Blind Mission: A Thrilling Espionage Novel

by Schmidt, Avichai

  In a parking lot about one-and-a-half kilometers from the White House, two men sat in a gray Chevrolet station wagon and watched a small television set that rested on top of the dashboard. The afternoon sun glared into their eyes somewhat and made viewing difficult. The set was tuned to a station carrying the live broadcast of the ceremony at which the historic agreement would be signed between the State of Israel and the Radical Front for the Liberation of Palestine.

  Chapter 23

  The White House was replaced on the screen by a bright yellow title reading: “Peace Agreement”. This faded to a live view of the dais. The camera slowly zoomed in on the table of honor, which was wrapped in red velvet and covered by a white cloth. For a moment it stopped to focus on the delicate arrangements of blue flowers that decorated the table, then moved back to re-focus on the three men sitting behind it. In the center, radiating calm, sat the host and initiator of the event, the President of the United States, Douglas Stewart. To his right, his face frozen in a mask, sat the prime minister of Israel, Moshe Lapid; to his left sat the Palestinian leader George Abu Hatra, his face unshaven under a red-and-white-checked keffiyeh bound with a black cord, his lips spread wide in a satisfied grin.

  In accordance with Barry Stone’s instructions, the camera panned from the prime minister to the conductor of the US Navy Band. The latter, resplendent in a colorful dress uniform, raised his baton and the band began the Star Spangled Banner. Camera 2 focused on President Stewart, standing at attention, but with his face stonily staring straight ahead.

  “Camera 1! Give me the terrorist! The director called into his microphone half-jokingly. Some of those who heard him smiled; others did not consider his designation funny.

  Abu Hatra was also standing at attention, his right hand over the center of his chest. Two of his fingers moved. Was that really a V-for-victory sign?

  Many viewers throughout the world ground their teeth at the sight.

  * * *

  In room 501 at the Sheraton, Dan Greenberg used a remote control unit to change television channels and listened to the political commentator of the ABC network.

  Against the background of the White House, with the flags of the United States, Israel and the Radical Front for the Liberation of Palestine waving in a gentle breeze, the reporter read from a prepared text designed to fill in moments when nothing was happening. “Much has already been said about this event; it is without doubt an historic event, special and unusual. Even the number of journalists who have come here in recent days is exceptional: some 5,000 reporters from all over the world. Their number is exceeded only by the number of police here, which is estimated at over 20,000; including units from surrounding areas.

  “It is reasonable to assume that, in addition to the uniformed officers, there are now in the city hundreds of undercover agents from various agencies; all of them devoting special attention to ensuring the security of this event. Many police vehicles and units are standing by in streets near the White House, and the approaches to the area have been sealed off by concrete barriers.”

  Dan sat at the edge of his bed in the large hotel room, his eyes glued to the television screen. His mind was blank; his thoughts consisted only of what he saw taking place on the screen before him. Now he picked up the console he had prepared in advance containing the radio-control units from the models he had bought in New York.

  Long lines of traffic could now be seen on the screen, accompanied by the reporter’s voiceover: “Since early this morning traffic in the city has been slowed to a crawl, which has otherwise been described by motorists as ‘one big traffic jam.’”

  The picture now changed to a view of the White House Rose Garden. The reporter’s voice was replaced by that of a female announcer:

  “On the White House lawn there are now 1,485 carefully chosen guests, for whom the White House chef has prepared a very special meal. Opposite the White House, on Lafayette Square and along Pennsylvania Avenue, several hundred Palestinian demonstrators have been protesting since early this morning against the agreement that is to be signed today. They are calling Abu Hatra ‘a traitor.’ Senior White House officials are saying the president has withdrawn the administration’s commitment to support Israel’s demand that the Palestinian state be demilitarized. The officials refused to answer the question whether this decision followed only from a desire to support Abu Hatra against his foes in the Arab World. Nevertheless, it should be pointed out that the Palestinian state will have to defend itself; and not only against Israel. It should also be noted that, in future dialogues some other tough questions for Israel are to be raised, among them not only the future of the occupied territories and even the fate of Jerusalem, but also the return of hundreds of thousands, perhaps millions, of refugees to the small area remaining to Israel; not to mention the expulsion of some 350,000 Israeli settlers from the settlements established in the West Bank over the past 20 years. Will housing be found for all of them? Will the new rulers of Palestine relinquish their demands for the last bit of territory included in their homeland? These are only a few of the tough questions the two sides will have to deal with.”

  Dan was amazed at how detached he felt: no butterflies in his stomach, no racing pulse, no restlessness, no thought. He knew when planning the action that, if he came to the conclusion that it was the right thing to do, he would have no lingering doubts. He was similarly convinced that, after it was all over, he would not be bothered by pangs of conscience. That’s how I am, he thought; that’s how all men of action are who operate according to pure logic, who weigh their future moves a thousand times and examine each problem from every possible angle before reaching a decision. When we do reach a decision, there is almost no power in the world that can make us change our minds.

