The Jerusalem Inception

Chapter 42





On Saturday morning, June 3, Lemmy went outside to check if the paint on the Jeep had dried. He passed his hand on the hood, feeling no stickiness, only tiny specs of dust embedded in the paint.

He woke Sanani up, and they cut molds for the letters U and N out of cardboard pieces. The car doors were open, and the Voice of Israel played Hebrew ballads on the radio.

At ten a.m. the radio uttered the familiar series of beeps preceding the news, and they stopped to listen. The lead item was that King Hussein had piloted his own plane from Amman to Cairo to sign a treaty with Nasser, submitting the Jordanian army to Egyptian command. The second item was an announcement from Prime Minister Eshkol, welcoming Moshe Dayan as defense minister in a unity government that also included opposition leader Menachem Begin.

“Yes!” Sanani lifted the paint brush, which he had just dipped in black.

“Don’t start!” Lemmy grabbed his hand.

“Why?” Sanani was laughing as he tried to free his hand and splatter Lemmy with paint.

“Because I think today is our day.”

Elie Weiss was not surprised to see the prime minister deflated, barely bothering to look up as government ministers and IDF generals filed into the conference room. The new defense minister, Moshe Dayan, appeared in khaki uniform that carried no rank or insignia, placing him in a gray area between the civilian and military leaders. He took a seat next to Yitzhak Rabin, who raised his glass of water in a symbolic toast. Dayan grinned and patted the chief of staff on the shoulder.

Abba Eban spoke first. “I must report with indelible regrets that our repeated excursions across the oceans have come to diplomatic naught. This is the last word from President Lyndon Johnson.” The foreign minister read from a piece of paper. “I’d love to see that little blue and white flag sailing down the Straits of Tiran, but I can’t do anything at this time.”

Eshkol sighed.

“The American president’s final decision,” Eban continued, “must be analyzed prudently. For example, embodied in the latter part of his message is an expression of absolute negation—anything—regarding American intervention. However, he left a door poignantly open by utilizing words of friendly intonation, such as the emotional love and the endearing little in reference to our national flag.”

OC operations, Ezer Weitzman, sneered and tossed a pencil on the large table.

“In diplomatic terms,” Abba Eban said, “the phraseology is carefully chosen to deliver a secondary message. I believe Johnson intended to give us a non-explicit permission to engage in active self-defense. I submit to you therefore that the United States has assented implicitly to our pending engagement in a unilateral military endeavor.”

No one responded to Abba Eban’s short dissertation which, Elie suspected, was due to the attendees’ difficulty in comprehending it.

“I agree.” Chief of Mossad, Meir Amit, was disheveled after a long flight from Washington via Paris. “The Americans blew us off. We’re on our own. But they won’t punish us for taking action. Our CIA liaison, Jim Angleton, is a good friend, and he told me as much. He took me to meet McNamara, and we showed him the evidence of Egyptian poison gas stockpiles. They agree we must act, but they’ll stay out for fear of instigating World War Three.”

“Exactly,” Moshe Dayan said. “And the Soviets are afraid of the same thing, so they won’t step in to fight for the Arabs.”

“Unfortunately,” Amit said, “the Soviets are better at saying one thing and doing another.”

Eshkol perked up. “What do you mean?”

“Our analysis shows that these reconnaissance flights over Dimona went to fifty-thousand feet. Only MiG twenty-fives can go that high, and only Russian pilots fly them. I believe Moscow is determined to stop our nuclear enterprise, even at the risk of a limited American intervention.”

“God help us,” Eshkol said. “We’re starting a nuclear war between the superpowers!”

“Not likely,” Abba Eban said. “Despite a level of unpredictability, Moscow and Washington are disinterested in a major conflagration. It would counteract their strategic game plans, which are founded on gradual expansionism of their respective ideologically favorable hemispheres.”

“I don’t need the Americans to fight for us,” Rabin said. “But will they send us supplies and replacement parts for the weapons we’ve bought from them?”

Amit shook his head. “The only thing Johnson approved was a plane full of gas masks and nerve-gas antidote. I caught a ride on that plane—a strange flight, let me tell you.”

There were a few chuckles in the room, fading quickly.

