The Nazi Hunters

by Neal Bascomb

  These theories were just that — theories — until Harel knew the result of the operation. He stared at the hands on his watch, growing more and more anxious with every passing minute to learn what was happening on Garibaldi Street.

  Bus 203 pulled up to the kiosk. As it came to a halt, Shalom returned to the wheel of the Chevrolet, ready to start the engine and turn on the headlights. Gat was beside him in the passenger’s seat. At the limousine, Tabor repositioned himself over the engine, hidden from sight. Aharoni raised his binoculars again, and Malkin and Eitan looked toward the bus stop.

  Two people got off the bus. The first was the stout woman who usually arrived with Eichmann at 7:40 P.M. She stepped down and turned left, away from Garibaldi Street. The second passenger was a man, but it was impossible to identify him in the dark.

  The bus pulled away, moving past the Chevrolet down Route 202.

  The man walked toward Garibaldi Street.

  “Someone’s coming,” Aharoni whispered to Eitan, “but I can’t see who it is.”

  Eitan looked into the darkness, but his vision was not what it had been in the past. He saw nothing.

  Shalom flicked on his headlights, and they all knew at once that the figure cast in silhouette was Eichmann. The way he walked — bent forward, a determined gait — was unmistakable.

  “It’s him,” Aharoni declared.

  The two words electrified Eitan. He made sure Malkin and Tabor were in position, then he prepared to rush from the car should he be needed.

  As Eichmann approached the Garibaldi intersection, Aharoni saw him dip his hand into the right pocket of his trench coat.

  “He may have a gun,” Aharoni said. “Should I warn Peter?”

  “Yes, tell him to watch the hand,” Eitan replied.

  Malkin was counting out in his head exactly how many steps away Eichmann was, wanting to meet him a few feet from the tail end of the limousine. Lightning coursed through the sky. A roll of thunder followed as Malkin edged forward. He was certain that if Eichmann made a run for it across the field, he could catch him long before the older man reached his house.

  Twenty yards away now. Malkin passed the driver’s door. Aharoni held out his hand. “Peter, he has a hand in his pocket. Watch out for a gun.”

  The warning unnerved Malkin. Nobody should be saying anything to him at this moment, he thought. He did not want to be hearing about a gun. His every move had been practiced without a weapon in the equation. This changed everything.

  Eichmann turned the corner. Fifteen yards away now. Malkin saw how the man was leaning into the wind, collar upturned, his right hand deep in his pocket.

  Aharoni turned on the limousine’s engine. Eichmann looked in their direction, but he maintained his stride.

  Malkin kept moving forward. If a gun was involved, he would have to adjust how he grabbed Eichmann. He had to make sure that Eichmann never freed the weapon — if he had one — from his pocket.

  Five yards. Malkin stepped into his path, and Eichmann drew up to a stop.

  “Un momentito, señor,” Malkin said, the words coming out uneasily. He locked his gaze with Eichmann’s and saw the Nazi’s eyes widen in fear. Eichmann stepped back. He was about to run.

  Malkin burst forward, one hand reaching out to keep Eichmann’s right arm down in case he had a gun. His momentum, mixed with his target’s retreat, sent them both pitching to the ground. The agent seized Eichmann as they rolled into the shallow, muddy ditch that ran alongside the road. Landing on his back, Malkin tried to keep hold of Eichmann’s right arm and at the same time grab his throat to cut off any call for help. Eichmann kicked, elbowed, and clawed to free himself, loosening the grip on his throat.

  Then he screamed. Aharoni revved the engine to drown out the wail. Tabor hurried over to the ditch to help Malkin. Eitan also leapt from the car. Eichmann shrieked and shrieked. His house was roughly thirty yards away, close enough for anyone outside to hear his cries — or anyone inside if the windows were open. They had to silence him immediately and get out of there.

  When Tabor reached the ditch, Eichmann was pressing his feet against its side to gain some leverage against Malkin, who had his arms locked around his waist. The more Eichmann fought, the more fiercely Malkin tightened his grasp. There was no way the Nazi was going to get loose. Tabor grabbed Eichmann’s legs, further canceling any chance of resistance. Eichmann went slack and abruptly stopped screaming. Malkin rose to his feet, and he and Tabor hauled their captive out of the ditch and over to the limousine.

