The Jerusalem Inception

Chapter 40





Lemmy and Sanani stayed in a vacant stone house that had been deserted by its Arab owners back in 1948. Plaster was peeling off the walls and laying a crunchy carpet on the floor. The empty rooms stunk of urine, and the smell of cooking fires drifted from across the nearby border. An IDF-issued outhouse and a rusty water tank occupied most of the enclosed rear patio.

Two agents in civilian clothes, Yosh and Dor, brought in food and newspapers every morning. The food was homemade and delicious, but the newspapers were depressing. On May 19, the papers reported that Foreign Minister Abba Eban had protested the Egyptian ousting of UN observers from the southern border and declared that Israel would view a blockade of the straits as an act of war. The next day, Prime Minister Eshkol sent him back to Washington to beg again for reaffirmation of President Eisenhower’s 1956 guarantee that Red Sea shipping lanes would remain open. But the entanglement in Vietnam and pressure from American oil companies caused the Johnson White House to insist that the Eisenhower commitment was invalid because it lacked ratification as a treaty by Congress. Johnson issued a vague statement: In the interest of peace, we hope Egypt does not interfere with free maritime travel in the Gulf of Aqaba.

As the days passed, Sanani had perfected his imitation of the wails of the muezzins, who summoned the believers to prayers five times a day. Lemmy practiced dismantling and assembling his Mauser until he could do it with his eyes closed. They also played countless rounds of backgammon.

Agent Weiss had told them nothing about the mission, but people without names came by to teach the two young soldiers skills that seemed totally irrelevant to the coming war: A middleaged Jewish couple, originally from India, taught Sanani to speak English with their funny accent, which he used to throw Lemmy into fits of laughter. An elderly nun with a wooden cross on a ropelike necklace, insisted on addressing Lemmy as Herr Horch and tutored him in English, which she spoke with a German accent not much different than Yiddish. A police pensioner, who had once commanded a bomb-defusing unit in the Galilee, brought in a suitcase full of wires, timers, and fake dynamite sticks. He taught them how to construct explosive devices from different components and told stories from his long service about Arab terrorists and their affinity for booby-trapping playgrounds and bus stations.

On May 23, the shoe dropped. Lemmy read in the newspaper about President Nasser’s declaration: The Gulf of Aqaba constitutes Egyptian territorial water. Under no circumstances will we allow the Israeli flag to pass through. His declaration fired up the Arab streets everywhere, and the armies of Lebanon, Kuwait, Saudi Arabia, and Iraq mobilized to help Egypt, Syria, and Jordan fight Israel. In response, Prime Minister Eshkol sent Eban yet again to Washington to press for an American guarantee of Israel’s security. At the same time, political maneuvering in the Israeli Knesset became intense. Opposition leaders Menachem Begin and Shimon Peres demanded the appointment of Moshe Dayan as defense minister. Eshkol hinted that Dayan was morally unfit for a ministerial position, to which the opposition responded with demands for evidence.

After lunch, as they were doing pushups in the unfurnished living room, Sanani suddenly rolled on his back. “These politicians,” he yelled, his voice echoing in the empty space, “play musical chairs while we’re dying here!”

The word dying hit Lemmy with the image of his mother in a noose. He turned away from his friend to hide his grimacing face.

“Screw this!” Sanani tossed a piece of broken plaster at the wall. “I’m sick of it!”

Lemmy swallowed, pushing away the image. “You’d rather stay in the Negev? Eat sand?”

“I’d rather be fighting in Cairo than beg the Americans to save my ass!”

“I have a feeling,” Lemmy said, dropping for another set of pushups, “that you and I aren’t going to Cairo any time soon.”

“So where are we going?”

“I figure, either Germany or India.”

Elie Weiss parked on Ramban Street and walked the rest of the way to the prime minister’s residence. The street had changed since the staged assassination attempt had failed. The trees had recovered from the winter frost, and the bushes along the sidewalk bloomed with purple flowers as big as fists. A brick wall had been erected around the house.

An aide showed Elie into the kitchen. The prime minister sat alone, his untouched dinner before him, his feet in brown socks, resting on another chair. “Weiss,” he said, “they’re drinking my blood. Dayan. Dayan. Dayan. Why? Because that pirate will pull the trigger! And cause disaster!”

Elie sat down.

“They call me a coward because I’m trying to avoid war. Arik Sharon said I’m disarming our most powerful weapon—the Arabs’ fear of us.” Eshkol sneezed.

“Gesundheit, but Arik is not alone in worrying about our declining deterrence.”

“Deterrence is when the other side fears your threats.” Eshkol’s voice rose. “But deterrence disappears when you actually attack! What do you think will happen if war breaks out? Blut vet sich giessen vie vasser!”

Elie imagined blood running like water in the streets of Jerusalem. “Rabin told me that the IDF can win.”

“You believe in miracles?” The prime minister held up a bunch of papers stapled together. “I believe in intelligence, facts, analysis. The Arabs have the best weapons in Moscow’s arsenal—planes, tanks, cannons, short-range rockets, long-range rockets, air-to-air missiles, air-to-land missiles, land-to-land—”

“I get the picture.”

