by Neal Bascomb
A minute before bus 203 was scheduled to show, a boy wearing a bright red jacket, probably fifteen years old, pedaled down Garibaldi Street on a bicycle. He stopped at the limousine's side. Aharoni stepped halfway out of the car; he was the only one of them who spoke any Spanish. They needed to get the boy out of there. He asked what was wrong and if they needed some help. Tabor dropped the hood down, and Aharoni smiled at the boy, saying, "Thank you! No need! You can carry on your way." Malkin waved him away as well. The boy took off, his unzipped jacket swirling around him in the wind as he disappeared in the darkness. A storm was definitely coming.
Then 7:40 P.M. passed, and the bus had not yet arrived. Three minutes later, they saw the lights of a vehicle approaching from the direction of San Fernando. They had spent enough nights on the railway embankment to know that the lights were from the bus.
Malkin prepared himself, running the words "Un momentito, señor" over in his head and gauging where in relation to the road and the car he would make his move. Tabor prepared to drop the hood and help Malkin. Both reminded themselves that they were not to hurt Eichmann. Every care must be taken that he not be injured. They also had to keep him from screaming, which complicated their effort, but they had practiced plenty. Malkin was to seize him by the throat, spin behind him, and drag him toward the open car door. Tabor would grab his legs and help throw him into the back seat with Eitan. They had no guns, nor any need of them. Guns would only amplify the risk if the police caught them on the road.
The lights from the bus cut through the night, but instead of stopping opposite the kiosk, the bus kept going past the second capture car and underneath the railway embankment, and then it was gone. It had not even slowed down near its usual stop. Instantly, a rush of doubt overcame the team. Had Eichmann altered his schedule or gone on vacation? Had he simply returned early from work? Or, worst of all, had he learned of their presence and fled from Buenos Aires?
Malkin looked toward the house, noticing that only a lone lamp was lit. Usually after Eichmann returned at day's end, there was a lot more light and activity. He was definitely not home. But this did not rule out the possibility that he had run or had taken the week off. After all, because of the rush to switch safe houses and to finalize their plans, they had not been there the previous two nights to see Eichmann come home at his usual time.
Each man remained in his position as the surge of expectation that the capture was about to take place slowly ebbed. Nobody wanted to give voice to the concern they all shared: they might have missed their opportunity. The wind continued to strengthen; the thunder from the approaching storm grew closer, and now there was an occasional burst of lightning in the distance. Every few minutes, a train roared by on the tracks.
Five minutes passed. Then ten. Another bus approached from San Fernando. The team readied for action, but this bus did not stop either. The possibility that Eichmann had missed his usual bus was losing credence.
Shalom and Gat stood alongside Route 202, looking toward the limousine to see if there was any movement. According to their plan, if Eichmann did not show up by eight o'clock, they would return the next day. The longer they stayed in the target area, the greater the chances that the police or someone else would come upon them. Behind them, they heard the sudden start of an engine. They whirled to see the truck that had been parked to their rear take off down the highway. At least the driver was no longer a concern.
After taking a few steps closer to Garibaldi Street and seeing no activity at the limousine, Shalom decided to wait. He did not want to go over to talk to Eitan because if somebody was watching them, this would connect the two cars. Until he saw the limousine roll away, he planned to remain where they were on Route 202.
As the deadline to leave arrived, Aharoni turned in the seat and asked Eitan, "Do we take off or wait?"
Eitan had already made his decision when the first bus had passed without stopping. He knew he was jeopardizing their chances to return the next day by remaining in the area for so long, but he also knew that the team was more ready now than it ever would be again. It was worth the risk. "No, we stay," he said adamantly.
One minute passed. Then two. As before, they all stared down Route 202. Standing side by side, Tabor and Malkin were certain that Eichmann was not coming and that they would have to spend more nights thinking and mentally preparing for the moment they grabbed their target. They waited for the word from Eitan to close the hood and pack up.
At 8:05 P.M., headlights broke the darkness once again.
Nursing a hot tea with brandy, Isser Harel sat alone in a café not far from Tira. He had checked out of the Claridge Hotel early that morning and had stashed his suitcase in a railway station locker. If the operation was exposed or he was tailed, he could disappear without a trace. Nonetheless, he was so miserable with fever that making such an escape seemed an insurmountable task.
He checked his watch: almost eight o'clock. His men would already have Eichmann in their grasp—if everything had gone as planned. He did not expect anyone to come to the café to inform him of their success, or otherwise, for at least another forty-five minutes. He kept his mind off what might have gone wrong by focusing on what he expected Vera Eichmann to do when her husband did not come home that night.
She would not go straight to the police, of that Harel was sure. Even if she did, she would be reporting a missing husband—a not altogether novel occurrence in any city and certainly not one worth marshaling the Argentine forces for. Only if she revealed that Ricardo Klement was Adolf Eichmann would a serious search be launched. Surely, she and her sons would check the local hospitals and his workplace before exposing the truth. Harel's Mossad team would have at least a couple of days before any of this unfolded—maybe more. Then again, they could not rule out a hunt by Eichmann's sons or by his Nazi associates and their friends in the German community.
