FIFTY THREE.
Prime Minister
Goldberg had never in his life felt so beleaguered.
This was worse than
the Yom Kippur War, when he had been surrounded by Syrian forces
and shelled until his ears bled, and ordered by his commanders to
hold his position until a counterattack could be mounted. He had
hung on for three days without sleep. He and his men were fighting
a much larger Syrian force in a bloody battle for the Golan
Heights. The counterattack eventually arrived and an angry Israeli
army threw the Syrians back across the border and closed to within
spitting distance of Damascus.
Then the United
States and the Soviet Union had stepped in and tried to separate
the belligerents like fighting children on a playground.
Goldberg would never
forget the lesson he learned in 1973, and that was to never trust
his Arab neighbors. They had attacked on the holiest Jewish holiday
of the year, when Israelis were either at home or in their
synagogues praying. For the first three days they had hammered the
Jewish people, and then when the Israeli army regrouped and pushed
both the Egyptians and the Syrians back across their borders, the
Arabs screamed for international intervention. They launched a
sneak attack and then whined for peace and of course wanted their
land back even though thousands of Israelis lay dead.
Under the pressure of
an Arab oil embargo the United States had forced Israel to pull
back and concede much of the land they had captured in a war they
did not start. How many times did the world have to see proof that
Arabs could not be trusted? It frustrated Goldberg to no end that
the leaders of Europe refused to see things as they were. It
saddened him deeply that despite everything his people had been
through on that cursed continent that they did not come to the aid
of Israel. All Goldberg wanted for his people was a safe place to
live. And if things weren't already bad enough having to deal with
suicidal Palestinians and bigoted heads of state, he now had to
contend with dissenters within his own government.
He was tired. The
years of leading the fight had taken their toll and Goldberg's
energy was beginning to wane. At the rate things were going there
was a good chance he wouldn't survive the week without being
subjected to a vote of no confidence. To start with, the UN and a
healthy number of his cabinet members were up in arms over the
events in Hebron, and now someone had assassinated the Palestinian
Ambassador in New York City.
One of Goldberg's
aides had briefed him on the assassination during breakfast, and
his private reaction to the news had been one of desperate fear.
The very first person who came to mind was his old friend, and the
director general of Mossad, Ben Freidman. Goldberg had been asking
himself all day if Freidman was capable of launching such a
disastrous operation on his own. The answer was a startling yes,
which made him all the more uncomfortable with the meeting that
was" about to take place. The prime minister would have preferred
to let the problem fade away. There was enough bloodshed in the
Palestinian-Israeli conflict that the Ambassador's death would fade
to the background sooner than one would think, but unfortunately,
for the next month or two, things were sure to get worse. It was
still early in America, but Goldberg had no doubt that as the day
progressed President Hayes, or more likely Secretary of State Berg,
would be on the phone demanding assurances that Israel had had no
hand in the brutal act.
Goldberg was tempted
to bury his head in the sand, but that would be foolish and
contrary to his character. He needed the truth from Freidman and
then after that he could decide what to say to the Americans.
He ran a frustrated
hand through his thin white hair and looked at his wall clock. It
was approaching 2:30 in the afternoon. Freidman was late, which was
not a surprise. The head of Mossad came and went as he
wished.
It WAS A FEW MINUTES
LATER that Freidman finally arrived to find a nervous prime
minister sitting behind his desk. Freidman knew what this was
about. He was the prime suspect in the assassination of Ambassador
Ali. In contrast to the prime minister's suit, Freidman was dressed
casually in slacks and a loose-fitting, short-sleeved dress
shirt.
As always, the shirt
was untucked to conceal the.38-caliber revolver he carried in a
belt holster at the small of his back. Freidman never went anywhere
without it.
Slowly, he lowered
himself into one of the two armchairs opposite Goldberg's desk. The
beleaguered expression on his friend's face did not go
unnoticed.
"David, you do not
look good."
Goldberg had the type
of face that had surrendered to gravity almost completely. It was
hard to believe that this roly-poly man had served in combat. He
shook his head, heavy jowls sagging.
"I am in the fight of
my life."
Freidman interpreted
this comment as the exaggeration of a politician who had lost
perspective. In a voice void of any compassion or sympathy,
Freidman said, "This is nothing."
Looking up under
hooded eyes, Goldberg studied the supremely confident head of
Mossad and felt a bit of anger spark from within.
"Maybe you haven't
noticed lately, Ben, but my cabinet is about to fall apart. The UN
is screaming for inspectors to be sent into Hebron and after what
happened in New York last night, it's a foregone conclusion that
they will pass a resolution."
"And you can tell
them to stick their resolution-" Goldberg slammed his fist down on
his desk, cutting Freidman off.
"I will be able to
tell them no such thing," he yelled, "because I will no longer be
prime minister! Thanks to you I will be long gone before the first
inspector arrives."
"You're
exaggerating," responded Freidman with a disgusted shake of
his
head.
"Exaggerating,"
snapped Goldberg.
"I'm doing no such
thing. You have gotten me into this mess due to your overzealous
actions in Hebron!"
"Don't criticize me
for being overzealous. The whole reason you were elected was
because the Israeli people wanted someone who would be
overzealous."
"You didn't need to
level the whole damn neighborhood," Goldberg shot back.
"Yes I did!" screamed
Freidman.
