“Himmler, have you taken a look at the Todd Organization? They built the site and could have concealed a huge bomb. There are traitors everywhere, and you seem to be doing very little about them. We can’t disregard the possibility that there are bombs concealed in other places ready to explode. The “Caliphate” might have spies all over the place - even here.” Goering was at rest again. His dig at Himmler was effective, but it also contained a core of true concern.
“Some of your experts claim that the explosion was in the air above the bunkers,” Himmler remarked belligerently. “I have no idea how it was done, but it seems to me that the Luftwaffe did a lousy job protecting the Fuehrer.”
Goering was not happy that Himmler knew what the Luftwaffe experts had reported, but he was not surprised. He spied on Himmler, Himmler spied on him. This was a pervasive practice in the Third Reich.
“Stop the bickering!” Hitler was pacing again. “Ribbentrop, I agree that we need an accord with these people. I don’t want interference while we’re fighting the Soviets. By the way, how do we know it’s not the British or the Soviets that are playing this game? Who would want to deliver these millions of Jews to Palestine? It will annoy the British, but they are promising British cooperation. It must be the Bolsheviks hoping to distract us. Goering is right: there’s an extensive Bolshevik spy network inside the Fatherland. Himmler, you have to concentrate on exterminating these spies. Start with those in your own organization.”
He stopped looking at the blinking intercom light, which meant that the secretary had something important to report. “Go ahead,” Hitler said into the machine.
The secretary was apologetic. “Mein Fuehrer, a courier from the General Staff arrived with a message marked important and urgent, for your eyes only.”
“I’ll see it now,” barked Hitler.
From: The Mighty Caliph, may Allah preserve him
To: My Brother, Herr Adolph Hitler the Great
My dear Fuehrer, I admire you greatly. You are the genius leader of the mightiest nation on Earth. The way you deal with the inferior nations is most admirable and a subject of imitation for myself and my subordinates.
Your firm intent of cleansing the world of Jews and Bolsheviks is like a bright star pointing the way for rest of us. We desire to assist you in fulfilling your destiny, ensuring that the Bolsheviks are defeated and that the British and Americans submit to your domination. With this in mind, we take upon ourselves the holy task of exterminating the Jews.
As my brother, the Grand Mufti of Jerusalem, may he bask forever in Allah’s blessings, will confirm, we are destined by Allah the Great and Merciful, may He be blessed forever, to exterminate the Jews. The salvation of my people and their future in paradise depends upon our participating in this great endeavor. I therefore demand that you transfer the Jews to us for treatment. We cannot compromise on this issue.
Treat the Jews well and protect them from harm so that they come willingly and our inconvenience is minimized as much as possible. You may intimidate them so they will be willing to come, but do not harm them.
With great admiration,
The Great Caliph
Allahu Akbar
Hitler looked at the attendees, all old comrades of his, and read the message aloud.
Himmler was the first to respond. “This sounds very strange. The Mufti is doing a great job forming whole SS divisions of Muslim volunteers - they can be useful allies - but I can hardly believe that the Arabs suddenly got so powerful.”
Hitler looked at Rosenberg: “Well, Alfred, what do you think?”
Rosenberg thought for a moment. “It is not inconceivable that the Arabs got themselves organized and have a Caliph who would want to exterminate the Jews.”
“I didn’t ask for a strategic evaluation, Alfred. Your specialty is racial purity and our Nordic destiny. How does the Great Caliph, assuming he exists, fit into this?”
Rosenberg was embarrassed, which did not prevent him from assuming a grand pose, difficult to do while sitting. “Every nation has its manifest destiny. As you all know, ours is to rid the world of inferior peoples and to make the Aryan race supreme. The Jews are the leeches of the world, sucking blood and corrupting our nation. It is their destiny to be exterminated. As the Mufti will tell you, the Muslims also have a destiny to purify their land of Jews. Apparently this Caliph is smart enough to realize they must kill them all to solve the problem. It’s very clever to use the Jews’ fantastic preoccupation with Jerusalem and Palestine to lure them into a trap.”