“Nasser has amassed hundreds of thousands of troops in Sinai. King Hussein has turned the West Bank into a launching pad for his armored divisions. And the Syrians engage in daily target practice from the Golan Heights. The Arabs are like a giant shoykhet standing over a skinny lamb!”

Elie thought about his father, back in the shtetl, holding a sharp blade to a lamb’s neck while explaining how the smoothness of a single pass of the perfect blade would cause the animal an instant, painless death.

“Why do they hate us so, Weiss?” The prime minister’s eyes moistened behind his glasses. “Why?”

“Jealousy,” Elie said. “Plain old jealousy.”

“They are jealous of us?”

“Started with the patriarch Abraham. While he claimed to be on a first-name basis with the mightiest God, all-powerful and invisible, the Goyim had to make do with wooden idols on a shelf.”

“True.”

“Moses parted the sea. King David built an empire. Solomon had a thousand wives. And for centuries the exiled Jews could read and write in many languages while their Christian neighbors couldn’t even sign their own names. Are you surprised they hate us?”

“But the Germans were an advanced nation. Why would they be jealous?”

“Because emancipation opened the shtetl’s gates by giving Jews equality and opportunity. And the Jews became more equal than others. By 1936, every other German doctor or lawyer was a Jew, prestigious university positions and industrial leadership posts—”

“But look at us now!” Eshkol pointed at himself. “We’ve lost six million in the camps, we’re eighty percent new immigrants, a Babel of languages in the tiniest country, with a majority living in poverty, and no allies to stand with us against a unity of Arab nations. What’s to be jealous of now?”

“We have this land.”

“For this tiny patch the Arabs envy us? Our single grain of sand to their vast territories? Our puny Lake Kinneret to their oceans of oil? Our dripping Jordan River to their Nile and Euphrates?”

“They linger in the Stone Age while we’ve arrived at the Nuclear Age. The Dimona reactor is driving them meshuggah. And the Soviets aren’t happy either.”

“You’re right.” Levi Eshkol wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. “Not only I have a lingering fever, I also exemplify Isaiah’s words: Your destroyers shall come from within. How can I save our people when my own party leadership betrays me?”

Elie placed the Dayan file on the table. “Perhaps this will help.”

“Ah!” Eshkol’s face lit up. “You got the goods on the pirate?”

“As promised.” He pulled photos and notes from the file and commenced his presentation. There was the excavation at Megido, where Dayan had used soldiers, army trucks, and even a helicopter to remove hundreds of archeological objects of unimaginable value. A mosaic floor of an ancient synagogue near Nazareth, which Dayan had lifted—literally—courtesy of the IDF corps of engineers. Statements from officers and civilians attested to General Dayan’s actions, including testimony from a middleman who had delivered Dayan’s antiques to a buyer in Brussels.

When Elie finished, the prime minister clapped his hands. “Weiss, you’re a man of your word!”

“General Dayan is a compulsive risk-taker. I think his courage under fire matches his contempt for the law, especially the law governing archeological findings.”

“This stuff will sink him.” The prime minister blew his nose into a handkerchief. “You know, Abba Eban once told me that Moshe Dayan is the first Jew ever to succeed in violating all Ten Commandments!”

“Funny.” Elie put everything back into the file. He didn’t tell Eshkol about his meeting with Professor Gileadi at the Antique Authority. Let Dayan defend himself.

An assistant walked in and handed Eshkol two pages held with a clip. “Your speech, sir. We’ve made additional changes to clarify some points.”

Elie saw the penciled scribbling between the printed lines and along the margins. He knew Eshkol was due to speak directly to the nation in a live radio broadcast that night. “You should have it retyped. It would be easier to read.”

“Nonsense. If there’s one thing I do well, it’s talking!” Eshkol stood, sliding his feet into his slippers. “Leave the evidence here. I’ll give Dayan a chance to withdraw his candidacy quietly. He’ll take a reserve command in the south, keep himself busy.”

“Of course.” Elie got up, holding the file to his chest. “As soon as you announce my appointment as Mossad chief.”

“Right now? Let’s deal with the Egyptians first!”

“A deal is a deal.”

“The country is on the ropes, and you worry about a deal? Mossad isn’t running away. Once the crisis is over, we’ll see what can be done, okay?”

“I’d rather not wait.” Elie pointed to a newspaper on the table. “Meir Amit screwed up. He estimated there was no risk of war until 1970 at the earliest. I heard him say that. His mistake gives you a perfect excuse to dismiss him and appoint me.”

Prime Minister Eshkol sat back, shaking his head. “I can’t do that. Not now.”

“But you promised.”

“Yes, but I didn’t promise to keep my promise!”

“Not funny.”

“Come on, Weiss, how can you expect me to dismiss the chief of Mossad at a time like this? And appoint someone like you, with limited experience—”

“My experience, Prime Minster, has been more diversified than you can imagine.”

Eshkol gave him a wary look. “Let’s first get rid of Dayan,” he said, almost pleading. “Those sabra boys are daredevils. The good of the country demands it.”