"Remember Falid
Al-Din? We sent a missile right into his car, and he walked away. I
wasn't going to make that mistake again."
"So you destroyed an
entire neighborhood!"
"You're damn right I
did! This is a war!"
Goldberg let out a
frustrated sigh and through gritted teeth said, "I know it's a war,
but there are other issues to consider."
"Like what?"
"Like our
allies."
"You mean our allies
who fire bombed Dresden and Tokyo and then dropped atomic bombs on
Hiroshima and Nagasaki?" Freidman stared back at the prime minister
with righteous conviction. They'd had this discussion many times
before and their views were identical.
"War is ugly, and
sometimes you save more lives in the long run by being more brutal
than your enemy. We should expel every Palestinian from the
occupied territories and not allow them back until every major Arab
state signs a peace treaty with us
and damn the international
community."
The prime minister
shook his head.
"You know better than
that.
The political will to
launch such an operation isn't there."
"Why don't we find
out?"
Goldberg was angry at
himself for getting so far off track. Freidman had once again shown
that he was willing to go to great lengths to get what he wanted.
Maybe, Goldberg thought, he would even be so devious as to put me
in a position where I had no choice but to lash out. He looked hard
at the director general of Mossad and wondered just how far he'd go
to get what he wanted. The answer, he knew, was that he would go
very far indeed.
"Look me in the eye
and tell me what role you had in the death of the Palestinian
Ambassador."
It was easy to offend
some people, but not Ben Freidman. Goldberg might as well have
asked him what he'd had for lunch.
"I had absolutely
nothing to do with All's murder."
Goldberg searched for
some hint that his old friend was lying to him. After only a second
or two he knew it was a worthless exercise.
He'd seen the man on
too many occasions lie with the same impunity as he told the
truth.
"Did Mossad have
anything to do with the Ambassador's death?"
Freidman shook his
head.
"I might be crazy,
David, but I am not stupid. Why would I be so dumb as to kill the
Palestinian Ambassador to the UN while he is in America?" He
frowned dismissively.
"I do not mourn Ali's
death. He was a two-bit thug dressed up as a diplomat.
He's in Ramallah
almost every month. If I wanted him dead there would be easier ways
to do it, with far fewer repercussions."
These words had the
opposite effect on Goldberg than he had intended.
Through Freidman's
defense the prime minister glimpsed the very reason why he might
have thought he could get away with killing the Ambassador.
Sound-minded people would eventually decide that the director
general of Mossad would never risk offending the Americans when he
could simply kill the Ambassador when he was visiting the West
Bank. Now Goldberg was truly worried. What if one of his closest
advisors was working behind the scenes to provoke an all-out
war?
Freidman could tell
that Goldberg was not buying his denial. In a more ingratiating
tone, he said, "I promise you, David, I had nothing to do with
this. I have already spoken to Director Kennedy and she believes
Ali's assassination may have something to do with a business deal
gone bad." Freidman was stretching the truth a bit, but felt it was
needed.
Goldberg gave him a
skeptical look.
"What kind of
business deal?"
"Ali has been known
to deal in arms from time to time."
"Weapons?"
"Yes." Freidman was
happy to see this seemed to give the prime minister some
hope.
"And you say the
Americans knew about these activities?"
"Yes, as do the
French, British, Germans, Russians and I'm sure quite a few other
intelligence agencies."
"I would like to see
Ali's file as soon as possible and give the Americans everything we
have on him."
"It's already in
process."
Goldberg felt a
little bit better, but he still had the Hebron disaster to contend
with.
"Assuming we are
fortunate enough to be cleared of any wrongdoing in Ali's death, it
will still be too late to help us with the Hebron thing. With the
current political mood the UN is sure to vote for inspectors by
today or tomorrow."
"Have the United
States stall."
"They won't. Not
right now."
"Then just deny the
inspectors access."
Goldberg had already
thought it through and discussed it with his closest political
advisors. Dejectedly he replied, "I can't. It would be political
suicide. My cabinet would fall apart, and I'd get a no-confidence
vote within twenty-four hours."
Freidman knew he was
right, but wasn't willing to give in so easily.
The two men sat in
silence, both of them trying to find a way out of this complicated
mess. Freidman had come up with only one option when his thoughts
were interrupted by a muffled rumble coming from outside the
building. Both he and the prime minister got to their feet and went
to the window, just as another explosion was heard in the distance.
Unfortunately, this was a noise that they had become all too
familiar with.
Within minutes,
reports were streaming into the prime minister's office. Three
suicide bombs had gone off within minutes of each other.
Two in West Jerusalem
and one in Tel Aviv. The damage and death toll was unknown, but
expected to be high. Emergency response teams were at each site and
searching frantically to make sure no other bombs were set to
explode. It was a new and particularly evil trick of the martyr
brigades to set secondary devices to detonate later and kill the
paramedics who rushed to the scene to help the victims.
Freidman grabbed
Goldberg by the elbow and led him into a corner out of earshot from
his aides.
"This is your
opportunity."
"How could this be an
opportunity?"
"Send in the army and
declare a curfew on Hebron. Secure the area and leave the rest up
to me. By the time the UN inspectors arrive there will be ample
evidence of a bomb-making factory. You will stifle the critics in
your cabinet and the UN will be appeased."
Goldberg thought
about it for a second, then slowly began to nod.
It was his only
option. It was war, and in war the truth was almost always the
first casualty.