Executive Power

Chapter Fifty-Two
Prime Minister Goldberg had never in his life felt so beleaguered.

This was worse than the Yom Kippur War, when he had been surrounded by Syrian forces and shelled until his ears bled, and ordered by his commanders to hold his position until a counterattack could be mounted. He had hung on for three days without sleep. He and his men were fighting a much larger Syrian force in a bloody battle for the Golan Heights. The counterattack eventually arrived and an angry Israeli army threw the Syrians back across the border and closed to within spitting distance of Damascus.

Then the United States and the Soviet Union had stepped in and tried to separate the belligerents like fighting children on a playground.

Goldberg would never forget the lesson he learned in 1973, and that was to never trust his Arab neighbors. They had attacked on the holiest Jewish holiday of the year, when Israelis were either at home or in their synagogues praying. For the first three days they had hammered the Jewish people, and then when the Israeli army regrouped and pushed both the Egyptians and the Syrians back across their borders, the Arabs screamed for international intervention. They launched a sneak attack and then whined for peace and of course wanted their land back even though thousands of Israelis lay dead.

Under the pressure of an Arab oil embargo the United States had forced Israel to pull back and concede much of the land they had captured in a war they did not start. How many times did the world have to see proof that Arabs could not be trusted? It frustrated Goldberg to no end that the leaders of Europe refused to see things as they were. It saddened him deeply that despite everything his people had been through on that cursed continent that they did not come to the aid of Israel. All Goldberg wanted for his people was a safe place to live. And if things weren't already bad enough having to deal with suicidal Palestinians and bigoted heads of state, he now had to contend with dissenters within his own government.

He was tired. The years of leading the fight had taken their toll and Goldberg's energy was beginning to wane. At the rate things were going there was a good chance he wouldn't survive the week without being subjected to a vote of no confidence. To start with, the UN and a healthy number of his cabinet members were up in arms over the events in Hebron, and now someone had assassinated the Palestinian Ambassador in New York City.

One of Goldberg's aides had briefed him on the assassination during breakfast, and his private reaction to the news had been one of desperate fear. The very first person who came to mind was his old friend, and the director general of Mossad, Ben Freidman. Goldberg had been asking himself all day if Freidman was capable of launching such a disastrous operation on his own. The answer was a startling yes, which made him all the more uncomfortable with the meeting that was" about to take place. The prime minister would have preferred to let the problem fade away. There was enough bloodshed in the Palestinian-Israeli conflict that the Ambassador's death would fade to the background sooner than one would think, but unfortunately, for the next month or two, things were sure to get worse. It was still early in America, but Goldberg had no doubt that as the day progressed President Hayes, or more likely Secretary of State Berg, would be on the phone demanding assurances that Israel had had no hand in the brutal act.

Goldberg was tempted to bury his head in the sand, but that would be foolish and contrary to his character. He needed the truth from Freidman and then after that he could decide what to say to the Americans.

He ran a frustrated hand through his thin white hair and looked at his wall clock. It was approaching 2:30 in the afternoon. Freidman was late, which was not a surprise. The head of Mossad came and went as he wished.

It WAS A FEW MINUTES LATER that Freidman finally arrived to find a nervous prime minister sitting behind his desk. Freidman knew what this was about. He was the prime suspect in the assassination of Ambassador Ali. In contrast to the prime minister's suit, Freidman was dressed casually in slacks and a loose-fitting, short-sleeved dress shirt.

As always, the shirt was untucked to conceal the. 38-caliber revolver he carried in a belt holster at the small of his back. Freidman never went anywhere without it.

Slowly, he lowered himself into one of the two armchairs opposite Goldberg's desk. The beleaguered expression on his friend's face did not go unnoticed.

"David, you do not look good."

Goldberg had the type of face that had surrendered to gravity almost completely. It was hard to believe that this roly-poly man had served in combat. He shook his head, heavy jowls sagging.

"I am in the fight of my life."

Freidman interpreted this comment as the exaggeration of a politician who had lost perspective. In a voice void of any compassion or sympathy, Freidman said, "This is nothing."

Looking up under hooded eyes, Goldberg studied the supremely confident head of Mossad and felt a bit of anger spark from within.

"Maybe you haven't noticed lately, Ben, but my cabinet is about to fall apart. The UN is screaming for inspectors to be sent into Hebron and after what happened in New York last night, it's a foregone conclusion that they will pass a resolution."

"And you can tell them to stick their resolution-" Goldberg slammed his fist down on his desk, cutting Freidman off.

"I will be able to tell them no such thing," he yelled, "because I will no longer be prime minister! Thanks to you I will be long gone before the first inspector arrives."

"You're exaggerating," responded Freidman with a disgusted shake of his head.

"Exaggerating," snapped Goldberg.

"I'm doing no such thing. You have gotten me into this mess due to your overzealous actions in Hebron!"

"Don't criticize me for being overzealous. The whole reason you were elected was because the Israeli people wanted someone who would be overzealous."

"You didn't need to level the whole damn neighborhood," Goldberg shot back.

"Yes I did!" screamed Freidman.

