“Drive,” Yosh said from the back seat, “if you know how.”
“This beauty?” Sanani engaged first gear. “It’ll drive itself!” He threw the clutch, and the tires screeched. They sped down a narrow street of deserted Arab homes, the Jeep rattling over potholes, and stopped at the corner.
Nablus Road stretched in both directions. A short distance to the left was the border crossing at the Mandelbaum Gate, which sported Israeli, Jordanian, and UN flags.
“Turn right,” Yosh said. “And take it easy.”
The road passed through the Musrara neighborhood, occupied mostly by Sephardic Jews and recent immigrants from Arab countries. Farther to the right was Meah Shearim. When the Jeep crossed Shivtay Israel Street, Lemmy caught a glimpse of his former neighborhood.
A few minutes later, Sanani veered to the shoulder and stopped.
“Look over there.” Dor pointed at the Old City. “From the Mandelbaum Gate, down Salah Al-Din Road, you end up at Herod’s Gate. Do you see it?”
Sanani pounded the steering wheel. “If only we could go there!”
“You will,” Dor said. “Very soon.”
Lemmy thought the civilian was joking, but his tone was serious.
“At Herod’s Gate, you’ll turn left, down Jericho Road,” Dor said. “We can’t see it from here, but Jericho Road goes around the eastern wall of the Old City, just under the Mount of Olives, past the Lions Gate, and ends in an intersection-left to Jericho and the Dead Sea, right to Government House. That will be your destination.”
“Dressed as UN observers,” Lemmy said.
“Correct.”
“But how do we cross the border?”
“All in good time.” Dor tapped Sanani’s shoulder. “Drive.”
They continued south, the border on their left, and beyond it the views of the Jaffa Gate, the Zion Gate, and the Abu Tor neighborhood. On the high ridge ahead, the massive stone building of Government House flew the UN flag. The radar reflector rotated atop a concrete structure on a low hill in the rear of the compound.
“There,” Dor said, “you’ll be coming from the other side, up from the intersection with Jericho road, to the gate of Government House.”
“Easy,” Sanani said. “We’ll roll down the window and yell Open sesame! ”
“Seriously,” Lemmy said, “what do we say to the UN sentries? Boker tov? ”
“Good morning,” Sanani announced in the singsong Indian accent he’d been practicing, “we brought you samossas, beef biryani, chicken masala, and basmati rice. Do you want some chutney with that?”
E lie drove to Tel Aviv that afternoon. He went down into the Pit. The IDF underground complex was a beehive. In the operations center, a meeting of the general staff was just getting underway, the concrete ceiling almost invisible through the cloud of cigarette smoke.
Chief of Staff Yitzhak Rabin said, “When U Thant pulled all UN observers from Sinai, I thought of a fire brigade that runs away at the first sign of fire.” He waited for the laughter to die. “As some of you already know, on the same day, May seventeen, two MiGs flew over our reactor in Dimona, probably taking photos.”
There was something different about the chief of staff, and Elie suddenly realized that the characteristic slow delivery was gone, replaced with a confident, eloquent presentation that kept the officers’ attention. Perhaps it was the experience of witnessing the disastrous impact of Eshkol’s stuttering broadcast, or the prepared notes Rabin was holding, which appeared to be cleanly typed.
“Nasser has about one hundred thousand soldiers in Sinai,” Rabin continued, “eight hundred tanks, and over a thousand artillery guns, with more pouring in. He placed a de facto blockade on the Straits of Tiran while pursuing a joint command with Jordan and Syria, reinforced by Iraq and Saudi Arabia, as well as smaller units from other countries. Meanwhile our government continues to seek international support.” He glanced at his notes. “The Americans won’t interfere. De Gaulle again told Abba Eban, Ne faites pas la guerre! As if we started this crisis. British Prime Minister Harold Wilson declined to make a statement in our favor. And Soviet Ambassador Chuvakhin, who has accused us of amassing aggressive forces along the borders, declined a helicopter tour to see for himself, saying that his job is to repeat Soviet truths, not to check their veracity.”
Everyone laughed, and General Ariel Sharon said, “Maybe Chuvakhin should become our defense minister.”
“Arik!” Rabin shook a finger at him. “What you say here appears on the front page of Ma’ariv tomorrow.”
When the room quieted down, Rabin continued. “Our enemies are optimistic. PLO Chief Shuqayri said yesterday that he expects Israel’s complete destruction, and Hafez al-Assad predicted the eradication of Zionist presence in the Arab homeland. We have reports of Iraqi units moving into Syria, Saudis into Jordan. All over the Middle East, the Arab street is in fever. Meanwhile, our reservists are sitting idle in their tents, and their families are anxious. The politicians are still trying diplomacy, but we must prepare to attack as soon as we get government approval.”
“Or without it,” General Sharon said, earning another finger-shaking from Rabin.
Moshe Dayan stood up. He wore a dusty uniform, and even his trademark eye patch was more gray than black. “I toured the southern front and watched the Egyptians take over the UN monitoring posts. They’re mobilizing for an invasion. War is inevitable. If the Arabs attack first, Israel will be destroyed.”
No one argued with Dayan.
“I think Abba Eban is coming around,” Yitzhak Rabin said. “He told the ministers yesterday: A nation that could not protect its basic maritime interests would presumably find reason for not repelling other assaults on its rights. As the song goes,” Rabin smiled, “Nasser sits and waits for Rabin, and Rabin waits for Eshkol, and Eshkol waits for his cabinet, and the cabinet waits for Eban, and Eban waits for President Johnson!”
The room exploded in laughter, and Rabin beckoned Chief of Operations Ezer Weitzman to take over.
The famed fighter pilot swiveled the pointer with a swagger. “Code name, Mokked,” he announced. “The plan is aimed at capturing air superiority by destroying all Egyptian runways and strafing all their grounded planes.” Weitzman held up a diagram. “Our scientists have designed bombs with delay fuses, set to explode only after penetrating deep into the runways. The damage will take weeks to repair. We have detailed plans of every military airfield in Egypt, Jordan, and Syria, including exact locations, lengths of runways, construction materials, and types of planes kept at each airfield.” He pointed at Chief of Mossad Meir Amit. “I don’t know how your guys got it all, but thank you.”
Elie saw the Mossad chief nod in acknowledgment.
Weitzman went into some details about schedules, risks, and the necessity of acting before the enemy realized what was happening. “This is a first-strike plan,” he concluded. “If the Egyptians attack us first, they’ll destroy Dimona and all our airfields. What I need is a green light for a preemptive strike.”
“Call Eshkol,” someone said.
“What about detection?” General Arik Sharon shoved a piece of cake into his mouth, but continued speaking with a mouthful. “Our planes will be in the air for at least a half-hour, right? Won’t the Egyptians notice us? And scramble their jets to meet us?”
“They’re practically blind,” Weitzman said. “The Soviets gave them the best weaponry, but the most primitive radars.”
“Ever since Prague,” the Mossad chief, General Amit explained, “the Soviets are careful not to provide their client-states with defensive measures that could hamper a Soviet attack, should the friendship turn sour.”
“But still,” Arik Sharon said, “the Egyptian forces along the Sinai border could notice our planes and alert the airfields inland. How will you avoid that?”
“By flying fast and low,” Weitzman said, but Elie could tell he was not telling the whole truth.