  Now he only heard the sounds coming from the television set. No other noise penetrated his consciousness. Then he stopped paying attention to the words themselves and just watched the people on the screen move about like puppets. He became wrapped in a cocoon of emptiness; clearly focused only on the single image of the men on the dais, waiting for the close-up shot he knew would come and enable him to identify the specially marked microphones before each of them. He had to be sure that the microphones were indeed the ones he had planted with the sound company, and that no last-minute change had occurred. He had to be sure which microphone was being used by the prime minister of Israel.

  Dan lost track of how long he had been watching. His entire being was concentrated on what was happening on the screen. Finally the camera zoomed in on the three leaders. There it was! He could just make out the marks he had scratched near the tops of the three microphones before he had turned them into bombs. Very nice! That part of the plan was a success. Now he only had to work out which microphone belonged to which of the four radio-control units in his console. He glanced to the side and reached over to pick up the console as the camera began to zoom in again for a close-up of the three leaders. The American president straightened his tie, and Greenberg held his breath.

  * * *

  The last strains of the anthem faded and Douglas Stewart unconsciously turned the microphone towards himself.

  “Today we all stand before a moment that will undoubtedly be marked in the annals of human history,” he began. “This day represents an important turning point for the nations and the peoples of the entire world. Nevertheless, this must also be a turning point in the way of life and in the thought processes of many people on this earth. This must be a time of soul searching, a time in which we permit our logic to overcome our feelings. Let us honestly try to wipe away the blood-soaked past, the feelings of resentment and vengefulness, and look forward with hope towards understanding, stability, peace, security, and a better life. This is a rare moment of grace, and we must not let it slip from our hands. Let us exploit it; for I do not know if we will be given another chance. May God be with us.”

  For a moment there was complete silence, then the crowd burst into fierce applause; a st
anding ovation that thundered beyond the White House gates.

  Cameras No. 1 and 3 picked up the Israeli and Palestinian leaders as they joined the extended applause; the Arab appearing to be more excited, the Israeli still subdued.

  “Camera 2, focus on the president! Fast! What’s with you, 2? Didn’t you get enough sleep last night?” Barry Stone growled into his headset.

  The cameraman responded quickly. In a fraction of a second the sharp gray eyes of the president filled the broadcast monitor. The man was smiling from ear to ear in satisfaction.

  “2 on the air!” ordered Stone.

  Then, in the split second that the vision mixer took to punch the button for Camera No. 2 and the president of the United States to appear on the viewers’ screens, it happened. Actually, none of those present in the broadcasting unit or among the many guests on the White House lawn or the hundreds of millions of viewers watching live throughout the world understood at that moment what just happened.

  The home viewers heard a loud thump and then the sound went dead; followed by the picture itself becoming blurred and unsteady. The mobile broadcasting unit responded in seconds, with the first to recover being the sound technician. “I’ve lost the microphone!” he shouted to the technical supervisor. “What the hell is going on?!”

  The deep thump in the mobile unit’s sounds system was heard outside the van as a sharp explosion. Even though the blast was not especially loud, it was powerful enough to jolt the security men from their perches on the White House roof. Suddenly as one, all six men scanned the crowd below through the telescopic sights of their sniper rifles looking for the attacker, fingers on triggers. But they did not see anything suspicious.

  Barry Stone was the next to recover.

  “Zoom out, Camera 1!” he called to his cameramen. “Zoom out, Cameras 2, 3, 4, and 5! Everybody zoom out! Give me a long shot; I want to see what’s going on!”

  Then, “Camera 3 on air!”

  Camera No. 3 was the one positioned directly in front of the dais, some 30 meters away. Now, with its lens focused wide, it revealed a scene that sent hundreds of millions of viewers in America and throughout the world into shock.

  President Douglas Stewart, elected only six months before, the prime minister of Israel, and Palestinian terrorist leader George Abu Hatra had all been thrown back from the table, their faces shredded. Large patches of blood mingled over the white tablecloth, mixed with bits of flesh and blue flowers.

  * * *

  In Jerusalem, Defense Minister Michael Almog turned in stunned silence from the screen, his face pale. “My God!” he finally managed to croak hoarsely.

  The silver-haired man glanced briefly at Acting Prime Minister and Foreign Minister Meir Gilat, sitting beside him on the comfortable brown sofa, then continued watching the television screen as if hypnotized. The two of them should not have been so surprised. Porat had briefed both of them, hinting at what was about to happen. Nevertheless, it was only now that each of them fully understood what they had been a party to.

  The veteran diplomat cleared his throat as if about to say something; but he could not get out a word. The silence of death had settled on the room. The two seasoned politicians – whose considerable enmity had lasted for two years, and who had each cultivated an entire faction of supporters in expectation of the moment the prime minister would step down – now gazed at one another, breathing heavily, looking as if they were incapable of movement. They did not need words: each could see the shock and amazement reflected in the other’s eyes – and the terrible fear.

