Snap Shot

by A. J. Quinnell

  Begin asked: ‘Have you talked to David Ivri?’

  ‘Yes,’ Hofti answered. ‘We had a brief chat before we came in here. We showed him the plans of the Palace and the location. He made two points: firstly, that the chances of success given the size of the target and the difficult approach are very slim. Secondly, that because of distance and the need for stealth and deception only eight F16’s are to be used on the raid, covered by six F15’s in fighter role. He pointed out that five or six bombs will be needed on target to destroy the reactor, so with eight possibilities the margin for error is already very low. That’s why he would need a Cabinet decision.’

  ‘We can’t send an extra plane?’ someone asked.

  Mordechai Zipori supplied the answer. ‘No. Fourteen in total is the absolute maximum and they have to be exactly co-ordinated. They’ve been practising for two weeks. The raid is two days away. You can’t throw in another plane.’ He looked around the table and added grimly ‘The choice is stark and simple. For a very slim chance to rescue this agent we must significantly reduce the margin of error in the reactor strike.’

  There was a heavy silence, then Hofti said ‘Before you take that decision I would like to point something out. We in Mossad have always gone to any lengths to save our agents. It’s one of our great strengths and it stems from, the principles on which this country was founded.’

  Walter leaned forward, ‘I too would like to say something. This agent is not an Israeli, but he is Jewish through his mother, who herself died for Israel here in Jerusalem in 1948. He is a man of great courage who already in his life has been to hell and come back. He is now in hell again. He was to be married after this mission. His wife-to-be is expecting a child.’ He pointed to the photograph in front of Begin. ‘She too risked her life in order for that photograph to be taken. She collapsed in my office when she heard yesterday that her man had been taken. She’s now in hospital under sedation.’ He sat back and slowly looked in turn into the eyes of all sixteen Ministers.

  ‘Well,’ Begin said. ‘We’d better take our decision.’ He called out very formally: ‘All those in favour of detaching one aircraft from the reactor strike?’

  Immediately and in unison sixteen hands were raised.

  Two hours later Walter was in another meeting. He had flown with Major-General David Ivri to the Air Force base at Etzion in the Sinai Desert and was standing beside a huge table in the briefing room, watching Colonel Daniel Rener play with a toy aeroplane. The Israeli Air Force has scale models of every major city in the Middle East and at this moment Baghdad in miniature was covering twenty square metres of the table. A small red plastic flag was stuck on top of the inch-high “Palace of the end”. Colonel Rener, the mission leader, was leaning over the table holding a tiny F16 in his hand and demonstrating to Walter the difficulties of a low-level bombing run over a built-up area. On the other side of the table Major-General David Ivri was watching and nodding his head in agreement at the points Rener was making.

  ‘The pilot will have the target in sight for only five seconds before releasing his bomb, and he will be coming out of a very tight turn, so the “G” load will be high. If he’s ten metres too far left, he misses the corner of the wall. Ten metres to the right and his bomb goes right into your agent’s cell.’

  ‘That would be better than missing to the left,’ Walter said grimly.

  Rener nodded in understanding and went on: ‘The pilot only has one pass.’ He pointed with his finger to several black circles on the model. ‘Surface-to-air missile sites - very nasty. So after release he has to make a sharp banking climb through here. If he gets it wrong by as little as two or three degrees he gets zapped.’

  Walter sighed. ‘I never thought it would be easy, Colonel.’

  “There’s another factor,’ Rener said. ‘Normally for such a mission a pilot would train for many days. The on-board computers would be specially programmed.’ He waved at the model. ‘OK. A film of this goes into the flight simulator and he has some practice. Also we mock-up and film the building and the wall and that goes into the simulator; but the raid is Sunday. It’s not enough time.’

  ‘But it is possible?’

  Rener shrugged. ‘Anything is possible. I’m just pointing out the chances. I want you to understand. It’s about one in three.’

  ‘It’s better than nothing,’ Walter muttered. ‘You’ll use your best pilot . . . apart from yourself, I mean.’

