom Group.” Cohen went around the room and looked each man in the eye as they committed to him personally. “Thank you all.”

Zvi Avner now added his thoughts. “I have been thinking about Yahalom Group since my discussion with Margolis last week. I don’t like the dynamics on the team. The six members other than Margolis are all career staff officers. They don’t respect … ah, that’s not the right word. They don’t accept Margolis in the team. He is the newcomer and the outsider. He’s not a military man. It says a lot to me that he was not willing to disclose or discuss his concept with any of the other men he’s supposedly been working with for the past ten weeks. That bothered me as I thought about it over the weekend, but now I’m glad he hasn’t said a word to them. I want to shake up the team. I have a man in mind to come in and I think Margolis should be the co-head of Yahalom Group along with this new officer.”

“Who?” Cohen asked.

“David Schechter.” General David Schechter was the Head of Operations of the Israeli Air Force. He had earned his reputation as one of the IAF’s first F-15C fighter pilots and earned respect as the first commander of 69 Squadron, the “Hammers” – the IAF’s sole wing of F-15I Ra’am fighter-bombers that would lead any attack on Iran. He had become an ace over Lebanon and Syria during June 1982 by shooting down three MIG-21s and two MIG-23s over a 72 hour period. He was only 25 years old at the time.

Cohen turned to Raibani. “Ben, you know General Schechter well.”

“Yes, I do. He is a first rate commander. He is a leader. He is fearless in combat. If we are talking about the man to take this from planning to operation, then I agree with Zvi. Great choice.”

“If Ben likes him that much, then I have no objection,” said Cohen. “Who else do you want to add?”

Avner thought for a moment. “I have some thoughts, but the right answer is that we get David and Amit Margolis together to bond first and then let David decide who he wants to bring onto the team with Amit’s involvement … and my oversight, of course.”

“Of course,” replied Cohen with a smile. “When can you meet with General Schechter?”

“Whenever you have the time to come to Tel Aviv. I think you should be with me.”

“Okay, we can check my calendar after the meeting.”

Aitan interrupted. “I think we need a new codename now that this is moving towards an operational phase.”

Cohen exhaled a plume of cigar smoke. “What’s wrong, you don’t like Esther?”

“No sir. I think the name is too obvious and suggestive.”

Cohen started to bob his head up and down. “Okay, I can see that. Have something in mind?”

“Yes sir. Something innocuous. Project Block G.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“That’s the point, sir. We should use a codename that has no tie to Iran. Project Block G simply sounds like we are talking about another weapon upgrade cycle.” Aitan looked at Avner. “I suggest you decide who will be part of the new Yahalom Group. Obviously Amit Margolis, hopefully General Schechter. Whoever else you and they agree on. The new team will use Project Block G going forward and tell the guys who don’t continue on that the Esther project is dead for now.”

Cohen took a puff on his cigar and looked to Avner, who returned his gaze. Avner nodded his head. Cohen then looked at Raibani. Raibani nodded his head. “Done,” said the prime minister. “God be with Project Block G.”

Almost a month had passed since Project Block G became official at a Kitchen Cabinet meeting in Jerusalem. General David Schechter had enthusiastically accepted his new assignment as the head of Yahalom Group. More importantly to Cohen and Avner, Schechter had reacted to Esther’s Sling the same way that every member of the Kitchen Cabinet had done. He was on board, but the wheels of IDF bureaucracy turned slowly – even when the grease was being applied by the prime minister himself. Schechter had only met with Amit Margolis twice and the agenda for each of those meetings had been to decide upon the new members of the planning team now charged with developing the concept of Esther’s Sling into a real battle plan.

David Schechter had done something to endear himself to Amit Margolis. As his first official act as head of the Yahalom Group, he cancelled the pair of bodyguards that had been assigned to watch over Margolis. Both men agreed that the presence of two bodyguards simply turned Amit Margolis from an anonymous Israeli
citizen into a target. When Margolis asked the general if countermanding the bodyguard orders, which had come from Zvi Avner, would create problems, the simple answer was “Let me worry about that.” This single action created instant respect by Amit for David Schechter.

General Schechter was a career fighter pilot who discovered only later that he also possessed the skills to plan, organize and lead a professional fighting force. He had a style, and that style was a unique blend of the traits that made him a great fighter ace as well as a career Israeli officer. He was a great judge of character and a quick thinker. He wanted to know the people he was commanding on a personal level. He wanted to understand their strengths and their we
aknesses and their motivations.