  On Route 202, Shalom waited with Gat and the doctor, desperate to know what was happening. They had lost sight of Eichmann the moment he turned onto Garibaldi Street. Then they heard shouting, followed by silence. Seconds ticked by as if they were hours. Their instructions were to move only after the limousine did.

  Eitan helped Malkin and Tabor get Eichmann into the backseat. Tabor hurried around the front of the limousine to close the hood, while Malkin kept his gloved hand over the captive’s mouth. Eitan blindfolded him, using motorbike goggles whose lenses were covered with black tape. The second that Tabor slid into the passenger’s seat, Aharoni gunned the limousine and pulled away. Only twenty-five seconds had passed since Malkin first reached for Eichmann.

  Aharoni swung left at the end of the street. A hundred yards from the Eichmann house, he looked over his shoulder and ordered their captive in German, “Sit still and nothing will happen to you. If you resist, we will shoot you. Do you understand?”

  Malkin took his hand away from Eichmann’s mouth, but Eichmann said nothing.

  “If you resist, we will shoot you. Do you understand?”

  Again, no response. They thought he might have passed out.

  Aharoni headed eastward, even though Tira was located to the southwest of the city. That way, if anybody saw the cars leave the area, they would point the police in the wrong direction. Malkin and Tabor bound Eichmann’s hands and feet, pushed him onto the floor, and covered him with a heavy wool blanket. They searched his trench coat, but he had no gun, just a flashlight.

  Eitan looked in the sideview mirror for their backup car. It was nowhere to be seen.

  “Where are they?” Malkin asked.

  A moment later, headlights appeared. Shalom steered the Chevrolet alongside the limousine just long enough to receive a thumbs-up. The relief on his face was clear as he sped ahead of them, now acting as the lead car.

  As Aharoni settled back behind the Chevrolet, he spoke to their captive again, this time in Spanish. “What language do you speak?”

  The prisoner remained quiet, breathing heavily. A few minutes later, he leaned up slightly and said in flawless German, “I am already resigned to my fate.”

  It was not what they expected to hear, but the words reassured the Mossad agents. Their captive spoke native German, and clearly knew why he was being kidnapped. It was as close to an admission that he was Adolf Eichmann as they could have hoped.

  Eitan turned around and shook Malkin by the hand, congratulating him. Malkin rested back in his seat, mostly relieved. Though there was more of a struggle than he had hoped, they had their man and he was unharmed. Now they just had to return to the safe house.

  A mile from Garibaldi Street, Shalom steered onto a dirt side road and stopped by a copse of trees. Aharoni followed in the limousine. Tabor and Gat hurried out of their cars and switched the Argentine license plates for blue diplomatic ones. They all had forged Austrian diplomatic papers in case they were stopped by the police or at a checkpoint, but the plates would limit the chances of that happening.

  False license plate used on one of the capture cars.

  Soon they were back on the road, traveling the route that Shalom had charted after two weeks of reconnaissance. They kept to the speed limit and made sure to obey the traffic laws down to the mile-per-hour.

  On the floor of the limousine, Eichmann remained still, silent.

  Halfway to the safe house, they slowed at one of the two railway crossings o
n the route. The red lights were flashing, and the barriers lowered. They were stuck with at least a ten-minute wait. A line of cars backed up behind them. Once again, Aharoni warned Eichmann that if he uttered a word, he would be shot. He didn’t move under the blanket, his breathing settled.

  The four Israelis in the limousine tried to look casual — difficult, given the circumstances. Other drivers paced up and down outside their cars and smoked cigarettes while they waited for the train. Music blared through their open car doors. The storm that had threatened a downpour earlier passed overhead without breaking.

  Finally, what seemed like hours later, the train roared by and the barriers lifted. The line of traffic eased forward. Shalom drove away, with the limousine close behind. Ten minutes from Tira, Shalom took a wrong turn, but Aharoni stayed on the proper route. Shalom spun the car around and soon caught up. Five minutes away, they parked for a second on a side road to change the diplomatic plates for a new set of Argentine ones.

