The Jerusalem Inception (42 page)
“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.”
L
emmy 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?”
“By flying fast and low,” Weitzman said, but Elie could tell he was not telling the whole truth.
The chief of Mossad stood, which brought immediate quiet to the room. “Timing is key. By the time an Egyptian soldier notices a couple of planes pass overhead and makes the decision to bother his direct commander, our pilots will be close to their targets. The hierarchical nature of the Egyptian army means that a warning from a junior officer in the front would have to climb up rung by rung all the way up to headquarters. And it won’t make an impression unless many other such sightings are reported simultaneously. By then, even if the Egyptian generals realize what’s happening and send orders down to each airfield, they’ll be too late. Our pilots will have already hit their respective targets.”
“But there’s a weakness,” Weitzman said.
“Correct.” The chief of Mossad glanced at Rabin. “The new radar system at the UN Middle East headquarters at the Government House is the most powerful ground-based radar America makes. It sits on the highest piece of land in the region and is powerful enough to track our jets from the moment of takeoff and all the way over Sinai and the Mediterranean. They’ll see our pilots take off, and General Bull could call President Nasser directly and tell him the radar is tracking two hundred and thirty Israeli jets heading south. Nasser would shoot orders down to the bases, and all their planes will take off just in time to give our boys a deadly welcome.”
Arik Sharon said, “What about cutting off the electrical power to Government House?”
“The UN has its own generators and gasoline depot behind the radar station.” The Mossad chief must have anticipated Sharon’s next question, adding, “And no, Arik, you may not attack the UN Mideast headquarters.”
Sharon grinned. “You have a better option?”
“Our technical experts are looking into jamming as an option, but it doesn’t look promising.”
O
n the drive back, they stopped at a payphone and Dor gave Sanani a fistful of tokens to call home. Lemmy watched his animated face as he happily spoke to each of his many family members and blew loud kisses. When Sanani was done, Dor beckoned Lemmy, who shook his head. He would have liked to call Tanya, but what could he say to her?
I still love you even though you used me.
A gray-haired woman with a husky voice and a beautiful British accent came in the afternoon, carrying a cardboard model of Government House, where she had worked before 1948 for the British High Commissioner. She pointed out to Lemmy and Sanani the gate, the front courtyard, Antenna Hill in the rear, and the building itself, where a side entrance led into a stairwell made of matches and pieces of fabric. She explained the internal setup of the building, especially the three alternative stairways up to the roof, where a storage shed served as a base for the massive flag mast. When she left, the model stayed behind.
Yosh and Dor showed up a while later with cans of paint and brushes and a photo of a UN Jeep Wagoneer. “Have fun,” Yosh said. “Try to make it look professional.”
Sanani walked around the green Jeep, cradling his cheeks in mock grief. “It’s a crime against humanity!”
After taping over the glass and chrome, as well as the headlights and turn signals, they stripped down to their boxer shorts and began painting.
Lemmy was working on the bottom of a door when he felt a wet brush travel down his spine. “No!” He turned and smacked Sanani on his head with his brush, turning the black curls into white hair that was pasted down Sanani’s forehead.
