He looked back and found something in those eyes that few people had ever seen, but he wasn’t quite sure what to call it.
She looked up over the heads of the people around her. Outside, past the airfield, were the rocky hills where Khabbani and his men were arguing about when to fire. The heat of the Hamseen permeated the small room.
Miriam Bernstein looked around the room again. “There are those among us who do not want to give up at the peace table what they bought in blood. I understand this. I do. And I know all the rebuttals to the peace-at-any-cost philosophy. We all do. I even believe many of them. I’m just asking you all to think about what I’ve said over the next few days. Thank you.” She sat down and busied herself with the papers in front of her.
No one made a reply. The room was very still.
General Talman rose and walked over to Teddy Laskov. He took him by the arm and they both walked out into the corridor.
Eventually, people began speaking in quiet voices to those sitting near them. Then the meeting broke into small groups as final plans were coordinated.
* * *
Jacob Hausner tuned out the low voices around him and regarded Miriam Bernstein for a long time. There was a subtle undercurrent between them. He felt it. Unresolved, it would surface at the most unexpected moment. He remembered suddenly and vividly the time she had refused an invitation to spend the weekend at his villa. He bristled now at the thought of it. Then he sat back and looked at the ceiling. To hell with her. He had other things besides Miriam Bernstein to occupy his thoughts.
There had been a lot of practice over the years for this moment. The Palestinians had always considered El Al a military objective, and the attacks had begun almost the same day El Al had in 1948. But it was the more spectacular terrorist operations of the 1960s and 1970s that had grabbed the headlines.
The last incident had been the attempted hijacking of an El Al 747 out of Heathrow Airport. Ahmed Rish had been the mastermind of that plot. Hausner’s face grimaced at the name. Rish. One of the last—and probably the best—of a bad lot. They’d had him in Ramla Military Prison once, too, after he had been arrested at Lod Airport on an unknown mission. In 1968, before Israel adopted a policy of refusing to negotiate with terrorists, they had exchanged him, along with fifteen other terrorists, for the Israeli passengers on the El Al flight that had been hijacked in the attempt to capture General Sharon. Hausner had thought it was a mistake then, and later events had proved him correct.
He wished that Ahmed Rish had turned up dead in one of the Mivtzan Elohim raids over the years. Rish’s specialty was airplanes, and the thought of Rish on the loose, an unrepentant and deeply committed terrorist, disturbed him. Hausner had been one of his principal interrogators at Ramla. Rish was one of the few terrorists who had made him lose his temper. Hausner remembered striking him. In his report, he concluded that Rish was a very dangerous man who ought to be locked up forever. But he had been released.
Rish had turned up in a lot of places since then, each one of them too close to an El Al plane. There were rumors that Rish had been one of the terrorists who had escaped the Entebbe raid. Probably true, thought Hausner.
When Isaac Burg had mentioned a guerilla caught in France, Hausner’s memory had been jogged. Rish had been spotted in France over a year ago, after the Heathrow operation. Why France? Hausner recalled that something about that had bothered him at the time. What was it? France. Rish. Rish’s modus operandi. That was it. There was something about Rish’s modus operandi that had struck him at the time. Rish wasn’t a gun-toting, half-crazed hijacker. He didn’t take many personal risks. Rish operated in a very remote, circumspect manner.
Why France? Why not the big Arab communities in Germany? The only Arab group of any size in France was the Algerians. Rish was an Iraqi, though he was fighting for the Palestinian cause. To the rest of the world, Arabs were all the same. But to each other they were not. Also, to the French police, who were used to Algerians, an Iraqi would stick out.
Yes, Rish was an insect who had touched the net of Israeli Intelligence not so long ago, and it had quivered. They had spotted him not in Paris but in the countryside. Strange. Once in Brittany and once in the South by the Spanish border. Why? Suddenly, the thought struck Hausner that there was a weak link in this whole security chain somewhere, and he didn’t know what or where it was. A chill ran down his spine.
There was a psychological profile of Rish on file, plus a standard identikit. He’d get them out. And he’d place a call to the French SDECE. Hausner looked around. Everyone was still conversing in small groups. He rose. “If no one needs me any longer, I’ll get back to my job.”