The edge that made him a ruthless fighter pilot in his youth had admittedly dulled a little, the result, he told himself, of marriage and fatherhood. He had enjoyed his twenties, a period of time occupied by a long list of women when he wasn’t flying F-
15s. Life had been simple and he used his hero status to full advantage in the bars and discos of Tel Aviv. Change for him came in the most unlikely manner. When he was 29, like many young IAF pilots, he went to see
Top Gun
when it was released in Israel. He identified immediately with Tom Cruise’s character, not only because of occupation, but also because Schechter looked a lot like Cruise. When his friends started calling him “Maverick,” he realized that he was uncomfortably close to a character that, to Schechter, had as many flaws as attributes. The movie made him see a reflection that he was not satisfied with. He matured quickly over the next few years, a process that was capped when he married at the age of 33. Marriage, in turn, helped his career migrate from legendary fighter pilot to professional commander – a man that other men wanted to follow into combat.

Now
twenty years later, David Schechter had four children along with his wife. At home in Raanana, he led a suburban life that would fit perfectly into any bedroom community found anywhere in the world. In the office, he oversaw the operations of an air force that had to be ready to fight every moment of every day – a perfectly tuned instrument that was the guarantor of Israel’s survival. Every senior military commander in the world knew that as long as the IAF remained unchallenged in the Middle East, Israel would prevail over its enemies. Lose that edge and the death of the state would follow. For David Schechter, this knowledge informed his every working day. On his shoulders rested the fate of a nation. The only threat to that strategic reality was – God forbid – the use of nuclear weapons against Israel. And now, Schechter was given the responsibility to ensure that such a possibility would not come about. For him, it was business as usual.

On this night, however, the weight of that responsibility would take a back seat to getting to know Amit Margolis, a man
nineteen years his junior who would now be his partner in the single most important endeavor in either man’s life.

Orah Schechter opened the front door to her home on
Etsyon Street. The wife of General David Schechter was eight years younger than her husband but now looked a little older. She was a full time housekeeper and mother, the role leaving too little time for exercise and too much time for eating. Like many married women in their forties, Orah’s weight swung in a range that reflected, on a good day, the success of recent dieting will power or, on a bad day, the frustration of having succumbed too easily to the temptations of a full refrigerator. Tonight, like most nights, her weight was somewhere in the middle. “Shalom. You must be Amit.” Her smile was still as beautiful as the day it caught the eye of a 31-year-old IAF fighter pilot.

Amit Margolis smiled as he shook
Orah’s hand. “Shalom, Mrs. Schechter.”

“Please call me Orah.”

“Shalom, Orah. This is my girlfriend, Enya.”

Orah Schechter looked up to the stunning model, fighting to control her feminine instincts. She immediately noticed that Enya was wearing a pair of Gianni
Bini brown wedge shoes paired with a Dolce & Gabanna peach colored mid length dress. Enya’s shoes added two inches to her already formidable five-foot-seven-inch frame. Orah smiled and extended her hand. She couldn’t help but think that she was welcoming her daughter to dinner. Enya smiled back, which did nothing to help the hostess feel more at ease. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“I’m going to have to hide you from my teenage son,” said Orah, not sure what possessed her to make the comment.

Enya laughed nervously. The young couple followed Orah into the home, walking down a hall and into the kitchen. The hostess offered wine. “My husband will be home soon. He took our two youngest kids to a friend’s home.” Amit Margolis smiled. He couldn’t come to grips with the air force general he had now been in meetings with twice also being a suburban father chauffeuring kids around town.

Thirty-five minutes later
, all four adults were seated at a small rectangular table in the walled backyard of the Schechter home. The weather on this early spring day just north of Tel Aviv was perfect. The late afternoon temperature was now 76 degrees and the sky was cloudless. Everyone had finished a cucumber and tomato salad and Orah had just placed grilled lamb on the table to complement the vegetables and couscous. “Please help yourselves,” she added. She returned to the kitchen to open another bottle of wine.

As his wife walked away, Schechter added an instruction. “Open a bottle of the Joseph
Phelps Insignia, honey. Make sure it’s 2007.” Orah did not respond as she headed inside, but she heard every word and would be sure to comply.

“I think we all share something in common. All of our parents immigrated here,” said Schechter, wa
nting to learn more about Amit.

Margolis spoke up first. “My father was American but his parents had immigrated from Russia. My mother came here from Russia
after a brief time in the U.S.”

“That certainly explains why you speak Russian like a Russian,” observed the general.

“Da,” smiled the young Mossad katsa. “Same with Enya.”

Enya had been somewhat reticent. She was not at all sure if she was up to a dinner at the home of an Israeli general. Her Saturday nights were usually spent with friends at a party or a
dance club. “Yes, my parents came here from the Soviet Union in 1983,” she said. “My mother was three months pregnant with me when she arrived. How about you, General?”