Goebbels waited patiently, and when he was sure Rosenberg was finished, he asked: “It seems to me that our destiny collides with the Muslims’ regarding the Jews. Isn't it our destiny to destroy them? I think that our destiny should prevail.”
Rosenberg was thinking fast. He had the impression that the Fuehrer liked the Caliph’s message, which was even more admiring and flattering than anything Mussolini ever said. If only he could deflect Goebbels’ criticism of his analysis, his standing with Hitler would improve.
“Dear Joseph,” Rosenberg began, somewhat condescendingly, “you think too literally. There is no conflict of destinies, not even a hint of one. If we hand the Jews over to the Caliph and he implements the Final Solution, both our destinies are fulfilled. We would have purified Europe of Jews, and the Muslims would get their ticket to heaven by exterminating them.” He smiled triumphantly.
“Himmler?” asked Hitler.
“I have to admit that Rosenberg makes sense, except that we don’t know who this Caliph is and that bothers me. What if he’s a British trick to save the Jews?”
“And why would they bother?” inquired Hitler. “They never cared before, and now, with all the problems they are having, with Rommel giving them grief in North Africa and our U boats starving them, they suddenly develop tenderness for the Jews? In any case, the British couldn’t have destroyed Wolfsschanze as this Caliph managed to do.”
“Mein Fuehrer, you are correct. I can see that a division or two of SS attached to the Afrika Corps would help Rommel kick the British out of Egypt in short order and open a way to Iraqi oil. These divisions, and more, will become available if we stop all actions against the Jews. On the other hand I don’t like the idea of the Jewish question being resolved by somebody else – which is what we will have to do if we follow the Caliph’s request. Shall we oblige him?” asked Himmler.
“No, don’t be silly, dear Heinrich. Go ahead with the plan Eichmann described to us, at least for the next couple of months. In the meantime let’s think about moving the rest of the Jews to the port the Caliph designated. It’s a good idea to keep those that are not liquidated as happy as possible until they are either moved or, in their turn, liquidated. Present a plan in about two months. The Soviets should be on their knees by then and we can decide what to do next.”
***
Avigdor Mizrahi was an experienced diplomat, though he spent the last five years in private business. At 5’6” he was not tall. He was slightly overweight, but otherwise in good physical shape. Starting his career in the seventies as a mechanical engineer, it did not take him very long to decide that he liked the management and negotiating parts of his job best, especially when combined with international travel. When he learned that the foreign ministry was looking for diplomatic service trainees, he applied without hesitation and quickly advanced to the rank of Ambassador. He had represented Israel in several East European countries and for a year had been the ambassador to the court of St. James. His appointment to the U.K. ended when a new government took power in Jerusalem and a political appointee was sent to replace him.
That was it for Avigdor, who resigned from the foreign ministry and went into business. His high tech import/export company was very successful. He was a rich and happy man. His wife, Ruhama, was a pediatrician. A good looking woman, she was his partner and source of strength, supporting him through difficult times in the foreign ministry as well as in business. He, in turn, encouraged her to do
what she liked. His job at the Foreign Ministry called for long absences of months at a time, putting a strain on the marriage. Ruhama had accompanied him and did her best to practice her profession in his assigned countries, until their firstborn son was of high school age and they decided that it will be best for him to remain in Israel, with Ruhama. Now all three children were independent. Their son was a career army officer and father of two; the two daughters were also married with families of their own.
Avigdor Mizrahi finished packing two suitcases containing the personal belongings necessary for his upcoming diplomatic mission as the doorbell rang. Ruhama opened the door of their elegant home in the Mevaseret Zion suburb of Jerusalem.
“Lior Kashti,” a smiling man said to Ruhama, “to see Ambassador Mizrahi.”
They shook hands as Avigdor entered to take the young man into his study. Ruhama did not accompany them – she knew that some things were between her husband and the government.
