Zvi Kaplan was adamant: “I don’t agree. Just take a look at our history. The battle for Stalingrad that didn’t happen here yet and may never happen is a good demonstration. Even when surrounded and starved, the Germans continued to fight until given the order to surrender. Rommel is a gifted tactician and a good leader of men. His troops trust him and will do whatever he asks of them. He may or may not be a Nazi but he is a typical German officer who will obey orders and do his best to win. He will not surrender or run.
“There is another consideration we must take into account: one of our jets was shot down last night.”
“Just bad luck. It happens,” interjected the Air Force commander. “We did recover both the pilot and the plane, so no harm was done.”
“I agree.” Yaari responded, “but we don’t know what will happen if we attack tonight. There’s no doubt that the Germans and the Italians, will be prepared for an air attack. What if we lose a plane and are unable to recover it?”
The Air Force commander shrugged: “An army that is afraid of losses has already given up its chance to victory.”
Yaari was exasperated: “It is not the Army’s problem. Don’t you see that if the Germans suspect that it wasn’t the Royal Air Force that caused last night’s damage they will figure out that it must be the Caliph? The consequences will be dire for our people in Europe.”
“True,” responded the Air Force general, “but you are assuming that they’ll figure it out and draw certain conclusions. I think that the risk is miniscule.”
“Are you ready to bet the lives of a million people on this?” Yaari asked.
“We can always nuke them again. That will persuade them to be reasonable.”
“So you are proposing that we kill some more German civilians and risk the lives of a million Jews for a dubious advantage?” Yaari asked calmly.
“Not really.” The Air Force man responded. “It just galls me to miss such an opportunity. You are probably right.”
Zvi Kaplan smiled: “You know, I almost agree with you. The chances that something will happen to connect the Caliph to all this are really small. There is another consideration though.
“The Brits got themselves into trouble in the first place because of overconfidence. They may have learned that lesson, but they still have only a foggy idea of how to fight a modern war. If we take the risk of exposure and pound on Rommel some more we will be doing the British Army a great disservice. They’ll never learn and will either pay a terrible price when the fight moves to Europe or will require us to do their fighting. With all the respect to the Air Force and the other branches of the IDF” he nodded to the assembled generals, “I can’t see us winning the war against Nazi Germany all by ourselves. We probably could leave a number of German cities glowing in the dark but I have no certainty that the crazy Nazis would surrender even then. I also can’t see us nuking cities to win this war. With all the talk of civilians being part of the war machine, I can’t see our society agreeing to mass murder.”
***
The next day, Friday, in the early afternoon, Dan got a call from the reception clerk: “Sir, there is a Mr. Sam Dubliner here asking for you.”
Sam handed Dan an envelope and left without saying a word.
The note in the envelope said:
Dr. Brown, please present yourself at the southern entrance to the White House at 5 p.m. on Wednesday, November 19. Bring your medical bag.
Clara
Snyder called Jonathan’s room several minutes later: “Hi, Jonathan. I’d like to invite you and Dan to a meeting of the local Labor Zionist chapter. You know, some food and a schmooze about Palestine. It’s not that often that we have visitors from there.”
“Let me ask Dan,” Jonathan replied. “He just went down to the lobby. I think we have a note from Ms. Schiller. I’ll call you back in a moment.”
Dan knocked on Jonathan’s door a minute later and showed him the note. “We have to leave for Washington now. I’ll barely have time to do what I need to do by Wednesday,”
“We’re invited to a dinner reception at the local chapter of the Labor Zionists. Shall I call Snyder and apologize?”
Dan made a fast calculation. “Yes. I need to be at the Bethesda Naval hospital tomorrow morning at six. If we leave on the train that leaves at three I’ll have enough time to make the arrangements.”