“Our team in France had better success,” the Mossad chief continued. “The new Mirages are already in the air, somewhere over Greece.” He glanced at his watch. “They’ll start landing at Ramat David in two hours. Also, three cargo ships left Marseilles last night with artillery pieces, half-tracks, light guns, ammunition, and replacement parts.”

The dozen or so elderly ministers seemed lost for words. They looked expectantly at the new defense minister.

Moshe Dayan asked, “What’s the bottom-line recommendation of Mossad?”

Amit didn’t hesitate. “The Egyptian forces are poised to attack. We are facing an existential threat. I recommend a preemptive strike against Egypt, while keeping Jordan and Syria out of the fighting, if possible.”

Dayan turned to Rabin. “Yitzhak?”

“I concur.”

His single eye focused on Prime Minister Eshkol. “I request,” Dayan said, “a cabinet vote authorizing me to determine the exact timing and scope of the war.”

Elie sat and listened as the elderly ministers tried to probe for renewal of diplomatic efforts. Dayan seemed almost petulant, dismissing their concerns with laconic responses. Eventually, Eshkol called for a vote, which Dayan won. He now had full and autonomous authority over Israel’s armed forces. No one in the room doubted his inclination to launch an attack as soon as possible.

Before the meeting formally adjourned, Elie left and drove to see Brigadier General Tappuzi. As they had planned in advance, Tappuzi called UN General Odd Bull, asking him for an urgent meeting to discuss Israel’s protest over the entry of Jordanian armored units into East Jerusalem in violation of the Armistice Agreements.

Tappuzi put down the receiver. “He’ll be here in about an hour.”

“Good,” Elie said. He felt the handle of his father’s shoykhet knife against his hip. “Make sure someone distracts his driver while I deflate his tires.”

“How long do you want me to keep Bull here?”

“An hour or so. Tell your mechanics to take their time.”

Lemmy and Sanani showered and shaved in the rear patio, shivering under the freezing water. The plan had been made clear to them, and the time for jokes was over. They folded their olive-green uniforms and put on UN khakis and blue caps. Sanani wore large sunglasses, which apparently were an exact copy of the shades worn by Bull’s driver.

Lemmy stuck the Mauser in his belt in the back. “Better keep this place tidy while I’m away. And no peeing in the oven!”

“Maybe I’ll stay at Government House with you,” Sanani said.

“Next time,” Lemmy said, and they laughed.

The Jeep was clean and fueled up. It smelled of fresh paint but otherwise looked like a real UN vehicle. Lemmy loaded a khaki duffel bag marked with a UN insignia on both sides, which contained explosives and detonators. A backpack held a jar of water and two loaves of bread.

The two civilians showed up. “It’s time, boys.” Dor held out his hand, and they gave him their military ID tags and personal identification papers.

Meanwhile, Yosh fixed a new license plate to the rear of the Jeep: UN - 1

Lemmy got in the rear, and Sanani covered him with blue tarp. General Bulls’ Jeep was supposedly protected from Jordanian inspections, but this one was a fake. In the event of exposure, their orders were to speed up and reach Government House. A capture by the UN would be preferable to falling into the hands of the Jordanians, whose likely response upon catching an Israeli spy behind the lines would be a bullet to the head.

The Jeep shook over bumps in the road. The hard floor of the trunk provided Lemmy with no cushion.

“Approaching Mandelbaum Gate,” Sanani announced. Lemmy had asked him to describe what he was seeing, especially once they entered the eastern part of Jerusalem, which he had longed to visit since childhood.

Sanani downshifted, and the Jeep slowed down. Lemmy held his breath.

“Good morning,” Sanani yelled through the window, hiding the quiver in his voice behind a good imitation of an Indian accent. “Nice weather!”

The Jeep kept moving. Again Sanani slowed and greeted someone, probably the Jordanian guards. He rolled up the window and drove off slowly. “We’re through,” he said. “Mazal Tov!”

“Speak English,” Lemmy said from under the tarp, worried that Sanani would slip into Hebrew at the wrong time.

“I’m approaching the Old City. What a view!”

Lemmy lifted the corner of the tarp and peeked through the side window.

