Hamak Arsadian reached the parking lot at the customs center in Nordouz, Iran at 9:15 p.m. on the evening of October 5. The guards had gone home and the border crossing over the Aras River was closed until morning. The Armenian parked his rig next to several other trucks waiting for the morning, turned his engine off and tried to sleep. He had been on an adrenaline high ever since he had dropped the Sayeret Matkal team in the middle of the Zagros mountains the night before. Normally he would have spent the day dropping off his cargo and working on new connections for future business. But on this trip he had heeded the advice of Yoni Ben Zeev. He hastily made his delivery in Ahvaz early in the morning and immediately headed back north toward home.
Arsadian crawled into his bunk and did the one thing that would get him sleepy: He started to read a book.
The sound of a truck engine starting woke up the Armenian trucker the same way it often did. He wiped his eyes, pulled the blanket off and lowered himself into the driver’s seat. All he wanted at that moment was a cup of coffee. As he gave into the temptation to yawn, he watched in shock as a border guard ran past his tractor. The border guards never ran — they were never in a hurry. Outside he noticed two IRGC soldiers walking toward the customs building. Each had an AK-47. But what struck Arsadian was that the guns were not slung over their shoulders, they were being held in their hands.
A group of drivers were talking nearby. Arsadian got out and joined them. He heard the news that apparently the Israeli Air Force had attacked Iran during the night. One man claimed that the Iranians had already destroyed Tel Aviv with a nuclear weapon in retaliation.
The border was closed for the time being.
During the next several hours, border guards — each with an IRGC shadow — questioned all of the drivers waiting to cross into Armenia. Arsadian’s turn came a little before noon. He was interrogated about what he had done since passing through the crossing three days earlier. The guards looked into his now empty trailer before moving on to the next driver in the queue. Hamak returned to his tractor to wait. It seemed to him that the guards were more interested in the trucks that had loads they were transporting out of Iran. Several of those trucks were emptied in their entirety. As the Armenian thought through the action of the Iranians, it became clear to him that they were looking for men being spirited out of the country — spies, commandos, downed airmen.
Hamak Armenian and his truck had the opposite profile of where the Iranian suspicions were focused. At 3 in the afternoon, an Iranian border guard walked up to the Armenian’s door and told him he was cleared to go. He wished the Armenian a safe journey home. Hamak returned a warm thanks.
Hamak Arsadian crossed the Aras River bridge to the safety of his native country at 3:06 p.m. on October 6.
“Mazel tov!” shouted the guests as the groom smashed a wine glass with his right foot. It was a beautiful June weekend, perfect weather for an outdoor wedding on the shores of the Sea of Galilee.
The manager of Villa Melchett had never before seen security like this. The rough looking men in jackets with no ties were one thing, but when two IDF Blackhawk helicopters started circling the estate about a half hour before the ceremony, she insisted on an explanation. The groom — whose name she did not recognize — calmly took her into her office.
“I have a special shomer,” said the groom, referring to his best man.
“Who is he, the prime minister?” joked the manager. “He should be here already,” she admonished.
The groom smiled. “You will understand once he arrives. In the meantime, you can take comfort that we are in the safest spot in Israel right now.”
Fifteen minutes later, several black SUVs pulled up in front of the villa, which had been rented by the groom for the weekend. Out of the first SUV, several men emerged. Like the advance crew, they were typically in their thirties or early forties. They wore jackets and were clearly in excellent condition. Each man wore sunglasses, a conspicuous earpiece, and none of them smiled. One man ran to the rear passenger door of the second SUV and opened it. Prime Minister Cohen stepped out in one of his finest suits. From the third SUV, Mossad Director Levy emerged wearing a suit that looked like it had been pulled out of a closet for the first time in a decade.
The manager rushed outside to welcome her guests. Cohen wondered why she was laughing. As he thought about it, he realized that his presence often provoked a wide range of unusual reactions. Of course, he was unaware of her speculation to the groom only minutes earlier.
Within the hour, Enya Govenin and Amit Margolis were a married couple. Cohen had drawn the line at dancing the Horah — too easy to be filmed on someone’s phone he told Amit. But afterwards, as the bride danced with General David Schechter, the head of the state of Israel pulled the young Mossad agent aside. “I have something for you, Amit, something I bring in my official capacity.”
Margolis drew closer to his commander in chief.
Cohen put his arm around the groom. “Your plan set back Iran’s ambitions by at least a decade.”
Margolis hoped that the prime minister was right. “I guess that gives me plenty of time to think up the next version of Esther’s Sling,” he joked.
Cohen smiled. “Seriously, the nation owes you much and yet you remain anonymous. This pains me.”
“I wouldn’t want it any other way. I like being able to go out and not worry.”
Cohen pulled a small hinged gift box out of his pocket and opened it. “This is from a grateful country.” Inside was the Medal of Valor — the Israeli equivalent of the American Medal of Honor. “The Knesset approved this medal last week. I am sorry that this medal will, like everything about you, remain a secret. If I am not mistaken, you and your father are the only father-son recipients of this honor.”
Amit Margolis exhaled. “I do not deserve this, sir.”
“You most definitely do, Amit. Those Shahab missiles that hit Tel Aviv and Haifa would have come soon with nuclear warheads if not for your plan. Now the world respects our capabilities again — because of you. This medal is insufficient recognition. It is the least we can do.”
“I am honored.”
“The honor is mine.”
Enya Margolis walked up at that moment, her right hand caressing the back of her new husband.
“You are a beautiful bride, Mrs. Margolis,” Prime Minister Cohen said.
“Thank you, sir. Thank you for being at our wedding.”
“You have married a national treasure. Take care of this man.”
“You have my word on that, Mr. Cohen.”
The prime minister laughed. “I am counting on it.”
On the afternoon of Thursday, September 25, the start of the Hebrew year 5775, a ceremony took place on the compound of the Kirya in Tel Aviv. After a brief speech by Prime Minister Cohen, General David Schechter — the public face and public hero of the successful destruction of the Iranian nuclear program — reached up with his right hand and grabbed hold of a white sheet that enshrouded a new monument. In front of a crowd of over a hundred dignitaries and senior military officers, surrounded by construction equipment, Schechter pulled the sheet off as television cameras broadcast the event live in Israel. Photographers representing the major press agencies recorded the event in still images.
The edifice stood three meters high. The granite stone was topped with a stylized airplane soaring towards the heavens. Underneath the plane, a large Star of David had been carved. On the face of the six-pointed star, the names of the men of Mossad and the IDF who died in action during Block G were carved. At the top of the list — his place determined at the insistence of Amit Margolis — was the name “James L. Miller — Pilot.”