The next morning Dan left early arriving at the Bethesda hospital in the uniform of a Navy MP Sergeant – a security officer with Naval Operations. According to his papers he was Sergeant Nathan Johnson, attached to Bethesda security. Nathan Johnson was indeed employed by Naval Operations security but not at Bethesda. A superficial check would show that he existed and conceivably had business there, specifically at the hospital kitchens, having been trained several months earlier in kitchen hygiene supervision.
The Mossad didn’t have much data on Vice Admiral McKinley. He was the Chief Surgeon of the Navy and an otolaryngologist. He was also the President’s personal physician. Information pointed to the doctor’s possible responsibility for the President’s poor health. The Admiral resisted any other physician treating Roosevelt. If one offered a second opinion, he did his best to prevent his patient from acting on it. That was the extent of historical data available.
It took Dan all day to inform himself of the Admiral’s routine and to develop a plan of action.
The opening he needed was during the Admiral’s breakfast. It seemed that McKinley was set in his ways, including in his breakfast and lunch routines. Dinner was less predictable since he often saw the President around that time and usually ate at home.
The next day Dan was at the hospital again. By now his face was familiar to the kitchen personnel and nobody paid attention to the new hygiene inspector. When the Admiral’s breakfast of toast, eggs, cornflakes and a pitcher of milk was ready to go up to his office, the new sergeant chose his moment and put a pinch of a white, odorless and tasteless powder over the cornflakes. He didn’t spend much time around the kitchen that day and did his best to be inconspicuous. Dan was waiting for news about the Chief Surgeon. There was none that day.
On Sunday he added two pinches to the cornflakes. At noon, when McKinley usually looked in on his patients at the hospital, Dan got the first news: the rounds were canceled. The official line was that the doctor didn’t feel well.
On Monday the dose of delayed-release hallucinogen was increased to three pinches. In the early afternoon a rumor spread that the Surgeon General tried, unsuccessfully, to fly off his desk. It apparently annoyed him and he tried to open his office window to fly farther. The window was painted shut and the Admiral called on his secretary to help him open it. The sailor tried to open it, but changed his mind when the Admiral urged him to hurry so he could soar to the clouds as soon as possible. The aide pretended to go for tools and called the resident psychiatrist. The Admiral behaved strangely for a day or so after the last dose was administered. The psychiatric observation would keep him out of the way for several more days.
On Tuesday Dan went to the hospital again to make sure that Dr. McKinley was locked up for a while. There was no breakfast prepared for the Chief that day. The kitchen was notified to stop delivering food to the Vice Admiral’s office until further notice.
***
When Jonathan Brown arrived at the south entrance of the White House the weather was lousy: cold, windy and raining. He ran from his taxi to the entrance.
He was taken through a maze of corridors and up and down staircases and soon lost his bearings. Whether this was intentional or not he didn’t know, but if he had to retrace his way back to the entrance he was sure he would be hopelessly lost.
The journey ended in a cozy sitting room. It was empty.
Jonathan settled in one of the easy chairs and prepared for a long wait. He was surprised when the door opened a couple of minutes later and Eleanor Roosevelt came in. Jonathan jumped up from his seat.
“Please seat,” Mrs. Roosevelt said. “Wou
ld you care for something to drink? Tea, coffee?”
“Thank you. Tea please. No sugar and no milk.”
“Ah, you are not as British as all that.”
“I’m not British at all,” Jonathan replied. “I’m American, born and educated and a Palestinian.”
“Yes, yes. Clara told me about you. You impressed her, which is not easy. I will not waste our time asking you about your education or trying to verify your credentials. I’m not qualified to do that anyway, but there is a question I have to ask: what is your interest in helping my husband?”
“It’s very simple really. You’re probably aware of our massive repatriation program. We are offering a refuge to every Jew that wants to escape from Nazi-occupied Europe. This is not a small burden for us and our leadership thought that if we show some good will and offer competent treatment to the leader of the free world, he may be inclined in our favor if we asked for assistance.”