“I am from the technical section.”
“Yes, I know. They warned me that you would be coming. I have an hour before I need to leave and I’m not completely done here, so let’s be quick.”
Lior got right to business. “This is the ‘special’,” he said, putting a box on the desk and pulling out a hard-sided leather briefcase. “And this is the work model that goes with it,” he said, pulling another one out of the box. The two cases looked identical.
“You will notice, Ambassador that both briefcases have two combination locks which are very difficult to pick. In addition, they only open if you put your thumb here.” He pointed to a spot. “Both are made of titanium. The first case has much less internal space and weighs more. It contains the satellite transceiver, battery, and charger. Operation is simple: you open the case, put your thumb here,” he demonstrated, “and the internal lid will open. We will calibrate it to your thumbprint in a moment. Here you have a LCD display and keyboard. This is the on-off switch.” He paused. “Is everything clear so far?”
“Go ahead. If I have a question, I will interrupt you. Shy I am not.”
“OK. If you have a message, this light will blink. The minimum time between messages is about an hour and a half since the satellite has to be directly overhead.” The technician looked at Avigdor, who nodded.
“If you want to send a message, press the ‘New Message’ button, wait for the display to say ‘OK’ and type it in. Press the ‘Send’ button when you are done.”
“Wait a minute,” interrupted Mizrahi. “How do I know when the satellite is overhead, and what about encryption?”
The technician smiled. “Don’t worry about the satellite. The transceiver will send the message automatically at the right time. As to encryption, that happens as you type, the encryption key changing with every transmission as the transceiver gets a new key from the satellite. Anyway, don’t worry about security. We tested this system very thoroughly. Never had a leak.”
Mizrahi thought for a moment. “So I have to leave this device on all the time in order for it to talk to the satellite. Where is the antenna?”
“The antenna is in the lid. This is the cord for recharging the battery. You can plug it in into any outlet, no matter what voltage. We’ve provided a number of adaptors that should do the job in England.”
Another ten minutes programming the device to reliably recognize Mizrahi’s thumbprint and the technician left, giving Avigdor a few moments to say good bye to his wife before a Ministry car stopped outside. “I will do my best to bring you over, as soon as it is safe and possible,” he promised.
A Bristol Blenheim was waiting when he arrived at the Gaza aerodrome at eleven in the morning of Tuesday, June 24, 1941. The seat was canvas - not too bad. He had noise canceling earphones and an iPod for entertainment. At 260 miles per hour, or more likely about 200 to conserve fuel, it would take about six and a half hours to reach Malta, about the same time to get to Gibraltar, and again to London. All in all about 24 hours, including refueling stops.
The light bomber was stripped of all armament and non-essential equipment. The pilot, a fresh faced Briton, assured the ambassador they had enough fuel to get to Malta. In case they didn’t, the pilot cheerfully explained, the Royal Navy was ready to fish them out. He handed Mizrahi a parachute, which the diplomat donned. He hoped his army service as a paratrooper hadn’t been a deciding factor in offering him this job. Despite the passage of many years, he still remembered hating that first step out of a plane high above the ground.
***
Mohammad Husseini spent several hours driving. He made relatively good progress, despite the security checkpoints. At all of the checkpoints but one he was waved through with just a perfunctory inspection of his ID. The checkpoints were manned by combined Israeli–Palestinian teams which today seemed somewhat relaxed. Only at one checkpoint, the first he encountered when exiting Jenin, was he politely asked to exit the car and patted down for weapons. Even that was done superficially; otherwise they would have found the commando knife he always carried in a holster on his leg.
Mohammad arrived in Ramallah with time to spare and began with a visit to his friend and colleague – the Hamas commander of the area. He got a quick update on the local situation and proceeded to the Mukata – the presidential compound. At the entrance he was thoroughly searched and gave his knife and pepper spray to the guards for safe keeping. He was searched two more times, at the entrance to the building and at the guard station inside. Finally he was taken by a guard to the second floor. The guard knocked on the door.
