“The United States has always said that any act of violence against Israel will be viewed as an act of violence against us.”
“This is not a situation where we can wait to be attacked. The first strike will be fatal.”
“I understand, but I think it’s too early to act. We have to take this to the United Nations.”
“If you had known that the nineteen hijackers were planning to take over your jets and fly them into the World Trade Center, would you not have taken preventative actions?”
“Attacking a nation is different than taking out a band of terrorists,” the president said in a carefully measured tone. Any mention of 9/11 left him wary. The hallowed date, and the immediate call-to-arms it inspired, had become this era’s “Remember the Alamo!”
“And a nuclear weapon is different than an airplane,” retorted the prime minister. “Any bomb will kill millions of Israelis.”
The president drew a breath. “What can I do for you, Avi?”
“We require your permission to fly through Iraqi airspace,” said the Israeli prime minister.
“If and when the State of Israel is attacked, you’ll be granted that permission.”
“With all due respect, Mr. President, by then it will be too late.”
“The Iranians will retaliate.”
“Perhaps. But some fights you cannot put off.”
There was a pause and the prime minister could hear the U.S. president conferring with his aides. A minute later, the American spoke. “I understand you have a second request.”
“We also require four of your B61-11 EPWs-earth penetrating weapons.”
“That’s a helluva request. We’re talking about nuclear-tipped devices.”
“Yes, it is.”
The American president had been made aware of the request beforehand and had prepared his response with some precision. “Listen carefully to what I have to say. America will under no circumstance initiate the use of nuclear weapons. We do, however, believe in Israel’s right to a strong and overwhelming defense. To this end, and in respect of our many years of friendship, I’ve ordered my men to immediately transfer four B61’s to General Ganz. I will require your word, however, that you will not use these weapons unless you’re directly provoked.”
“I don’t know if I can give you my word on that.”
“This is nonnegotiable. I’ll say it again. If that sonuvabitch in Iran lays so much as a finger on you or any of your interests, you have my permission to use those bombs as you see fit. You can fly back and forth across Iraq from dawn to dusk. But until then, I want your word that you’ll keep them locked up.”
Zvi Hirsch, who was listening on another line, shot the prime minister a shocked glance. Violently, he began to nod his head, indicating that the prime minister was to consent at once. The prime minister complied. “You have my word. On behalf of myself and the people of Israel, I thank you.”
The call was concluded.
Zvi Hirsch set the phone in the cradle. “Did you hear him?”
“Of course,” said the prime minister. “What are you so heated up about?”
“He said we can use the bombs if and when we are directly provoked.”
“And so?”
Zvi Hirsch was so worked up that he had trouble getting the words out. “Don’t you get it?” he asked. “They don’t have to bomb us. It can be anything…any act at all…as long as we can tie it back to Teheran.”
“They only have to lift a finger against us.”
62
The Pilot held the stopwatch in his right hand. “Five minutes. Go.”
The men moved quickly, but never hurriedly, from their positions at the foot of the garage. Breaking themselves up into three two-man teams, each group approached one of three man-sized stainless-steel packing cases called coffins standing against the wall. Two of the cases contained convex aircraft wings, each broken into two four-foot sections. The third case held the fuselage, which housed the aircraft’s operational guts: the inertial navigation system, Ku-band satellite communications processor, fuel tank, primary control module, turbofan engine, and nose camera assembly.
Locking the landing gear into place, the first team set the fuselage on the ground. The men responsible for the wing assembly bolted the sections to one another, and then attached each to the fuselage by means of tungsten pinions. At the same time, the Pilot wheeled a low-slung gurney across the floor. Cradled in the gurney was a tear-shaped metallic nacelle, the size of a large watermelon, weighing thirty kilos, or some sixty-six pounds. The nacelle contained a powerful explosive charge.
The design was similar to the warhead used for Sidewinder missiles. In fact, the blueprint had come from Raytheon, the defense contractor responsible for the air-to-air missiles created over thirty years before. Little had changed in that time. Only the explosives had grown more powerful.
The nacelle consisted of a case assembly, twenty kilos of Semtex-H plastic explosive, an initiator device, and five hundred titanium fragmentation rods. When the proximity sensor detected the target-in this instance a passenger airliner-it would activate a fuse mechanism that ignited the explosive pellets surrounding the Semtex. The pellets would in turn ignite the twenty kilos of high explosive, causing it to release a huge amount of hot gas in a very short time. The explosive force from the expanding gas would blast the titanium rods outward, breaking them up into thousands of lethal flechettes that would effectively obliterate the aircraft’s fuselage.
The goal was to destroy the drone as well as the plane. No trace of the delivery mechanism would ever be found.
As soon as the nacelle was attached and the wiring plugged into the main instrument panel, the Pilot rolled the gurney from beneath the aircraft and called, “Time.”
He read the stopwatch. “Four minutes, twenty-seven seconds.”
The men did not cheer or evince any satisfaction. As quickly as they had begun, they disassembled the drone. They couldn’t take the chance that a random check might uncover the aircraft sitting in the garage assembled and ready for launch. In minutes, the three coffins were loaded and stored in locked cabinets inside the house.
Having supervised every aspect of the drill, the Pilot walked into the living room where a picture window looked down on the Zurich Airport. At eight o’clock, he spotted the landing lights of an incoming airliner approaching from the north. He was happy to note that it was precisely on time. But then, this particular flight had one of the best arrival records in the world.
He followed the lights until the Airbus A380 landed. The plane appeared oversized even from a distance of four kilometers. He knew its specifications by heart. Seventy-three meters in length. Twenty-four meters high. A wingspan of nearly eighty meters, nearly that of a football field. It was in every way the largest commercial jet aircraft in the world. It was configured to carry 555 passengers. This evening the manifest put the total at a shade under five hundred. Tomorrow it was set to carry a maximum load.
The aircraft lumbered into its parking space. It was so large that even a special jetway had been built to accommodate it. It was then that he was finally able to make out the five-pointed star painted on the tail.
El Al Flight 863 from Tel Aviv had arrived.
63
Von Daniken arrived back at Tobi Tingeli’s door precisely at nine o’clock. A maid led the way to the study. Tingeli sat behind a large mahogany desk, talking on the telephone. The jeans and turtleneck were gone. He was dressed in a black suit and pearl gray tie, his hair combed through with pomade. He greeted von Daniken with a glare, tossing a bound dossier across the table to him.
Von Daniken picked it up. Inside was documentation relating to the creation of one Excelsior Trust, based in Curaçao, the Netherlands Antilles. The holding company was formed with a capital investment of fifty thousand Swiss francs. Three directors were listed, two of whom were employees of the bank. The last name meant nothing to him. He was interested, however, to learn that the client had visited the Vaduz offices of the Tingeli Bank in August of the past year. The visit fit in neatly with Ransom’s return from the Middle East.