These thoughts were idle reflection until he knew the result of the operation. He stared at the hands on his watch, with every passing minute growing more and more anxious to know what was happening on Garibaldi Street.
Bus 203 came to a screeching halt opposite the kiosk.
Shalom was already back at the wheel of his car, ready to start the engine and turn on the headlights. Gat sat 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, unable to see whether Eichmann was getting off the bus.
Two people exited the bus. The first was the stout woman who usually arrived with Eichmann at 7:40. She stepped down and turned left, away from Garibaldi Street. The second passenger was obviously a man, but even with his binoculars, Aharoni could not discern whether it was Eichmann. The bus pulled away, moving toward the embankment and past the Chevrolet.
The man walked toward Garibaldi Street.
"Someone's coming," Aharoni whispered to Eitan, "but I can't see who it is."
Eitan stared into the darkness, but his vision was not what it had been in the past when he was leading night ambushes against Arab troops. 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. Unusually, he was not carrying his flashlight to warn passing cars of his presence.
"It's him," Aharoni declared.
The two words electrified Eitan. He looked to make sure Malkin and Tabor were in their positions, then he prepared to burst out of the car should he be needed.
As Eichmann approached Garibaldi Street, Aharoni spotted him slipping his hand into the right pocket of his trench coat. Immediately, he suspected that Eichmann was reaching for a pistol. He must know that something was wrong.
"He may have a revolver," Aharoni said hurriedly. "Should I warn Peter?"
"Yes, tell him to watch the hand."
Malkin was focused on counting out in his head exactly h
ow many steps away Eichmann was, wanting to meet him a few feet from the tail end of the limousine. Lightning coursed through the sky, and he feared that if it struck any closer, Eichmann might be able to see him. A roll of thunder followed as Malkin edged forward. He was certain that if Eichmann made a run across the field, he could catch him long before he reached his house.
Twenty yards away now.
Just as Malkin passed the limousine driver's side door, Aharoni held out his hand. "Peter, he has a hand in his pocket. Watch out for a gun."
Malkin was startled. Nobody should be saying anything to him, he thought. He did not want to be hearing anything about a gun. His every move had been practiced without a weapon being in the equation. This changed everything.
Eichmann turned the corner. Fifteen yards away now.
Malkin heard his target's footsteps and saw how he was leaning into the wind, collar upturned, his right hand deep in his pocket. Eichmann glanced at the limousine as Aharoni turned over the engine, but he did not alter his steady stride.
Malkin kept moving forward. He knew he would have to change how he grabbed Eichmann. First, he had to make sure that Eichmann never freed his gun—if he had one—from his pocket.
Five yards.
Malkin stepped directly into his path, and Eichmann slowed down. " Un momentito, señor," Malkin said, the words coming out uneasily. He locked eyes with Eichmann and saw panic as Eichmann's eyes widened in fear. Suddenly, the Nazi stepped back. He was about to run.
Without hesitation, Malkin sprang forward, one hand reaching out to keep Eichmann's right arm down. His momentum, coupled with Eichmann beginning to retreat, sent them both pitching to the ground. Malkin grabbed hold of Eichmann as they rolled into the shallow, mud-slicked ditch that ran alongside the road. Landing on his back, Malkin tried to keep one hand on Eichmann's right arm and the other on his throat to prevent him from calling for help. Eichmann kicked and struggled to free himself, managing to loosen the grip on his throat. At that moment, he screamed.
Aharoni revved the engine to drown out the bloodcurdling wail. Meanwhile, Tabor moved toward the ditch to help Malkin. Eitan also jumped from the car. The shrieking continued. The Eichmann house was roughly thirty yards away, close enough for somebody outside to hear, or somebody inside if the windows were open. They had to silence him 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 was holding him from behind. The more Eichmann struggled, the harder Malkin held on to him. There was no way he was going to get loose.
Tabor grabbed Eichmann's legs, eliminating any further chance of resistance. Eichmann went slack and stopped screaming, surrendering himself. Malkin rose to his feet and, with Tabor, carried the captive out of the ditch and over to the limousine.
Shalom waited with Gat and the doctor on Route 202, desperate to know what was happening. The moment Eichmann had turned onto Garibaldi Street, they had lost sight of him. Then they had heard screaming. Now there was silence. Seconds crept by as if they were hours. They could not move until the limousine did.
Eitan helped Malkin and Tabor shove Eichmann into the back seat. Tabor went to close the hood as Malkin kept his gloved hand over their captive's mouth, and Eitan covered Eichmann's eyes with a pair of motorcycle goggles whose lenses were obscured with black tape. Once Tabor had slid into the passenger's seat, Aharoni gunned the limousine. Twenty-five seconds had passed since Malkin had first reached for Eichmann.
Aharoni took a left at the end of the street while the others bound Eichmann's hands and feet, pushed him onto the floor, and covered him with a heavy wool blanket. An inspection of his trench coat pocket revealed that he did not have a gun, only his flashlight.