  ‘Mr Blum, all my pilots are top rate. They’re the best in the best Air Force in the world.’

  Walter inclined his head in acknowledgement. ‘Let me put it another way. If you yourself were in that place and about now being tortured - who would you want in the pilot’s seat?’

  Rener slid a look at General Ivri who smiled and said: ‘Answer the man, Daniel.’

  Rener shrugged. ‘It would have to be Major Gideon Galili.’

  Waiter smiled grimly. ‘Somehow, from the tips of my toes, I thought you would say that.’

  Chapter 21

  Munger heard the voice through a mist of pain. It was a whispering, insistent voice and it infuriated him. They had kept him awake for seventy-two hours. Counting the night before he was arrested he had gone without sleep for four days and nights. Now, when it last, in spite of the pain, he had finally slipped into unconsciousness, this probing voice was jerking him back to reality and pain. Slowly he opened his eyes, expecting to see the cruel, vengeful face of Sami Asaf. It took a while to realise that the features above him were not contorted with rage, the eyes not filled with hate. They were filled with impatience, but they were kind eyes.

  ‘Munger, can you hear me?’

  He managed an affirmative croak.

  ‘My name is Hammad Shihab. I’m a friend. I can only stay a few minutes. It is dangerous. Please listen. The Israelis will attempt to rescue you tomorrow in the afternoon at exactly 5.30. We have to cross the square outside - cross it fast.’

  Munger’s head rolled on the bunk’s wooden slats, ‘Never . . . I’ll never make it.’

  ‘You can. I’ll be with you. I’ll help you. It’s less than twenty-four hours.’

  ‘But I’ll be worse than I am now.’

  ‘No. You will not be tortured again. Sami Asaf has gone to Kifri to find out why their security was so bad. He won’t be back until tomorrow night. He gave orders that only he is to interrogate you. That is why they let you sleep. Try to keep your strength. Just one more day.’

  ‘But how? How will we get out?’ He was feeling better now. There was a glimmer of hope in the recesses of his brain.

  ‘They will blow up the wall in the courtyard. I don’t know how.’

  The glimmer became brighter. Munger had an inkling of how they would do it.

  ‘There is a message,’ Shihab said. ‘From ORANGE ONE. He says to keep faith.’

  A slight smile twitched on Munger’s lips. ‘Yeah, he would . . . Why are you doing this?’

  Shihab shrugged. ‘ORANGE ONE gave me little choice. Anyway, it’s time I left this place before I go insane.’

  Munger grimaced. ‘I agree with the sentiments.’

  ‘I must go,’ Shihab said. ‘Try to sleep now.’ He reached down and gently squeezed Munger’s shoulder and then quickly withdrew his hand and apologised as Munger winced in pain.

  After Shihab left Munger tried to decide whether he had been hallucinating or dreaming but the pain in his shoulder even from the gentle pressure had been real enough. He closed his eyes. Time would tell. He would keep faith. He began to slide into sleep again and the face of Ruth drifted out of the mists. It was real. She was with him. Just as she had been, all the time, making the nightmare bearable. Even as they beat him with rubber hoses, as they clamped the electric leads to his body, as they laughed and joked as he twisted in agony. She was always there - a lifeline to his sanity.

  On Sunday morning at 10 am Baghdad time the Iraqi Ministry of Information called a press conference and, amid much indignation and propaganda, announce
d to the world that the Security Forces had arrested a CIA spy. He was the famous photographer David Munger, caught trying to smuggle classified war information out of Iraq after attempting to bribe Iraqi officials.

  At 11 am Walter Blum was sitting in Daniel Rener’s office listening to him say:

  ‘It’s totally out of the question. Galili has already spent eight hours in the simulator. There’s no time for another pilot to get practice. God, man, we take off in just over five hours. Why the hell didn’t you tell me all this earlier?’

  ‘I didn’t expect it,’ Walter said unhappily, it was a complete surprise. I can only imagine that the Iraqis are trying to embarrass the Americans for reasons of their own. At least it shows that Munger is holding out.’