"Remember Falid Al-Din? We sent a missile right into his car, and he walked away. I wasn't going to make that mistake again."

"So you destroyed an entire neighborhood!"

"You're damn right I did! This is a war!"

Goldberg let out a frustrated sigh and through gritted teeth said, "I know it's a war, but there are other issues to consider."

"Like what?"

"Like our allies."

"You mean our allies who fire bombed Dresden and Tokyo and then dropped atomic bombs on Hiroshima and Nagasaki?" Freidman stared back at the prime minister with righteous conviction. They'd had this discussion many times before and their views were identical.

"War is ugly, and sometimes you save more lives in the long run by being more brutal than your enemy. We should expel every Palestinian from the occupied territories and not allow them back until every major Arab state signs a peace treaty with us... and damn the international community."

The prime minister shook his head.

"You know better than that.

The political will to launch such an operation isn't there."

"Why don't we find out?"

Goldberg was angry at himself for getting so far off track. Freidman had once again shown that he was willing to go to great lengths to get what he wanted. Maybe, Goldberg thought, he would even be so devious as to put me in a position where I had no choice but to lash out. He looked hard at the director general of Mossad and wondered just how far he'd go to get what he wanted. The answer, he knew, was that he would go very far indeed.

"Look me in the eye and tell me what role you had in the death of the Palestinian Ambassador."

It was easy to offend some people, but not Ben Freidman. Goldberg might as well have asked him what he'd had for lunch.

"I had absolutely nothing to do with All's murder."

Goldberg searched for some hint that his old friend was lying to him. After only a second or two he knew it was a worthless exercise.

He'd seen the man on too many occasions lie with the same impunity as he told the truth.

"Did Mossad have anything to do with the Ambassador's death?"

Freidman shook his head.

"I might be crazy, David, but I am not stupid. Why would I be so dumb as to kill the Palestinian Ambassador to the UN while he is in America?" He frowned dismissively.

"I do not mourn Ali's death. He was a two-bit thug dressed up as a diplomat.

He's in Ramallah almost every month. If I wanted him dead there would be easier ways to do it, with far fewer repercussions."

These words had the opposite effect on Goldberg than he had intended.

Through Freidman's defense the prime minister glimpsed the very reason why he might have thought he could get away with killing the Ambassador. Sound-minded people would eventually decide that the director general of Mossad would never risk offending the Americans when he could simply kill the Ambassador when he was visiting the West Bank. Now Goldberg was truly worried. What if one of his closest advisors was working behind the scenes to provoke an all-out war?

Freidman could tell that Goldberg was not buying his denial. In a more ingratiating tone, he said, "I promise you, David, I had nothing to do with this. I have already spoken to Director Kennedy and she believes Ali's assassination may have something to do with a business deal gone bad." Freidman was stretching the truth a bit, but felt it was needed.

Goldberg gave him a skeptical look.

"What kind of business deal?"

"Ali has been known to deal in arms from time to time."

"Weapons?"

"Yes." Freidman was happy to see this seemed to give the prime minister some hope.

"And you say the Americans knew about these activities?"

"Yes, as do the French, British, Germans, Russians and I'm sure quite a few other intelligence agencies."

"I would like to see Ali's file as soon as possible and give the Americans everything we have on him."

"It's already in process."

Goldberg felt a little bit better, but he still had the Hebron disaster to contend with.

"Assuming we are fortunate enough to be cleared of any wrongdoing in Ali's death, it will still be too late to help us with the Hebron thing. With the current political mood the UN is sure to vote for inspectors by today or tomorrow."

"Have the United States stall."

"They won't. Not right now."

"Then just deny the inspectors access."

Goldberg had already thought it through and discussed it with his closest political advisors. Dejectedly he replied, "I can't. It would be political suicide. My cabinet would fall apart, and I'd get a no-confidence vote within twenty-four hours."

Freidman knew he was right, but wasn't willing to give in so easily.

The two men sat in silence, both of them trying to find a way out of this complicated mess. Freidman had come up with only one option when his thoughts were interrupted by a muffled rumble coming from outside the building. Both he and the prime minister got to their feet and went to the window, just as another explosion was heard in the distance. Unfortunately, this was a noise that they had become all too familiar with.

Within minutes, reports were streaming into the prime minister's office. Three suicide bombs had gone off within minutes of each other.

Two in West Jerusalem and one in Tel Aviv. The damage and death toll was unknown, but expected to be high. Emergency response teams were at each site and searching frantically to make sure no other bombs were set to explode. It was a new and particularly evil trick of the martyr brigades to set secondary devices to detonate later and kill the paramedics who rushed to the scene to help the victims.

Freidman grabbed Goldberg by the elbow and led him into a corner out of earshot from his aides.

"This is your opportunity."

"How could this be an opportunity?"

"Send in the army and declare a curfew on Hebron. Secure the area and leave the rest up to me. By the time the UN inspectors arrive there will be ample evidence of a bomb-making factory. You will stifle the critics in your cabinet and the UN will be appeased."

Goldberg thought about it for a second, then slowly began to nod.

It was his only option. It was war, and in war the truth was almost always the first casualty.