“The good of the country,” Elie said, turning to leave, “demands that Dayan take over the defense portfolio. That seems to be the consensus.”

Even though it wasn’t cold, the summer evening was cool enough to give Lemmy the idea of starting a fire in the brick stove that had once been the center of the house. They found a broken chair in one of the rooms and smashed it into small pieces that fit into the stove. Sanani used yesterday’s newspapers as kindling.

The fire spread quickly to the dry wood, but the smoke drifted out the front of the stove and began to fill up the room. Sanani tried to close the steel door of the stove, but the smoke kept coming around the ill-fitting door.

“The chimney’s blocked!” Lemmy ran to the rear patio to bring water in the two empty tin cans they used as drinking cups. He heard a hissing sound from the living room and found Sanani urinating into the stove. He joined him, and the fire died down. They laughed until their eyes ran with tears.

The house stunk of smoke. They went to the rear patio and sat against the wall, reading the newspapers under two candles.

Going through Ma’ariv, Lemmy saw a photo of black-garbed men leaning on their shovels and picks, smiling at the camera. The caption read: Neturay Karta Members Complete Trench from Meah Shearim to Musrara Neighborhood. He examined the tiny, familiar faces in the photo. Benjamin wasn’t there. Lemmy folded the newspaper and put it away. He had nothing in common with the men in the photo, as if the years at Neturay Karta and his friendship with Benjamin had been experienced by someone else.

Sanani showed him the report in Ha’aretz that Egyptian submarines had reached the Straits of Tiran, while heavy guns were deployed at Sharem Al-Sheikh. UN General Rikhye predicted a major Middle East war, declaring: “I think we will be sorting it out 50 years from now.” Meanwhile, in Jerusalem, Citizens for Eshkol, an organization that had helped Eshkol win the 1965 elections, turned against him: Give Dayan the defense portfolio before it’s too late!

That night, Lemmy and Sanani decided that, in the morning, they would demand a brief furlough from their confinement. They crawled into their sleeping bags determined to see the outside world tomorrow, or to hear a good explanation as to why they were wasting time on learning to speak English with funny accents while their friends were preparing to fight the real enemies of Israel.

After the initial rage had subsided and murderous images receded from his mind, Elie decided that Prime Minister Eshkol’s broken promise was a good omen. Assuming the top Mossad position would be better after acquiring Klaus von Koenig’s vast fortune. And without the account number and password, he would have to plant a mole inside the Hoffgeitz Bank, which hired only graduates of Lyceum Alpin St. Nicholas—a long-term operation that would require careful planning and execution.

He arrived at the IDF Jerusalem command to find everyone huddled around the radio in anticipation of Eshkol’s speech. By that night, May 28, every Israeli citizen was on edge, desperate for reassurance that the Arab posturing did not pose existential danger to the Jewish state. The prime minister had to convince the people that his diplomatic overtures would avert war.

At first, Levi Eshkol sounded confident. He greeted the nation and read verbatim the text of the government’s decision to send Abba Eban to America yet again. But when he turned to speak about the IDF’s readiness to defend the country, Eshkol stuttered and became incoherent. The broadcast continued while the prime minister whispered to an assistant, mumbled in confusion, and attempted to read on, his voice breaking into incessant coughing.

The crowded room uttered a collective groan. Brigadier General Tappuzi turned off the radio.

Elie saw some of the men wiping their eyes. A young officer said, “Eshkol is leading us to another Holocaust.” Some nodded in agreement.

As the men ambled out of the office, Elie stayed behind.

“Can you believe it?” Tappuzi’s voice shook. “If our leader is afraid, what are we supposed to do?”

“He’s not afraid. He’s got a bad cold, bad eyes, and a bad copy of a poorly typed speech that even Ben Gurion would have a hard time reading.”

“Ben Gurion spoke without notes, from the heart.”

“Nostalgia is a waste of time,” Elie said. “Have you seen the Mossad report on the UN radar?”

“Worse than we expected.” The gray-haired officer dropped into his chair. “It’s an American-made system, built under contract for the UN.” He pulled the papers from a pile on his desk. “Semi Automatic Ground Environment radar, model AN/SPS-35, shipped directly from Alabama to Amman on a UN cargo plane. It operates at 420 to 450 megahertz, capable of tracking planes up to two hundred miles away, which means they see all of Israel and well into the Sinai and the Mediterranean.”

“That far?” Elie lit a cigarette.

“The antenna reflector is over eighty feet wide!”

“If that’s true, defending Jerusalem is the least of it.” He drew deeply, and the smoke petered out as he spoke. “The UN boys won’t miss more than two hundred planes taking off from every airfield in Israel and heading for Egypt. They’ll report to the Arabs within minutes, every Egyptian plane will take off, and our first strike will turn into a one-way trip.”

“You don’t say.” Tappuzi tossed the Mossad report back on his desk. “If your plan fails, this radar will cost us the war, possibly our very survival!”

“It’s a good plan.” Elie stubbed his cigarette in an ashtray that resembled a step-triggered landmine. “But it’s going to rest on very young shoulders.”