“Please call me David. You make me feel too old.” Schechter smiled at the beautiful woman seated to his left and took a sip of wine. “I … am not Russian. My parents came to Israel from France. They were fortunate enough to live in Aix-en-Provence. My grandfather owned a vineyard that had been in the family for generations and my father started running it just before the war. They somehow survived the Vichy period and the denaturalization laws. My mom always told me it was because my father was very popular in town. Of course she also told me that he was smart enough to give away cases of his vintage reserve wines to the right people, including the chief of police.” Schechter laughed at the thought, his outward expression masking the anger that he harbored inside. He had spent his
youth daydreaming about being a vineyard owner in southern France. “Even after the Nazi occupation, they were able to survive for over a year. Finally the Germans started sending SS units across the countryside to round up remaining Jews. The property had a series of caves in the hillsides where wine was aged. My parents spent almost a year living in a hidden part of the caves with a small number of local Jews. They were supported by some of their workers who brought them food and never revealed the secret. But my grandfather, who was in his 70s, I think, stayed in the house and gave the SS a story about how his son and daughter-in-law had escaped to Spain by boat. He died on a train headed east towards a concentration camp.”

“I’m so sorry,” said Enya, unable to bring herself to call him David.

Schechter regretted going into that detail. He did not want to create a somber mood. Margolis could sense this. Amit spoke up to bail out his new partner. “I am guessing that French is your, eh, first language? ‘Ex’ – that’s how you pronounce that? It’s spelled a-i-x, right?”

“
Oui.
Ex-on-provence
. That is how a Frenchman in the south of France says it.”

“I have always wondered about that.” Margolis looked at his girlfriend. “I alway
s like to learn something new.”

The general smiled as his wife returned from the kitchen, an open bottle of one of the world’s best cabernet sauvignon
s in her hands. “Who would like some red wine with their lamb,” she said as she approached the table.

“Please,” came the response from Margolis.

The general liked that his new partner had recognized the situation and intentionally sought to lighten the mood. “You are right, Amit. French is what I grew up with at home.” As many men knew, the language of romance was one of the most powerful aphrodisiacs, especially when used by a fighter ace in Tel Aviv in the ‘80s. But with his wife back at the table, that was a memory that would not be shared at the moment.

Enya Govenin filled her plate with vegetables and couscous. She passed on the cabernet, instead continuing to enjoy her chardonnay. Orah was not as perceptive as her husband. “You shou
ld try the lamb. It’s delicious,” the lady of the house said.

Amit looked at his girlfriend. She was embarrassed and not sure how to respond. He interjected to help her out. “Thank you, Orah. The lamb is really delicious. But Enya is a vegetarian.”

“Oh,” responded Mrs. Schechter. “I’m so sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry about,” said Enya. “I have not eaten meat in a long time now.” Enya ate a bite of food as the hostess sat down, having filled three of four wine glasses. “I wanted to thank you for having us over. Your home is beautiful.” Enya smiled at Orah and then turned to
the general. She was curious and the time had come to quench that desire. “I’m sorry, how do you and Amit know each other again?”

“Ah, I can understand your curiosity.” Schechter put his fork down and reached for the wine glass. “Amit is helping the air force with our budgeting. It is the age old problem, you know. We have a lot we want to do and unfortunately limited funds to do it with. Amit helps us project out our expenses and look for savings.” He took a sip of wine and shrugged his shoulders. “Not very exciting, but a reality of life.” He smiled at his young guest. Across from him, Orah noted the flirtatious tone in her husband’s voice, something she had not heard in years.

“Didn’t I read that you were recently appointed as the special military advisor to Prime Minister Cohen?” Enya asked. Amit had pulled up the article from Haaretz on his computer earlier that day, asking her to learn a little about their host for the evening.

Schechter was surprised, immediately wondering if he had been underestimating the auburn haired beauty in front of him. The story had been given to the press to cover Schechter’s removal from his operation
al duties in order to head up Yahalom Group. “I’m glad to see that our youth are keeping up with current events. I thought that no one cared about the news anymore,” Schechter said. He smiled at Enya. “Yes, I was recently asked by the prime minister to act as his personal advisor on military matters and serve as a liaison between the IDF and the Americans. It’s an important role and I am honored to serve the prime minister.”

“I think Amit is somehow related to this,”
Enya pressed, her tone slightly accusatorial.

“Well, you are not supposed to know this, but Amit will be consulting with me on budget priorities for the entire IDF.” Schechter looked at Margolis and reached over with his right hand to clasp Amit’s left shoulder. He looked back at Enya. “You have a very important man here, Enya. Please take care of him. I will need his budget advice over the coming months.” Schechter squeezed Amit’s shoulder
and abruptly released his grasp.

“Oh, don’t you worry,” Enya
said, as she looked into Amit’s eyes. “I will take care of him and make sure he is very happy.”

“Hey, hey,” joked the general. “Now don’t wear him out. I need him to be focused in the office.” Schechter laughed and brought his wine glass up to his mouth. Across the table, his wife rolled her eyes.