No one answered.
“Madame Deputy Minister?”
“Don’t let us keep you,” said Miriam Bernstein.
“I won’t.” He looked around the room. “Please feel free to use my conference room as long as you wish. Excuse me.” He turned and walked to the door, then looked back. “Shalom,” he said sincerely.
4
Captain David Becker, pilot of El Al Concorde 02, sat in the Operations Room next to his First Officer, Moses Hess. Across the long table from Hess sat the flight engineer, Peter Kahn, an American Jew, like Becker.
On the walls were maps, charts, and bulletins. One wall was a large window that faced out onto the airplane parking ramp. The two Concordes sat beyond the partially shaded ramp in the harsh sunlight.
On the other side of a glass partition in the Operations Room was the Dispatcher’s Office with its teletypes and weather maps.
On the far end of the long table, in the Operations Room, sat the flight crew of El Al Concorde 01. There was Asher Avidar, the pilot, a hot-headed Sabra whom Becker considered much too young and impulsive to fly anything but the military fighters that he had formerly flown. Next to Avidar was Zevi Hirsch, the First Officer, who Becker thought would have been the pilot except for his age, and Leo Sharett, the flight engineer, who also counterbalanced Avidar’s brashness.
Avidar was speaking to his crew, and Becker strained to hear and understand the rapid Hebrew. This was a very carefully planned flight, and Becker wanted none of Avidar’s lone-eagle antics. He had to follow Avidar on the long trip, and fuel was a critical factor at Mach 2.2.
Becker checked the most recent weather maps for the flight while he listened to Avidar briefing his crew.
Becker was an exceptionally tall man, and for that reason he had been denied fighter training in the American Air Force when he entered service at the start of the Korean War. In ROTC, they had failed to point this height limit out to him, and he found himself ferrying troops on C-54 transports. Eventually, he partially satisfied his lust for combat by joining the Strategic Air Command. He waited patiently through the 1950s for his chance to vaporize the city in Russia that was assigned to him, though he knew he would not see the destruction. The city was Minsk, or, more precisely, the airport to the northwest of the city. His bomb would have also incinerated Teddy Laskov’s hometown of Zaslavl, which was a coincidence that neither man had become aware of during their chance conversations.
Eventually, with age, his aggressive tendencies waned, and with the coming of the Intercontinental Ballistic Missiles, he found himself in cargo planes again. Then came Vietnam and he was put back into a B-52. He vaporized lots of people there, but he had long since lost the appetite for it. During the 1967 War, he volunteered for the re-supply flights to Israel. His enlistment ran out on his last flight to Lod, at the same time that his twenty-year marriage did, so he stayed and married the Israeli Air Force girl who always gave him a hard time about the shipment manifests.
The Israeli Air Force did not have nor need anything like the huge long-range bombers he knew so well, and there were only a few C-130 military transports in the Hel Avir, the Air Corps. But he really didn’t want to go back into the military, anyway. He just wanted to fly. Eventually, he landed a job flying El Al DC-4 cargo planes.
In the U.S. Air Force, he ha
d logged thousands of hours of heavy jet flying. He had also been checked out on the American FB-111 supersonic bomber and thus was one of the few men in Israel who knew how to fly big planes at supersonic speeds. When El Al bought the Concordes, Becker went to Toulouse for training. Now he was going to fly the single most important flight in his career, and he meant to make certain that it went well.
Becker glanced into the Dispatch Room as the door from the corridor swung open. He could see Generals Talman and Laskov enter. They spoke with the personnel for a few minutes, then came through the connecting door.
Everyone in the Operations Room, all reserve officers in the Hel Avir, stood.
Talman and Laskov smiled and motioned for everyone to be seated. Talman spoke. “Good afternoon. Well, we have just come from a security meeting and I want to tell you all that everything looks fine. But for added security, we are going to advance your takeoff time to three-thirty. In addition, you are not flying over the Med to Madrid, but instead you will go up the Italian boot and head for Orly to refuel. We have permission to fly supersonic over Italy and France. Everything, including new flight plans, maps, and weather charts, is taken care of. No one will deplane at Orly. Same procedure as the Madrid plan.” He looked at each man. “Gentlemen,” he paused, looking for the right words as he stroked his clipped mustache, then said only, “have a good flight. Shalom.” He turned and walked back to the Dispatch Room.