“Come in,” a voice sounded from inside.
Mohammed opened the door and entered. It wasn’t his first visit, but he still marveled at the setup: the room was big, larger than the corridor with its closely spaced doors implied. A large desk occupied the space in front of a picture window. With the light coming through the large window, the figure behind the desk was not clearly visible. The desk and the chair behind it were elevated on a discreet platform, making a visitor feel small and insignificant.
“My dear friend,” the figure behind the desk said, “I am glad to see you.”
“As I you, Mr. Chairman,” Mohammad responded. “We need to discuss a plan I developed to make us victorious, with Allah’s help.”
Dr. Ahmad Mazen, Chairman of the Palestinian Authority, rose from behind his desk: “Let’s get more comfortable.” He moved to the armchairs and coffee table in a corner of the room. A pot of coffee, cookies and sandwiches were spread out on the table. Mazen was a big man with a dominant presence. He was not charismatic, but through clever manipulation of different Palestinian factions he rose to power and intended to hold on to his power. His relations with Israel were as good as could be expected. Just before The Event he had been scheduled to meet with the Israeli Prime Minister for another round of peace talks. As usual, if the negotiations went too far and threatened to become practical, he would order one of the factions, preferably Hamas or one of the smaller groups, to kill some Jews. This would interrupt the talks and return everything to normal. That way he managed to keep talking peace without giving up hope of a final victory.
“What is this plan you want to discuss?” he asked after they were settled with cups of coffee in their hands.
“Mr. Chairman,” Mohammad began respectfully, “do you believe the Israeli announcement about this strange time displacement?”
“Well, I have no reason to believe they are lying.”
“Okay then, this is my plan.” Mohammad went on to describe his plan to contact the Mufti and the Germans.
“Very ingenious, my dear Mohammad. What will happen if one of your couriers is caught and confesses who sent him?”
“We’ll not be worse off than before. I will take the normal precaution of the courier not knowing who send him; the worst that can happen is that one of my cell commanders will spend some time in an Israeli jail.”
“Yes, I believe we can get away with this. As long as the Palestinian Authority can’t be impli
cated, I will support you. What do you need?”
“Mr. Chairman, our connections inside Israel are not very good. It would be very helpful if we could use some of your people as guides. We will also need up to date intelligence on the movement of Israeli troops and, if it is at all possible, some kind of legitimate ID cards for our operatives that will allow them to pass at least a superficial inspection.”
“Let’s start with the easy part. When we are done here ask my chief of security in Jenin to arrange for the ID cards. By the time you get back there, he will have orders to supply you with up to date information on troop movements. He will also supply you with guides. Anything else I can do for you?”
“No, sir. I appreciate your help. May Allah be with you always.”
“Allahu Akbar” Mazen responded.
Chapter 7
At noon on Wednesday, June 25, 1941, the Reverend John Walker was back at his Jerusalem hotel, mentally exhausted. He had rushed to the American consulate yesterday morning after being informed that the group he was leading on a tour of the Holy Land would have to vacate their rooms in less than thirty days. The consul was very polite but claimed not to be able to help. It was perfectly reasonable, he said, for the hotel to refuse the group accommodations. Walker threatening to move his group into the consulate persuaded the consul to make a couple of calls to Israeli officials and accompany him to the Foreign Ministry.
A harried Foreign Ministry Deputy General Director told them that since the group was not official guests of the state, there was nothing he could do and advised them to try the Finance or Welfare Ministries. They tried both. Everyone was busy; they couldn’t even get past reception. The consul, slightly offended, gave up.
The Reverend was ready to explode. Finally – at ten this morning – Walker managed to see a functionary at the Department of Social Security of the Welfare Ministry.
The official was polite. “My dear Reverend,” he said in heavily accented English, “it is my pleasure to meet you. How can I be of help?”
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