  The defense minister recovered first, though he himself did not know where he got the strength. He punched a button on the remote control unit in his hand and lowered the sound of the television, then went over to the prime minister’s desk and used the intercom to summon the director of the prime minister’s bureau. At the same time he signaled the two bodyguards who escorted Meir Gilat as acting prime minister, both of whom were standing with mouths agape staring at the television, to leave the room.

  “Do not put any calls through,” he told the bureau director as soon as she arrived. “Summon the cabinet secretary and try to locate the head of the Mossad.”

  “But what…what do you have to say about this?” The foreign minister began as soon as she had left. “This wasn’t the plan, r….right? That is…this wasn’t the intention….” he stammered, almost in supplication; apparently beginning to believe his own words.

  “No, not as far as I know,” the defense minister played the game. “That is, I don’t believe the prime minister intended to relive the Massada story and commit suicide on behalf of Israel. But…” and Michael Almog turned his head, as if to make sure they were alone, “…if we think about this rationally and are completely honest, then the main objective has been achieved, although – turn up the sound, please, and let’s hear what they have to say.”

  During the last few moments utter chaos reigned at the White House. Hundreds of terrified guests scattered in all directions, running about blindly on the lawn like panicked cattle in a pen. They screamed hysterically as they were pushed aside by security officers, who also scurried about with no apparent objective. It was startling to see the leaders of American high society suddenly take leave of all basic courtesy and push, shove, and gouge one another mercilessly as they tried to escape the slaughter at any cost. Women tore their party dresses so they could move more freely, while some unlucky guests found themselves trampled into the dirt by their friends. Some would never get up again.

  The first person to recover sufficiently enough to try to impose order on what was happening was a young man named Ted Davis, who was the technician responsible for sound amplification. Later he would receive a medal of honor from the Washington Police Department and a special citation from the American Press Association for what he did. With great decisiveness the young man picked up a microphone, connected it to the public address system, and began issuing instructions aimed at introducing some logic and order into the mayhem.

  In the broadcast booths the reporters began to regain control of themselves and to absorb what was taking place. In voices that soon recovered their customary firmness, they tried to explain the course of events to their countries and to draw some logical conclusions from the chaotic scene before them.

  From the television set in the prime minister’s bureau in Jerusalem came the voice of veteran broadcaster Ilan Michaeli. “…and while it is still not clear exactly what has happened here and how, it is a great tragedy, terrible and incomprehensible.”

  On the live satellite broadcast it was now possible to see American security men striving to push back dozens of press photographers who were trying to reach the dais, in a belated attempt to capture some of the horror on film.

  Amidst the tumult, the still stunned bodyguards of the fallen president struggled to clear a path for an ambulance crew bearing folding stretchers and other emergency equipment. But no doctor of experienced paramedic was needed to determine that the three leaders were no longer among the living; there was actually no need for an ambulance at all.

  The crowd continued to run amok. Among those moving about more purposefully were several men wearing special protective vests and helmets; apparently members of an army demolition unit. They scoured the lawn systematically, ignoring the panicked guests, and checked under each bench, chair, and table for additional explosives.

  “…It is still not clear what caused the explosion that cut off the lives of these three great leaders,” the reporter intoned, in a voice more characteristic of his coverage at less dramatic events. “In any case, at first glance the impression is that the source of the blast was in the vicinity of the dais. As the examination continues we should have more details. At this moment it is too early to imagine who is responsible for this terrible act. Nevertheless, it is not hard to guess which groups and organizations throughout the world could stand to gain from the perpetration of such an outrage, and which groups among them had
the ability to do so; for such an attack required the kind of expertise not available to just any terrorist organization.”

  The voice of Ilan Michaeli and the background noise of the screaming crowd were swallowed up by the wails of many sirens, as police, army, and Red Cross vehicles converged on the scene.

  In Jerusalem, the phone in the prime minister’s study rang. Because of the unequivocal orders they had given to the bureau director about not taking incoming calls, it was clear to the two senior ministers that the person on the other end of the line must be the head of the Mossad. Meir Gilat snatched up the receiver with uncharacteristic savagery and barked into it:

  “Yes, Nahum, what the hell’s going on there?!”

  But it was the bureau director’s voice that he heard. “We cannot locate the head of the Mossad,” she began. I’ve managed to find the Mossad director for North America. Would you like to speak with him?”

  “Yes; transfer the call, please.”

  “Hello, acting prime minister. This is Yitzhak Eitan speaking,” Gilat heard after a short delay.

  “Hello, Yitzhak. What happened? What can you tell me?”

  “Not much. We have no idea what happened.”

  “Where is Nahum?” the foreign minister asked having difficulty understanding why he had to speak with anyone less than the head of the Mossad himself; especially when the man had no answers to his questions.

  “We don’t know, sir. Contact with him was lost about an hour ago.”

  “Where is his deputy?”

  “He’s also disappeared. To the best of our knowledge, he was with Porat.”

  “Just a minute; let me understand this. When you say that contact with Nahum was lost – just what do you mean?”

  Now a click was heard over the line. The foreign minister and his interlocutor knew well that it was the code computer automatically changing codes at random, in order to ensure the secrecy of the call by making it impossible to monitor.