A hundred yards away from the Eichmann house, Aharoni shouted in German, "Sit still and nothing will happen to you. If you resist, we will shoot you. Do you understand?"
Malkin released his hand from their captive's mouth, but he did not utter a word.
"If you resist, we will shoot you. Do you understand?"
Again no response. They thought he might have passed out.
Aharoni kept driving, heading due east, even though Tira was located to the southwest of Buenos Aires. If anybody saw the cars leave the area, they would point the police in the wrong direction. Eitan turned around and noticed that their backup car was nowhere to be seen.
"Where are they?" Malkin asked.
A moment later, headlights appeared. Shalom brought the Chevrolet alongside the limousine for long enough to receive a thumbs-up: they had Eichmann. The relief on his face was clear as he sped ahead of them to lead the way.
As Aharoni settled about a hundred yards behind the Chevrolet, he once again addressed the captive, this time in Spanish. "What language do you speak?"
He did not reply, remaining still on the floor of the limousine, breathing heavily. Then, three minutes into the drive, he said, in flawless German, "I am already resigned to my fate."
This was all they needed to hear. Their captive was alive and well. He spoke native German, and given his acceptance of his fate, he clearly knew why he was being kidnapped. It was as close to an admission that he was Adolf Eichmann as they could hope for.
Eitan grasped Malkin by the hand and congratulated him on the capture. Malkin sat back, relieved. Though the operation had not gone perfectly, they had succeeded in bringing Eichmann unharmed into the car. Now they had to get back to the safe house without being caught.
A mile away from Garibaldi Street, Shalom veered onto a dirt side road off Route 202 and stopped by a copse. Aharoni followed in the limousine. Tabor and Gat jumped out of their respective vehicles and exchanged the black and white Argentine license plates for blue diplomatic ones. Every one of them had forged Austrian diplomatic papers in case they were stopped by the police or at a checkpoint, but the plates lessened the chances of that happening.
Less than a minute later, they were on the road again, following the route that Shalom had charted after two weeks of reconnaissance. They drove at the speed limit and took special care not to break any traffic laws or to get in an accident. Eichmann remained silent. Halfway to the safe house, they came to one of the two railway crossings on the way to Tira. As they approached, red lights flashed, and the barriers lowered. There would be at least a ten-minute wait, but there was no way around the crossing.
An increasingly long line of cars idled behind them. Once again, Aharoni warned Eichmann that he would be shot if he uttered a word. He lay compliantly still underneath the blanket, his breathing settled. The four Israelis in the limousine attempted to look at ease—difficult, given the circumstances. Drivers paced beside their cars and smoked cigarettes while they waited for the train to pass. Music spilled through the open doors. The storm that had threatened a downpour moved away without breaking.
At last the train passed, and the barriers lifted. The lines of traffic slowly moved forward. Shalom drove away, with the limousine close behind. They traveled through the next crossing without having to stop. Ten minutes out from Tira, Shalom took a wrong turn, but Aharoni continued on the proper route. Shalom spun the car around and soon caught up. Five minutes away, they stopped again on a side road, switching the diplomatic plates to a new set of Argentine ones.
As they neared the safe house, Eitan began reciting the "Partisan's Song" in his head. Written by a Jewish resistance fighter in Vilnius during World War II, the words went like this:
Never say that you walk upon your final way
Though leaden clouds may be concealing skies of blue
Because the hour we have hungered for is near
And our marching steps will thunder: We are here!
At 8:55 P.M., the two cars pulled in front of Tira. Medad was already there, ready to open the gate. Aharoni steered the limousine straight into the garage, and the door was closed. Adolf Eichmann was now a prisoner of the Jewish people.
21
EICHMANN SHUFFLED into the safe
house, held between Shalom and Malkin. The entire team brought him through the kitchen and upstairs to his prepared cell. Nobody said a word to him. Only Aharoni was to speak to him, and for now the interrogator was silent. They crowded into the small bedroom outfitted with a bed, two wooden chairs, and a table. A light bulb dangled from a cord in the ceiling.
For a moment, Eichmann remained standing in the middle of the room, the operatives getting their first good look at him. His trench coat was coated with mud from the struggle in the ditch, and the goggles covered his eyes. He was silent, standing with his back straight as a board, arms down at his sides. Only his hands moved, clenching and unclenching in nervous fits.
Aharoni sat Eichmann down on the bed, and they stripped him. He was completely compliant and looked helpless in his frayed, grubby underwear and socks. Aharoni wondered how this pathetic creature could be Adolf Eichmann, once master of the lives of millions of Jews. Dr. Kaplan stepped forward and inspected Eichmann's body and mouth for any hidden cyanide capsules. He removed his false teeth and examined those as well.
Eichmann broke the silence, his voice strained but clear: "No man can be vigilant for fifteen years."
At first Eichmann had thought that thieves were attacking him on Garibaldi Street, but he had realized that his kidnappers were Jews after being warned in German that he would be shot if he made any sound. He had begun to tremble at that stage, but he had settled down a little during the long drive. Now it was obvious to him that they were checking for poison capsules.
