FORTY FOUR.
Ben Freidman sat on
the porch of the house sipping a glass of water and looking out at
the rolling terrain under the moonlit evening sky. He desperately
wanted a drink, but one had not been offered to him. It had been a
very long day trying to manage the situation in Hebron. There were
people in his government who didn't appreciate the victory he had
achieved. They were weaklings. Men and women who didn't have the
stomach to fight for the preservation of Israel.
The man he was
waiting to see had the determination, though.
The ranch in the
Jordan Valley belonged to Prime Minister David Goldberg. Goldberg,
the head of the conservative Likud Party, had been elected by an
overwhelming majority of the Israeli people despite the fact that
his party held only a handful of seats in the 120 member Knesset.
That had been two years ago, when the people had seen how
duplicitous the Palestinians were. The Israelis extended the olive
branch and Yasser Arafat took it from them and slapped them in the
face. He used the new Palestinian Authority to secure his hold over
the Palestinian people and bring in weapons and explosives to help
wage an even bloodier war against the Jews, all the while he
feigned a lack of control over the so-called martyr brigades.
Goldberg had been
swept into office as a hard-liner who would crack down on the
Palestinian terror groups and restore some security to the country.
Unfortunately things had not gone as planned. They were up against
a new form of terror. One that so far they had been unable to stop.
The steady stream of homicide bombers had crippled Israel's fragile
economy and frayed the nerves of even some of the stoutest
patriots. The martyr brigades needed to be stopped, and Ben
Freidman was willing to be every bit as ruthless as the enemy to
get the job
done.
He was worried about
his old friend and current prime minister, though. There had been
signs lately that Goldberg was beginning to crack under the
pressure. His cabinet was filled with back stabbers and even his
own party was asking if the old general had what it took to deal
with the crisis. And then on top of that the damn Americans were
giving him orders to back down.
Freidman had seen it
all before. He understood the visceral hatred the Arabs felt toward
him and his country. In Freidman's mind it was based on jealousy.
The Arabs and their closed patriarchal society couldn't handle
being bested by the Jews. The Palestinians had held on to this land
for thousands of years and had done nothing to improve it.
The Jews came back to
their homeland and in one generation turned much of the arid
landscape into plentiful farms and orchards. They had tried to
negotiate a fair peace, but the Arabs would have none of it.
There would always be
a large and influential segment of the Palestinian people who would
never be satisfied until Israel ceased to exist. It was Freidman's
job to make sure that never happened.
This was the
important mission of Freidman's life. It was his vocation to make
sure Israel survived, and he was willing to go to great lengths to
ensure success. Doing it alone, though, was not possible. He needed
help. He needed allies who would pacify the bleeding hearts in his
country, those naive imbeciles who actually believed that peace was
worth risking the entire security of a nation, of a people who had
narrowly avoided extinction.
He needed lobbyists
in America to lean on the right people. People who could get to
other people who controlled the lifeblood of politics: money.
People who could deliver the three states that every Presidential
hopeful wanted: New York, Florida and the Crown jewel, California.
He needed America's support more than ever and he would work
diligently to make sure it was there when the time came.
Right now, though,
the thing he needed most was a strong prime minister who would stay
the course. He'd seen signs lately that his old friend was losing
his stomach for the fight. This could not be allowed to happen.
Prime Minister Goldberg needed to hold true to his commitment and
stave off another attack from the liberals.
David Goldberg
stepped onto the porch holding two bottles of Goldstar beer. He
handed one to Freidman and apologized for making him wait. Even
though Freidman would have preferred a stiff drink, he took the
beer and watched his friend take a seat in the rocking chair next
to him.
On the face of it,
Goldberg was the most unlikely hawk you would ever meet. His plump
fleshy appearance made him appear too soft for a war hero. He had a
mane of white hair, which framed a tan face and heavy jowls. He was
a large man, but not muscular and it was easy to see him as the
grown-up version of the pudgy kid in school who was always picked
on. This was a mistake. The man's temper and valor were legendary.
Never one to shy away from a fight, Goldberg had the disposition of
a bull. He had distinguished himself many times on the battlefield,
and for that at least, he had the respect of his countrymen.
Unfortunately,
though, his valor did not indefinitely guarantee their
support.
Goldberg took a swig
of beer and said, "Ben, you have created quite a stir."
Freidman listened to
a dog barking in the distance and said, "Don't I always?"
"Yes, you do, but
these are delicate times."
Freidman already
disliked the tone of their conversation.
"When haven't they
been?"
The prime minister
disagreed by shaking his head.
"We have never seen
the international pressure we see now:" "Forgive me for being so
blunt, David, but the international community can kiss my
ass."
"Believe me, I share
your feelings, but we cannot ignore them.
What you did last
night is causing me problems."
Freidman looked away
from his old friend and took a drink from his beer.
"David, you asked me
to hit back, and did I ever find a way to hit back. It will take
them years to recover from this."
The prime minister
wasn't so sure anymore, not since these she-devils started blowing
themselves up. More and more Goldberg was starting to think in
terms of withdrawal from the West Bank and the occupied
territories. There were only two things that prevented him from
doing so. The first was the settlements. Thousands of Jews had
moved into the areas and would die rather than leave. The second
reason he wouldn't support the withdrawal and recognition of a
Palestinian state was that he feared for his life. The man sitting
next to him on the porch, along with many others, would have him
killed if he were to gamble so recklessly with Israel's
security.
