Attention now turned to Zvi Levy, the head of Mossad and a former air force general himself. Levy confirmed Harel’s analysis on Iran.
Again, murmurs of hopeful assent coursed through the room. Levy continued.
“Unfortunately, but not unexpectedly, we do have a problem, and it’s a sticky one, because it is not with our enemy, but with our friend” said Levy. Levy didn’t need to mention the friend—Israel really had only one that counted.
“The Americans are, to put it bluntly, pissed off. Unlike the Iranians they are certain the strike was ours, and the President does like to be blindsided, even when events are beneficial.”
“Just like Osirak” added the Nimrod Arbel, the Defense Minister, a man who could not remain quiet for long. He referred to the Israeli air raid on Iraq’s nuclear reactor in 1981, which was almost universally condemned at the time, including by the United States, but proved to be a boon to the Americans when they found themselves facing Saddam Hussein in Kuwait in 1991.
“True” said Levy “but it is much more complicated now. “In 1981 we flew American jets and dropped American bombs—problems in their own right to be sure. But on the other hand, our friend knew exactly what happened and how, almost as soon as it happened—through satellite imagery, electronic intercepts, and their own knowledge as to the capabilities of their own aircraft and munitions.”
“But now they are completely in the dark” said Arbel, completing Levy’s thought “and they don’t like it.” He smiled, as did a number of people at the table, but not the Prime Minister.
“I’d wipe that smile away” the PM said condescendingly. Few at the table liked the Prime Minister or much respected his judgment.
But all feared his political ruthlessness and skill. “I received a call from the President yesterday evening. Although we had planned a pat response, it did not go over well.”
“What was said?” snapped Arbel, a long-time rival.
“I can now tell you only the immediate consequence of my discussion…”
“Okay, let’s go…” said Arbel impatiently.
“Tomorrow and American team will arrive in Tel Aviv, led by Argus Crowley, the Deputy Secretary of Defense, with several officers and technical experts. They expect to be fully briefed on the operation.”
“Impossible!” shouted Arbel. “Crowley is openly hostile to us. This is the worst possible situation.”
“But it’s the situation we are in” said the Prime Minister angrily.
“We must deal with it.”
“You should put them off.” said Arbel, and before he could say more, it seemed as if the room erupted as six or seven men and women started speaking loudly and simultaneously. It was turning into a typical Israeli conference.
Yatom grimaced, and looked over again at Feldhandler. Instead of bemusedly returning Yatom’s look, as he had just moments before, it seemed now as if the scientist would explode. His face was red, his jaw set tight, and his eyes were as wide as a jackal’s on a moonless night.
“Minister Arbel is correct!” shouted Feldhandler over the din. The room quieted a bit. “We cannot brief the Americans—not the way they want. I won’t permit it.” Only a couple of people continued to shout at each other. “It will not happen!” Feldhandler concluded with a final bellow, and the room fell silent.
Now it was the turn of the generals and politicians to roll their eyes at the enraged scientist. Arbel who spoke first, and if he was pleased that Feldhandler had just supported him he did not show it.
“Who are you to tell the leadership of the State what to do!” the defense minister barked.
Feldhandler turned to him, fury still in his eyes. “You yourself just castigated the Prime Minister for allowing this…”
“Yes, but I am the Minister of Defense, not some mid-level bureaucrat at Dimona. And besides, I only think we should put off the matter—delay—play some games.” He looked over to the Prime Minister who nodded approvingly. Arbel went on. “You have no idea what you are talking about Dr. Feldhandler. No conception of the broader issues the country faces. You were asked here to give technical advice, not your feelings on state policy.”
“Clearly, we have to cooperate with the Americans” the Prime Minister said, looking now directly at Feldhandler. “Whether we do it tomorrow or next month it must be done. And you, Professor Feldhandler, will have to cooperate when I tell you to cooperate. That is not negotiable.”
Feldhandler stared ahead fixedly, but said nothing.
The once boisterous room remained silent, waiting for the Prime Minister to continue. “We will cooperate with the Americans, but not fully, not yet” he said, and then looked over toward the Chief of Staff and then Brom. The COS nodded at Brom who took over.
“We have raised the prospect of another operation, gotten off quickly, using the Device and Colonel Yatom’s sarayet. The Prime Minister will bring it before the security cabinet, in accord with our protocols.”
There was an excited stirring in the room now, like a fresh breeze that blew out the poisoned atmosphere that hung over the table just moments before. Brom continued.
“We’ve dubbed the operation Kela, or some of us prefer the English word—for it: Slingshot. The operation can be carried out as soon as actionable intelligence appears and Yatom’s sarayet is brought up to full strength. According to Professor Feldhandler, modifications to the device will allow Yatom to bring at least one additional man, and more equipment than we used in Iran.”
“And the objective?” asked Moshe Hagni, the head of Shin Bet, one of the few men sitting at the table who had not been previously briefed on the matter.
“Liquidation,” said Brom. “Liquidation the leader of Hezbollah by.”
Hagni, a sharp man, interrupted Brom and finished his statement. “By sending a sarayet back temporally after intelligence has located the target. We can’t miss.”
“Correct,” said Brom.
“Who exactly?” asked Hagni.
“Imam Mughniyeh,” said Brom matter-of-factly, as though they were going to deliver mail, not death. Brom had the attention of everyone in the room now, because Mughniyeh, Hezbollah’s defense chief had been at the top of Israel’s (and America’s) hit list for more than two decades. He was Islamic terrorism’s true boogey man—deadly, skilled and elusive. He made Al Qaeda’s leadership look like rank amateurs.
“Excuse me,” interrupted Yatom “but Mughniyeh is dead—killed by a bomb in Damascus in 2008. Or am I missing something?”
“Mughniyeh faked his own death,” said Levy. “As you may remember, Israel never took credit for the operation, and indeed we had nothing to do with it. It was an internal Hezbollah op.”
“There was some speculation at the time that the whole affair was faked, as a way of giving Mughniyeh free reign and at the same time giving Hezbollah a new excuse to mobilize their supporters and ‘strike back’ at us,” said Brom. “For once the idiot fringe speculation was true.”
Yatom pursed his lips as if to suggest he’d heard it all.
“We have two advantages now,” said Brom. “First, we know that in fact he is alive. And secondly, with the Device, as Hagni said, if we know exactly where Mughniyeh will be, before he gets there.” Brom, allowed his voice to trail off, and gestured with his hands, like a waiter presenting a filleted fish.