Teddy Laskov sat on the table. “All right. We have a minute for a last bit of coordinating. I’ll monitor you on Air Traffic Control and on the company frequency the whole time I’m with you. But if we want to speak to each other, we must do so on my tactical frequency, channel 31. That is your 134.725. If, for some reason, I believe that the frequency is no longer secure—of if you do—say the words, ‘My number three fuel tank indicator has become inop,’ and we will all meet on the alternate tactical which will be channel 27, your 129.475. Clear? All right. I’ll stay with you until you get to 19,000 meters and Mach 2.2. Maybe I’ll hang around if my fuel is good. You’ll be all right after that. Are there any questions?”
Avidar stood up. “Let me lay it on the line, General. Who’s got tactical control of this flight? I mean, I’m the flight leader of these two Concordes and you’re in charge of your people and you outrank me in the Hel Avir—but this is a civilian flight. Let’s say we’re attacked. Let’s say I want to take evasive action, but you want us to hold a steady course so you know where we are. Who’s the boss?”
Laskov regarded Avidar for a long time. Whatever else people thought of the young pilot, at least he didn’t waste time beating around the bush. Also, he had no qualms about verbalizing the unthinkable. Laskov nodded. “All right. Fair question, Asher. Let me repeat what you’ve already been told. We foresee no trouble. But if . . . if we are attacked, you will follow the rules for heavy bomber missions. Since Israel has no heavy bombers, let me acquaint you with those rules. They are simple. The first rule is you hold course until you get instructions from the fighter escort leader—me—to take individual evasive action or for everyone to change course, speed, or altitude. For rule number two, see rule number one. Does that answer your question?”
“No.” He sat down and looked away.
Laskov tried a conciliatory tone. “Look, Asher, flying escort is always a pain in the ass for everyone. We don’t have these long-range escort situations in Israel, so it’s new to you—but in a war I was in a thousand years ago, it was proved time and again that the sheep have to stay with the flock and listen to the sheep dogs, or else the wolves get them. No matter how many sheep in the flock seem to be getting picked off by the wolves, I assure you, it is worse trying to go it alone. Now, the analogy is not exact, but you get the message.” He tried a fatherly look, but Avidar was having no part of it. Laskov shrugged and turned toward Becker. “David? Anything on your mind?”
“No, General. I think that wraps it up, except for the call signs on the tactical frequencies.
Laskov stood up. “Right. I am the Angel Gabriel plus my tail number, which is 32. My squadron is Gabriel with their tail numbers, You, David, are the Wings of Emmanuel. Asher, you are the Kosher Clipper. Well, anyway, it will be Emmanuel and Clipper on the air.” Laskov looked at his watch. It was just two P.M. “One more thing. In addition to the regular peace mission delegates who appear on your passenger manifest, you might get a few extra VIP’s. There will be an American on board, too. John McClure. Some sort of embassy man going home on leave. Tell your Chief Stewards to expect an addendum to the manifest.”
Becker flipped through his clipboard and found the manifest. “There’s another compatriot of mine coming, too, General. Tom Richardson, the air attaché. You must know him. He has some business in New York.”
Laskov paused. That must have been a last minute development. Laskov knew it meant something, but he didn’t know what. Maybe just a friendly gesture. He nodded. “He’s sort of a professional acquaintance—a friend when he’s not trying to tell us our business. If he doesn’t like the kosher food, kick his ass out over Rome. Avidar, if he’s on your flight, don’t try to argue politics or religion with him. He has neither.”
Becker smiled. “He asked to be on my ship. I’ll take good care of him.”
“Do that,” said Laskov, absently. He walked toward the connecting door to the Dispatch Room where he could see Talman talking to the Chief Dispatcher. He turned around and faced the men who had all stood up again. “David. You said he picked your ship?”
Yes, sir.” Becker handed Laskov the manifest.