Sanani swerved, almost hitting a donkey cart. “Keep your head down.”

They reached the intersection with Jericho Road, and Lemmy caught sight of Herod’s Gate—wide and tall and more impressive than he had imagined. He lowered his head as Sanani turned left, passing a crowded outdoor market along the ancient walls.

A few moments passed. The Jeep hit more bumps and potholes.

Lemmy peeked again. On the left was a hillside dotted with olive trees and gravestones.

“The Mount of Olives,” Sanani said with wonder in his voice. “And down there, Absalom’s tomb!”

With the Old City walls so close, Lemmy wished they could stop and go over to touch the ancient stones. Instead, he got back under the tarp.

A few minutes later, Sanani hit the brakes. “Jordanian roadblock.”

“Don’t stop.”

“Have to. It’s an intersection. Left to Jericho, right back up the hill to Bethlehem Road.”

“Slow down, wave, smile, and turn right.”

The Jeep was barely moving. Lemmy heard Sanani roll down his window. Someone yelled in Arabic, and the Jeep stopped. More Arabic, and a series of bangs along the vehicle, as if someone was tapping it with a truncheon. He heard the trunk lid open up.

Elie stood at the edge of the parking lot near the IDF Jerusalem command, the binoculars pressed to his eyes, aimed at Bethlehem Road as it rose from the east toward Government House. He had expected the boys to appear ten minutes ago, and with every passing moment his worries grew. Had they been stopped by the Jordanians? An experienced agent would know to be chatty, joke around, and charm his way out of a tight spot. But a young soldier might convey nervousness, inciting suspicion.

Behind him, two IDF mechanics were busy with General Bull’s car. They had already removed the two tires Elie had punctured with quick jabs from his shoykhet blade. Now one mechanic was lying under the Jeep, pretending to spot an oil leak while the Indian driver stood beside his disabled vehicle, chatting with Tappuzi’s pretty secretary.

Elie returned his eyes to the binoculars. The distant road across the gulch was still empty. Had he erred in using Abraham’s son for this operation? Had he tried to catch too many birds with one stone, committing the cardinal sin of impatience? Had he caused a failure, or worse, the boy’s immediate execution? That would be an unfortunate setback, Elie thought, considering the next clandestine job he had in mind for Jerusalem Gerster.

The trunk lid was open, and a voice said something in Arabic. Lemmy didn’t move. He heard Sanani get out of the car and yell in Indian-accented English, “No search! United Nations!”

Lemmy felt the tarp being pulled. He grabbed it from underneath, holding for dear life.

The Jordanian switched to English. “Vod yo hab ear?”

“What I have here?” Sanani laughed. “I have Umm Kooltoom, Allah bless her soul!” He started imitating the famous singer, her Arabic lyrics somehow accented to sound the way an English-speaking Indian would be singing. It was an impressive performance, and the Jordanian soldiers started clapping. The trunk lid closed, and he came around to the driver’s door, still singing. As they moved off, he yelled, “Ahlan Wa’Sahalan, ya habibi!”

Lemmy said, “You’re a madman.”

“I think I wet my pants,” Sanani said.

Elie let the air out of his lungs in a long whistle. His binoculars followed the white Jeep Wagoneer over the crest of the hill toward Government House. The gate opened, and the Jeep drove through without stopping, circled the courtyard, and turned around, coming to a stop at the far corner of the main building. The rear of the Jeep faced away from the courtyard and the gate, but Elie could see Sanani coming around. The trunk lid rose, and Lemmy slipped out with the duffel bag and the backpack and disappeared in the doorway that led to the rear stairway.

Shifting his focus to the roof, Elie waited. Moments later Lemmy appeared, carrying the load quickly across the roof to the shed. He pushed the door—it was not locked, which was a fact they had not been able to ascertain before—and entered the shed.

Sanani waited five minutes and drove the Jeep back to the gate. The sentries opened it, and the vehicle passed through and turned east. No one seemed concerned about the quick turnaround.

Elie walked by Bull’s real Jeep. He caught the eye of one of the IDF mechanics and nodded once. In fifteen minutes, the repairs would be completed, the UN general would be driven back to Government House, and the nail-biting wait would begin.