  At 8:55 P.M., the two cars slowed in front of Tira. A waiting Medad pulled open the gate. Aharoni rolled the limousine into the garage, and Medad closed the door behind him. After fifteen years on the run, Adolf Eichmann was now a prisoner of the Jewish people.

  Eichmann staggered uneasily into the safe house, his arms held tightly by Shalom and Malkin. The entire team accompanied him through the kitchen and upstairs to his prepared cell. Everybody stayed quiet. Harel had made it clear he wanted only Aharoni to speak to the prisoner. They all crammed into the small bedroom, which held a bed, two wooden chairs, and a table. A lightbulb blazed from a cord in the ceiling. Malkin and Shalom released their prisoner.

  Eichmann stood in the middle of the room. His trench coat was splattered with mud from the struggle in the ditch. He was silent, his back straight as a board, arms down at his sides, his eyes still covered with the goggles. Only his hands moved, clenching and unclenching nervously.

  Aharoni brought Eichmann over to the bed, and the team stripped his clothes off him. He never protested, looking helpless in his frayed, grubby underwear and socks. Aharoni could not fathom how this sad, pathetic creature could be Adolf Eichmann, once the master of the lives of millions of Jews.

  Dr. Elian inspected Eichmann’s body and mouth for any hidden cyanide capsules, which might be used to commit suicide in the event of capture. He removed the prisoner’s false teeth and examined those as well.

  Eichmann broke the silence, his voice strained but clear: “No man can be vigilant for fifteen years.”

  Next, Elian checked Eichmann’s vital signs — his temperature, pulse, breathing rate, and blood pressure — to make sure he was not on the verge of collapse. Then, at the direction of Aharoni, he examined him for any distinguishing marks, as listed in the Mossad’s file on Eichmann. He found several scars that matched medical certificates and witness testimonies, including an inch-and-a-half-long pale scar below his left eyebrow and one above his left elbow. Malkin and Shalom dressed the prisoner in loose pajamas, laid him flat on the bed, and handcuffed his left ankle to the bed frame. They left his goggles on to further his disorientation. This was the moment when Eichmann was most vulnerable.

  The team used this list of identifying marks to confirm Eichmann’s identity.

  Aharoni was eager to take advantage of his subject’s unbalanced state and begin his interrogation. While he lacked experience as an undercover operative, as an interrogator Aharoni was unequaled in the Shin Bet. He never used force, knowing that physical abuse only led to false confessions. Instead, he wore his subjects down with staccato bursts of questions, twisting them in their own lies and hammering them with known facts until the truth was the only way out. He was prepared for a long night.

  At 9:15 P.M., the room empty but for Aharoni and Shalom, the interrogation began. Aharoni had Eichmann’s entire file memorized, so there would be no delay in asking follow-up questions.

  “What’s your name?” he asked sharply.

  “Ricardo Klement,” the prisoner said.

  “What was your previous name?”

  “Otto Heninger.”

  Aharoni took a long, tense breath. He had never heard the name, and the manner in which his subject was answering his questions, coolly and credibly, put him off. He switched tactics.

  “When was your third son born?”

  “On March 29, 1942.”

  “What is his name?”

  “Dieter.”

  “How tall are you?”

  “Five feet, eight inches.”

  “What is your size in shoes?” Aharoni asked. The faster he asked the questions, the less time his subject would have to waver or decide to start lying.

  “Nine.”

  “What size in shirt?”

  “Forty-four.”

  Eichmann responded as quickly as the questions came, and his answers lined up with what Aharoni had read in the file. The prisoner was telling the truth.

  “What was the number of your membership card in the National Socialist Party?” he asked.

  “889895,” the man said, definitely and without pause. This was Eichmann’s number. It was a critical admission.

  “What was your number in the SS?”

  “45326.”

  Klement was Eichmann. Aharoni was sure. Now he needed Eichmann to admit it, to come clean. The interrogator looked across the bed at Shalom. They were both eager for their prisoner to confess his true identity, and they knew they were close.