Knowing he had to be
careful with how he dealt with Freidman, he said, "The attack was
the Crowning achievement of your career, Ben." Goldberg held out
his bottle for a toast.
"Thank you." Freidman
clanged his bottle against the prime minister's and said,
"But?"
Goldberg finished his
drink and in a confused tone asked, "But what?"
"Don't protect me,
David. Remember I hear everything. I know your cabinet is furious
with the number of casualties."
"They are rarely in
agreement on anything."
"Well, if you'd like
me to address them I am more than willing."
Goldberg considered
this for a moment. It wasn't a bad idea. Ben Friedman could
intimidate even the staunchest opponent.
"Maybe later, but for
now I am more concerned about explaining to the international
community how so many innocent civilians died."
He was tempted to
remind him that the Palestinians living in the neighborhood were
hardly innocent, but the director general of Mossad decided against
it. Goldberg the warrior had transformed into Goldberg the
politician. Instead he said, "They are an unfortunate casualty of
war."
"But sixteen Hellfire
missiles, Ben. What were you thinking?"
Freidman
shrugged.
"This was a once in a
lifetime chance. I wasn't about to let a single one of them escape
if I could help it."
"I've been told your
infiltrator had enough explosives in those cases to take out
everyone at the meeting."
Freidman was more
than a little surprised that Goldberg knew about the specifics, but
he covered it well. He had intentionally told him little prior to
the mission with the tacit understanding that if things went wrong,
the prime minister would have deniability. Now someone within his
own agency was talking to the prime minister and Freidman would
have to find out who.
"David, don't tell me
you've lost your stomach for this?"
A scowl formed on
Goldberg's face.
"Don't confuse the
issue, Ben.
I'm hearing things
from other sources. I'm hearing that you went overboard on this
thing
that we could have avoided killing all the innocent
civilians."
Freidman stopped
rocking and looked harshly at his old friend.
"Do me a favor and
stop calling them innocent. They have been blowing up women and
children for years, and you know as well as I that the only way to
make them stop is to hit them harder than they hit us."
Goldberg wasn't so
sure anymore. When he'd been a young tank commander, he'd thought
so. When he'd taken the reins of the country just a few years ago
he had thought so, but now, after all the homicide bombs, he was
wavering in his conviction.
"Ben, these are
delicate times. The eyes of the world are upon us."
Freidman was
disgusted by what he was hearing. He was tempted to tell Goldberg
to step down if he didn't have the constitution to see it through.
Instead he said, "The eyes of the world have always been on us. It
shouldn't matter any more now than it has in the past. We are not
the aggressors here, David, and you know that. They are the ones
who have continued to attack us, and both of us have been around
long enough to know the only thing they respond to is force."
"But it has to end at
some point. We need to find a way."
"What?" snapped
Freidman.
"Do you want to pull
out and build your stupid wall? Have you paid no attention to
history? All you will be doing is giving them land that they will
use to someday attack us from. You will be remembered as the
Neville Chamberlain of Israel."
"I am talking about
doing no such thing," replied a terse Goldberg.
"And don't sit here
and lecture me about being Neville Chamberlain, when just last
night you killed a hundred innocent women and children.
I've been briefed by
the army, Ben. I know there was no bomb factory. Those people did
not need to die."
Freidman did not
intend for this meeting to head in this direction, but he was not
about to back down.
"I will admit that
some of those deaths are regrettable, but again, only a few. The
overwhelming majority of the people who were living on that block
were either terrorists or supporters of terrorists. I will lose no
sleep over my decision, and I will gladly stand before your cabinet
and defend my actions."
"It is not the
cabinet that I am worried about," snapped Goldberg.
"It is the UN, and it
is the Americans. If they decide to look into this, and they find
out that there was in fact no bomb factory, you will have done us
great harm."
"They will not look
into it," promised an irritated Freidman.
"I can handle the
Americans. I always have and I always will, and as far as the UN is
concerned they are a bunch of impotent dilettantes. A week from now
this will all be forgotten." Freidman took a swig of beer and
confidently added, "I can promise you
this will all blow over.
Right now, though, we need to stay on the offensive. In the wake of
an attack such as last night they will make mistakes. They will
seek vengeance and we must be ready to pounce. This is what I
propose we do."
Goldberg rocked in
his chair and listened as the head of Mossad laid out his plan for
how to keep the various Palestinian groups on the defensive. The
prime minister was torn as he listened. The old soldier in him very
much wanted to press the advantage, but there was another voice in
his head that was preaching caution. It was the voice of a
politician who had the support of less than half of his
country.
So far the only
reason he hadn't received a vote of no confidence was because there
was no clear challenger willing to step into the ring.
His opponents were
circling, though, and it wouldn't be long before they pounced. For
the time being he would have to keep a close watch on Freidman. If
the UN found out what had really happened in Hebron, his cabinet
would turn on him in a second, and Israel would once again be
forced back to the peace table with weak leadership at the reins of
power.