Eleanor Roosevelt said nothing for a while. Finally she got up, and Jonathan got up with her. “Dr. Brown, you may have heard that my husband’s regular doctor is indisposed. I am inclined, if Mr. Roosevelt agrees, to let you take a look at him. By tomorrow we will have another Navy doctor take a look too and, maybe, the two of you can figure out what to do about his bronchitis. Please wait here. I’ll be back.” She smiled and left.
The President sat in his wheelchair looking at the miserable weather outside. He was holding a cigarette holder with an unlit cigarette. “Ah, Dr. Brown, welcome to the White House. My wife is very persuasive, so go ahead and take a look and tell me when I can get out of this damn wheel chair.”
Apparently Jonathan’s face showed the surprise he felt. Roosevelt laughed: “Just a little joke. Don’t take it too seriously. But if you can make me walk I will be eternally grateful.” He was interrupted by a bout of coughing.
The examination didn’t take long. The president was somewhat surprised when Jonathan took a swab from inside his cheek but didn’t protest. When his finger was stabbed to draw some blood he asked: “Is that all you are going to take?”
Jonathan smiled: “Mr. President, I’m no vampire. This should be enough to run the tests I have in mind.”
“What about the bronchitis? Is there anything you can do about that now?”
“Sir, I would be derelict in my duties if I gave you any medication now. When I swore the Hippocratic Oath I pledged to ‘do no harm’. How could I be sure I am doing no harm if I gave you medication before analyzing your blood and making sure what exactly ails you?
“I would like your permission to come tomorrow at the same time. By then I will know more and will be able to discuss with you a treatment plan.”
“Okay, okay, you doctors are all the same. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Back at the hotel Jonathan analyzed the samples.
“I need your advice,” he told Dan.
“I thought that you were the doctor.”
“I don’t need medical advice. Here’s the problem: our patient definitely suffers from Guillain-Barré syndrome. I suspect that there is also congestive heart failure – not acute at his point - but definitely there.
“To make sure that it is heart failure that causes the fluid in his lungs and not bronchitis, I would like to take an ultrasound – nothing better than an image of a beating heart. So how much risk of exposing our secret are we taking in bringing a portable ultrasound scanner to the White House?”
“I thought that you were planning on bringing that strange filtrating device of yours. The ultrasound scanner is about the same size and if you are careful not to show the patient the display I see no problem. Otherwise he may get all excited and have other people come and look. That would not be desirable.”
“Mrs. Roosevelt told me about another Navy doctor that is going to be there tomorrow. What about him?”
“Just refuse to do anything while he is there. Demand privacy on the grounds that you have some equipment from Palestine that hasn’t yet been patented in the U.S. and you don’t want to disclose it to another doctor.”
***
“Mr. Ambassador,” General Wilson was all smiles, “would you care for tea or something stronger?”
“Well, General, if you think we have grounds for a celebration, let’s celebrate.”
They toasted each other with glasses of whiskey.
“I apologize for bothering you on a Sunday, but I have the first detailed report from the Eight Army and I wanted to share it with you.” Wilson pushed a stack of papers towards Mizrahi.
The report indicated that the British forces in North Africa were slowly moving west. The Eight Army command estimated arrival at the Tunisian border by the end of the next week. The Italians seemed to have collapsed and were surrendering in great numbers.
After Mizrahi finished reading the report, Wilson said: “We need to consider our next steps. The Prime Minister thought about the plan you presented to him at your last meeting. The truth is, he, and I, were skeptical about your, or rather our, ability to carry it out. Now, after our great victory in Egypt and Libya, I believe that we can defeat the Vichy French in Tunisia in short order and go on with the next stage of the plan.”
“General, a great victory celebration may be somewhat premature. As far as we can tell the Germans are regrouping and stiffening their resistance. We estimate that it will take the Eight Army at least another couple of months to defeat the German/Italian forces. This is not as optimistic as your estimates, but I recommend that we err on the side of safety.
