Israel, in other words, was embracing the weapons of its enemies in the war against terror.
37
Tel Aviv; October 1972
The Director of Central Intelligence travelled to the Middle East in October, a month after Munich. The trip had been planned long ago, but the terrorism problem gave it a sharper focus. So did a White House announcement in mid-September that the president had decided on a tough new anti-terrorism program. The Director wasn’t sure what that was all about. He wasn’t aware that there actually was any new presidential policy on terrorism, or indeed any policy at all. Nevertheless, he sensibly delivered to the president, Eyes Only, a copy of his itinerary with the notation: “Hope to gather support for our new anti-terrorism program during the trip.”
The trip marked the first visit ever by a sitting DCI to Israel. A stopover in Tel Aviv had never before seemed advisable, given the sensitivities, not to say paranoia, of the Arab intelligence services. The Director had decided, to hell with Arab sensitivities, and scheduled a trip that would include stops in Jordan, Israel and Lebanon. That seemed safe enough. All three countries were regarded in the Arab world as wholly-owned subsidiaries of the CIA anyway.
The Director travelled in style. He brought his wife, his tennis racket, his tuxedo, his smoking jacket, his golf clubs, and a sun reflector for poolside. He also brought several secretaries, code clerks, bodyguards, and, to help with the locals, the chief of the Near East Division of the clandestine service, Mr. Edward Stone.
They all piled into a comfortable Air Force 707, one of the fleet of planes that is available for top government officials when they travel abroad. This particular plane was known as “the Tube” because it had no windows, and for that reason it was shunned by most of the big shots. But it was the Director’s favorite. He thought it cozy. The plane was laid out inside like a small apartment, with a bed, a sitting room, a kitchen, a lounge, and, in the forward section, an elaborate, state-of-the-art communications system.
The Israelis were delighted that the Director was coming and seemed eager to use the trip to taunt the Arabs. The Israeli air traffic control tower near Tel Aviv took the bold step of communicating directly with the Director’s plane while it was still on the ground at Amman and suggesting a flight plan that would take the plane due west, across the Jordan River. The Jordanians were outraged by this violation of their airwaves and sent up several fighters as a gesture of protest. The Jordanian fighters circled the Amman airport for a few minutes and then returned meekly to the ground when the Israelis scrambled a squadron of F-4 Phantoms.
The pilot of the Director’s 707 rejected the Israeli flight plan, on the ground that Palestinian guerrillas on either side of the river might try to shoot the plane down. He opted for a slightly longer, and considerably safer, route that passed over Syria and Lebanon, headed out toward Cyprus, and then circled back over the Mediterranean to Israel.
The Mossad chief, Natan Porat, met the Director’s plane when it landed at a military airport near Tel Aviv. So did the CIA station chief from the embassy. There was a brief confusion over whose car the Director would ride in: one provided by the Mossad or one provided by the station. The Israelis had brought a shiny new Mercedes, the CIA a somewhat dilapidated Lincoln Continental. The Director reluctantly opted for the Lincoln.
The Director checked into the Tel Aviv Sheraton on the beach, sent his wife off shopping with the ambassador’s wife, trounced Stone in a set of tennis, showered and shaved, and headed off to a formal meeting with the Israelis. He was dressed in his usual gray pinstripe suit, which in Tel Aviv made him stand out like a visitor from another planet.
“It is a pleasure to welcome our friends into our midst,” said Natan Porat.
He was seated in a small conference room in the Mossad headquarters building near the railroad station. With him were the Director, Stone, and the deputy chief of the Mossad, Avraham Cohen.
Porat looked, in his way, even more American than the Director. He was dressed in a blue suit, a striped tie, black shoes. He might have been a high-class undertaker, except for the clear plastic glasses. Porat was the new Israel. Born in America, he had emigrated to Palestine as a teenager in 1946 and fought in the war of independence. He had entered the Israeli security service before he was twenty.
Porat, sharp as a razor, had brought along the perfect foil in Avraham Cohen: short, genial, avuncular, reassuring.
“Welcome to our friends,” said Cohen, echoing Porat. “That is what we call the CIA. ‘The Friends.’ Did you know that?”
“I did not,” said the Director.
“It’s true. The British call you ‘the Cousins.’ But we think of you as ‘the Friends.’ ”
“Well then,” said the Director, looking for something to toast with and, finding nothing, putting his hand over his heart. “It’s good to be among friends.”
“I hope that we can talk as friends, about the problems that we must face together,” said Porat.
The Director nodded.
“We don’t always agree, as you know, about events in the Middle East. We compete at times for attention and support. Some of your Arab acquaintances, such as Jordan, are our enemies. But for all that, we are friends.”
“Undoubtedly,” said the Director. “We don’t always agree. But we want the same things in the long run, I’m sure.”
There was a pause. The meeting was off to a proper, if somewhat stilted, beginning.
“Say,” spoke up Cohen. The tendrils of his eyebrows reached nearly to his hairline. He had a merry look on his face that was quite at odds with the somber tone of the gathering.
“Speaking of competition reminds me of the story about the two Hassidic Jews who wanted to be as rich as Rockefeller. Have you heard that story?”
“I don’t believe so,” said the Director. He looked toward Porat dubiously.
“Ah good,” said Cohen. “Two Hassidic Jews are talking one day. One of them says, ‘Imagine what it would be like if you could be as rich as Rockefeller.’
“ ‘Let me tell you something,’ says the second one. ‘If I was as rich as Rockefeller, then I’d be richer than Rockefeller.’
“ ‘How can you be richer than Rockefeller?’ says the first.
“ ‘Because even if I was as rich as Rockefeller, I’d still teach a little Talmud on the side.’ ”
The Director laughed vigorously. Porat looked at him with a bemused expression that seemed to say: Can it be that this man has never heard a Yiddish dialect joke before? Are we the first Jews he has ever met?
“We have prepared quite a program for you,” said Porat. “Tomorrow we’d like to give you some briefings on how we look at the Middle East, and explain how our service operates. But before your official program begins, I hoped that we could talk informally here about some matters of mutual interest.”
“Delighted,” said the Director. “What can we do for you?”
“Actually,” said Porat, “it is we who would like to do something for you.”
The Mossad chief picked up a brown envelope from the table next to his chair and handed it to the Director. Inside were three documents in Russian, along with several dozen photographs and technical drawings.
“Your Soviet analysts may find these useful,” said Porat. “They explain some recent changes in Soviet design requirements for missile guidance systems. Our specialists tell me they’re quite interesting.”
“I thought the Soviet had rolled up all your networks,” said the Director.
“That’s what the Soviets think, too,” replied Porat with a wink.
The Director, who had learned a little Russian years ago, leafed through the collection and nodded appreciatively.
“Coin of the realm. Any more where this came from?”
“We’ll see,” said Porat.
The Mossad chief withdrew another brown envelope from the table and handed it to the Director.