Laskov looked at it. Next to Richardson’s name, which was penned in at the bottom, were the numbers “02.” He knew the combined manifest showed neither plane nor seat selection at this point. Plane selection was a state security matter and would be decided at the last moment. Seat selection was to be left to the individual delegates so that they could group into committees and get some work accomplished on the flight. Laskov wondered why Richardson requested a specific plane since he didn’t know if any friends or acquaintances would be on that plane. Why not wait until he saw how the delegation broke up? Both planes would only be a little over half full. Maybe he wanted to fly with Becker. He looked up. “Did he know you were flying 02?”
“I think so. I guess he figured he could sit in the jump seat and chat on the way over. He doesn’t speak Hebrew that well.”
“I guess so. All right, men. Have a good flight. See you at about 5,000 meters. Shalom.”
* * *
The VIP lounge, down the corridor from both the Operations Room and Hausner’s office, was crowded with about a hundred people. The drapes had been drawn to help the air conditioners, but the lounge was still warm. The darkness, however, gave an illusion of coolness. Every minute or so, someone would part the drapes a bit and look at the two Concordes, standing by themselves and ringed by soldiers.
Yaakov Leiber, the Chief Steward on Becker’s aircraft, walked into the VIP lounge. Little Yaakov Leiber, as almost everyone called him, was very nervous. He wished someone else were briefing the passengers on this flight. He was used to giving his little speech in the VIP lounge, but this group was different. He recognized many of the faces and names.
In addition to the twenty Peace Delegates, there was an unusually large support group of aides, research assistants, secretaries, interpreters, and security people. The lounge was quite smoky, Leiber noticed, and the bar was, as usual, empty.
Yaakov Leiber cleared his throat. “Ladies and gentlemen. Ladies and gentlemen.” He raised his hands.
The room became quiet in stages. Heads turned. They noticed the small man in the oversized white uniform, who wore bifocals so thick that his eyes looked like oysters.
Leiber put his back to the bar. “Good afternoon. I am Yaakov Leiber, Chief Steward on El Al Concorde 02.”
“I’m glad he’s not our pilot,” observed a man in the back. A few people laughed.
Leiber smiled. “Actually, I used to be a pilot, but o
nce I forgot to bring a telephone book to sit on and I crashed into a hangar.”
There was laughter and even some applause.
Leiber stepped closer to the crowd. “I just want to acquaint you with some things.” He spoke about seat selection and the new boarding time for several minutes. “Are there any questions?”
The mission’s Orthodox Rabbi, Chaim Levin, stood up. “You understand, young man, that today is Friday—and you are confirming for me that we are going all the way to New York and will still land before the Sabbath begins. Is that correct?”
Leiber held back a smile. It was a peculiarity of El Al flights that there was hardly ever a rabbi on board, even during the week. Some rabbis wouldn’t fly on the national carrier because the El Al crews had all broken the Sabbath at one time or another. They flew on foreign carriers because it didn’t matter to them if those crews broke the Jewish Sabbath or their own Sabbath. The two rabbis on the peace mission, one Orthodox and one Conservative, had decided to make an exception and fly El Al for the appearance of national unity. “Yes, sir,” said Leiber. “Sundown in New York is at 6:08. But we’ll be going a little faster than the sun, so we’ll land at about two P.M. New York time.”
Rabbi Levin looked at Leiber for a long time.
“In other words, Rabbi, we’ll land one and a half hours before the time we started,” said Leiber. “You see—”
“All right, I understand. I’ve flown before, you know.” He regarded Leiber, the Sabbath-breaker, with a stare he usually reserved for pork-eating Jews. “If we land one second after sundown, you’ll hear from me.”
There were some laughs, and Leiber smiled, too. “Yes, sir.” He looked around. “The meal is pot roast and potato kugel. There will be several movies available if anyone is interested. My wife, Marcia, who is much prettier than I am, will be one of your stewardesses on 01.” Like many couples who flew often, it was the Leibers’ policy never to fly together. They had children. He hoped no one would infer anything from this arrangement. “Are there any questions? Then, thank you for flying El Al—although I don’t see how you could have done otherwise.” He held up both hands. “Shalom.”
By the Rivers of Babylon Page 6