  ‘You’re sure that Galili will connect it?’

  ‘Of course,’ Walter said. ‘The moment he hears the news . . . I don’t suppose there’s a chance of isolating him before take-off?’

  Rener shook his head. ‘No way.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Right now he’s in the simulator. He’ll be finished in half an hour. Then the crews have a light lunch together and take a rest for a couple of hours before final briefing. Some of them will have already heard it on the radio. It’ll be a big talking point.’

  Walter sighed and Rener said in awe: ‘I’ve heard of love triangles but nothing like this. Sure, Gideon’s been very quiet and withdrawn the past year or so. I had no idea what caused it.’

  ‘He’s a man obsessed,’ Walter said glumly.

  Rener shook his head as if to clear it. ‘Mr Blum. You’re worrying too much. I’ve known Gideon Galili since he was a trainee pilot twelve years ago. He’s a fine man, and a fine Israeli. He was thrilled when he got this assignment. Thrilled to have a chance to save this man.’

  ‘He didn’t know who he was.’

  ‘It makes no difference,’ Rener said firmly. ‘He’s a professional and a patriot. He’ll do his best.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘You’d better believe that. You know the odds. If he misses it won’t be for want of trying.’

  Walter sighed again and Rener asked: ‘Do you want me to talk to him?’

  ‘No, I’ll do it.’ Walter got to his feet. ‘I’ll catch him as he comes out of the simulator.’

  Half an hour later Rener looked through his office window and saw them walking together outside the briefing room. They presented an odd contrast: the tall, slim pilot and the fat, garish civilian. Galili was bending his head to catch Walter’s words. For a moment they stopped and turned and watched as a formation of F15’s lifted off the distant runway and screamed into the sky. Then they were walking again and the pilot was talking and putting his hand on Walter’s shoulder.

  At 3.00 pm Spiro parked the Mercedes outside the main doors of the Saint Barnabas Hospital in Limassol. He saw Ruth hobbling down the steps and quickly went up to take her small suitcase.

  As they drove up towards Platres he kept glancing at her in the rear view mirror. She was lovely and she was sad.

  She had received a phone call from Walter an hour before. He was keeping a promise. His voice was faint and he said nothing indiscreet. Just that action was being taken before 6 o’clock. There was only a slim chance. He would let her know as soon as he had positive news - one way or the other. He asked her how she was and she told him much better. She would go home to Platres. She would wait for news there. He was pleased. He told her he would get in touch with the office. Spiro would collect her.

  As they passed through the village of Kalini she saw the little Greek Orthodox church on the square. On an impulse she pressed a button and lowered the glass partition and asked Spiro to stop.

  Being Sunday the villagers were dressed in their best clothes. They sat on chairs and benches at their front doors and outside the taverna, gossiping and fanning themselves in the sultry heat. They watched her curiously as she limped across the square and went up the steps into the church.

  An old, bearded priest dressed in black and with a high, flat-topped hat greeted her at the door arid told her that the service was over. Then he noted with curiosity the small gold Star of David at her throat. She looked past him into the dark, cool interior and at the high altar with its icons and long, ivory candles with flickering flames.

  ‘Is it possible,’ she asked, ‘for me to stay here for an hour or two?’

  He looked down at her and caught the sadness in her face and nodded. ‘You are welcome.’

  She turned and went back to the car and asked Spiro if he would wait for her. He smiled and gestured at the taverna and told her to be as long as she wanted.

  In the church she sat at a pew near the back. She was not a religious woman. She could not remember when she had last consciously prayed. She was in a church, alien to her own, but it made no difference. She entertained no thoughts of a divine intervention. In this place, this house of God, she would compose herself.

  It was an hour later when the priest came back from his afternoon siesta. He looked in through the door and saw her on her knees.

  Chapter 22

  At 3.45 pm the transports took the pilots out to the aircraft.