“I would also like to remind you that our original plan allowed for defeating the French only as a second choice. My government would prefer, as our plan stated, that we do our best to co-opt the French in North Africa. If they decide to abandon the Vichy government, we will at worst neutralize Morocco and Tunis and at best gain an ally. In any case you will not have to spend time and resources fighting and then occupying them.
“We are still conducting our rescue operations in Europe and it seems that the Germans are not aware of our participation in the operations in North Africa. We want to keep it that way as long as possible. This means that the Italian phase of our plan, to which you agreed, will become active only in several months – when we’ll be done with evacuating our people. It also gives us ample time to negotiate with the French leadership in Morocco and Algeria. Tunisia is under their control and has no significant forces.”
Wilson sipped on his drink and said nothing for several minutes. Since he couldn’t out-silence Mizrahi he finally said, “Mr. Mizrahi, I know very well that the Prime Minister agreed to the general outlines of the plan you proposed. I have to admit that at the time the whole affair seemed of secondary importance to resolving the pressing problem in Egypt. Please don’t misunderstand me – the plan makes sense.
“We are however extremely uneasy about a big and powerful French fleet sitting in Morocco. What if the Germans take control of the Vichy government and the French attack? We have to be ready for that. This threat is distracting the Royal Navy from other tasks.”
“General, I am somewhat surprised,” Mizrahi said. “We just demonstrated to you what we can do to our enemies. This applies to the French fleet as well. We will know within minutes if they leave port and an hour later they will be at the bottom of the Mediterranean. There is no need to antagonize them now. With your approval we propose the following course of action:
“In a month or two you send a squadron of Royal Navy to Oran where the Moroccan fleet is moored. Our representative will come with your squadron as a negotiator. Of course, he will officially be a ranking Royal Navy officer.
“We will ask the French to join us, the British, that is, in our fight against the Germans. By then it should be clear to the French that the Nazis and Italians have lost the fight in North Africa. The new situation should make them view this invitation favorably. We also have it on good authority that the French Admiral that commands the Moroccan fleet is leaning towards independence from Vichy an
d will not need much enticement to do so.”
Wilson looked somewhat unhappy. “Mr. Ambassador, you are extracting your pound of flesh for your help. You propose a serious infringement of our independence in making strategic decisions. We are fully capable of negotiating with the French on our own.”
Mizrahi got up from his seat and carefully placed his glass on the table. “General Wilson, I wish you would choose your words more carefully. Quoting Shakespeare doesn’t make an anti-Semitic reference any more civil or palatable. I doubt that you would respond well to my quoting a number of popular sayings describing the stupidity of John Bull. I suggest that we meet again, maybe tomorrow or next week to discuss this matter. Have a good day.”
Wilson was surprised and angry. Mizrahi’s response to the common quote from “The Merchant of Venice” seemed excessive. Only after he said to himself, “These people are way too sensitive,” did he admit that even he, who considered himself a friend of the Jews, thought of them as “these people”. He would not apologize for what he said, but wouldn’t repeat the mistake.
***
Jonathan Brown sat next to the President’s bed. The blood filter was humming quietly. They were in the fifth day of treatment. He gave Roosevelt medication to improve heart function, which started draining some of the fluid in the President’s lungs. This didn’t do much to improve the chronic bronchitis that was bothering the man. Now he was on a course of the mildest penicillin-based antibiotic Jonathan could find in his suitcase. It worked like a charm – after two days of treatment Roosevelt was almost free of his cough and was breathing much easier. That was the main reason he agreed to the blood filtration. He almost dismissed Jonathan after the second day, but he felt so much better that it was easy to persuade him to continue the treatment. Another reason for keeping Jonathan was the simple fact that the Presidents regular physician was still under psychiatric observation, though he was about to be released. Roosevelt was also taking medication to suppress the proteins that caused the Guillain-Barré syndrome. The combination seemed to be working, though Jonathan wasn’t sure how much the effects of the illness could be reversed after so many years.
The Shield: a novel Page 39