  “When did you come to Argentina?”

  “1950.”

  “What is your name?”

  “Ricardo Klement.”

  He was still resisting, but his hands were trembling slightly. He must have known that he had revealed himself with his identification numbers.

  “Was your SS number 45326?”

  “Yes.”

  “What is your date of birth?”

  “March 19, 1906.”

  “Where were you born?”

  “Solingen.”

  Aharoni had him. He knew it. Shalom knew it. Their prisoner knew it. The interrogator asked one last question.

  “Under what name were you born?”

  “Adolf Eichmann.”

  Joy erupted in the room. Aharoni and Shalom shook hands over the prisoner. They had their man.

  Eichmann spoke again, this time in an ingratiating tone. “You can quite easily understand that I’m agitated. I would like to ask for a little wine, if it’s possible — red wine — to help me control my emotions.”

  Aharoni replied that they would bring him something to drink.

  “As soon as you told me to keep quiet, there in the car, I knew I was in the hands of Israelis,” Eichmann continued. “I know Hebrew. I learned it from Rabbi Leo Baeck. Sh’ma Yisrael, Ha’Shem Elokeinu —”

  “That’s enough,” Aharoni said sharply. The words were the beginning of the Sh’ma, the holiest prayer in the Jewish religion, recited in the morning and at night by the faithful. It was the prayer spoken at the hour of death, and millions, millions, of Jews had come to utter it because of Adolf Eichmann. Disgusted, the agents left the room to regain control over their emotions and fight the temptation to beat up their prisoner.

  Once they had calmed down, Aharoni returned to his questioning. For another hour, he asked about Eichmann’s family: the birth dates and birthplaces of his sons and brothers, of his wife, of his extended family. They already knew they had their man, but they wanted to be absolutely sure.

  Finally, Eitan ended the interrogation. Aharoni and Shalom left to report to Isser Harel. They drove into Buenos Aires and dropped the Buick limousine off in a parking lot, not daring to use it again. When they reached the café, it was a few minutes shy of midnight. Harel was paying his check, ready to move on to the next rendezvous location on his list. When he saw Shalom and Aharoni, disheveled and tired though they looked, he knew that they had succeeded. As Shalom gave his report, Harel’s mind was already focused on what would come next: getting Eichmann to Israel.


  They left the café soon after and went off in separate directions. Harel hurried to a nearby restaurant, where a sayan, recruited by Ilani, was expecting him. Harel recognized “Meir Lavi” by the placement of a certain book on his table. Lavi had been moving from café to café for as many hours as Harel had, not knowing the purpose of his actions nor who he was supposed to meet.

  Harel cut straight to the chase. He told Lavi to go to Ilani at the embassy and say, “The typewriter is okay.”

  “That’s all?” Lavi asked, upset he had spent half the night waiting to pass along a message that seemed like gibberish.

  The question was met with a stern glance from Harel.

  “I’ll go to him at once,” Lavi said.

  The message translated to Eichmann being in Israeli hands. Harel knew it would be passed on to Mossad headquarters, then to David Ben-Gurion and his Foreign Minister, Golda Meir. He walked to the railway station to collect his bag. With each step through the brisk night in Buenos Aires, he slowly realized the significance of what they had done. For this moment only, he allowed himself to enjoy their success.

  Back on Garibaldi Street, Vera Eichmann waited anxiously for her husband to come home. She had expected him to be late, but not this late. Something was wrong. Vera had always feared that her husband’s enemies would finally catch up with him. She decided to tell her sons that their father had not come home. They would find him, she knew.

  Near midnight, Peter Malkin knocked on Rafi Eitan’s open door in Tira. “I’m going back,” he said. He had noticed that Eichmann’s glasses were missing, and a search of the limousine had not turned them up. If the glasses were discovered on Garibaldi Street, Vera Eichmann would have immediate proof that her husband had been abducted.

  He drove alone into San Fernando, then caught a late-night bus to the kiosk. A cold, wet wind blew across the plain as he walked toward the capture site. The same single kerosene lamp he had seen earlier burned in the Eichmann house. They were still expecting him.