  Dressed in their anti-G suits and torso harnesses and carrying their helmets and oxygen masks they looked like astronauts about to invade outer space. They did not talk much. There was no false jocularity or words of bravado. Each was a finely-tuned amalgamation of natural talent and endless hours of competitive training. They represented the elite of the world’s pilots.

  Gideon Galili’s five-man ground crew watched him climb out of the transport and, as it moved away, stand and for over a minute gaze at his aircraft. It was something he always did.

  The F16 gleamed and glistened in the sunlight, the long slug of the bomb bulging under its sleek belly. There was an impatience about it as though it was irked to be shackled to the earth. The ground crew did not see it that way. For them it was a machine that needed hours of pampering care. A machine with miles of wires, thousands of moving parts and a host of temperamental electronics. It took thousands of man-hours a month to keep it operational. But when it flew it was the finest weapon in the skies.

  Gideon nodded at the crew and moved forward to do his walk around check, intoning to himself:

  ‘Intake-orifice covers and plugs removed . . . Ground locks out . . . Panels secured . . . Bomb secured . . . Fusing lanyard connected.’

  The crew watched impassively. It was routine. They knew, and he knew, that everything was perfect. Like him, they were the best.

  He reached the metal steps, handed his helmet and oxygen mask to his fitter, clambered up and leaned into the cockpit.

  ‘Brakes on . . . Armament switches safe . . . Ejection seat safe . . . Parachute and drogue lines correct . . .’

  Around the airfield inside thirteen other widely dispersed blast shelters thirteen other pilots were going through exactly the same checks. On this day and for this mission not one of them would find the merest fault.

  Gideon Galili climbed into the cockpit, settled himself into the reclined seat and his fitter leaned over and helped to connect him up.

  ‘Survival pack to torso harness . . . Lap belt tight . . . Parachute harness to torso harness . . . Helmet on . . . Oxygen and R/T lead connected . . . Oxygen flow OK . . . Ejection seat safety pins out . . . Firing handles live…’

  The fitter climbed down, removed the ladder and went to the front of the aircraft to wait for start-up. Gideon ran through the pre-start-up checks. Then, when they were complete, he waved a raised thumb in front of his visor. The fitter had slipped on ear plugs and a throat mike. A wire snaked up to a socket under the F16’s jaw.

  It was 4.15 pm and, from the other side of the airfield, they heard the first engine roar into life.

  In the cockpit Gideon’s thumb was about to press the starter button when the decision finally erupted like an exploding star shell in his brain. He was stunned by it. Stunned by the certainty. He was going to miss! He was going to miss to the right!

  He lay there
with his thumb poised on the starter button. He was in a state of sublime exultation. He was as one with the bomb three feet below him. With all his talent, all his training and all his will, he would guide it ten metres to the right of the target. It would have a new target. What had they told him? Better to miss to the right than the left . . . Better he dies than be left to the mercy of the Mukhabarat. Gideon Galili would give him that release.

  Suddenly the fitter’s voice was in his ears. He shook himself and brought his mind back. Took in the anxious words.

  ‘Is everything all right sir? All the others have started up.’

  ‘Sure. All checks OK.’ His thumb stabbed out. He heard the engine wind up, the igniters crackle and a moment later felt and heard the dull roar as the F16 came to life.

  At 4.30 the aircraft began to taxi out. Walter stood in the control tower next to General Ivri and watched them emerge from their shelters and converge on the end of the runway, each slotting into position as if in a formal choreographed dance. There was no R/T communication between the aircraft and the tower or between themselves. They would not risk even the slightest chance of a freak radio wave being picked up by enemy ears. They were moving into pairs now; the F16’s in front and the F15’s following.

  ‘Galili is on the left in the third pair,’ Ivri murmured and then he added, ‘Colonel Rener told me of the connection between him and the agent. It’s amazing . . . But you can set your mind at rest. Gideon Galili will do his job, and do it well.’

  ‘I know,’ Walter answered, ‘I talked to him for half an hour.

  ‘Afterwards I felt embarrassed about my doubts.’