The Nylon Hand of God Page 3

  But this? A few desultory days of file pruning?

  Well, at least he would not have to endure the torturous ritual of clearing out a closet full of boots and ranks and dress uniforms. As a katam, a special duty officer in AMAN, he had not worn a uniform in years. The last time had been in 1986, at a quiet ceremony in the office of the Prime Minister. Eckstein had stood next to him, his arms encased in plaster casts, muttering something about a medal from the Likud Party being equivalent to an Iron Cross. A dubious distinction.

  Benni raised the sheaf of papers high above the burn bag, barked “Kfotz!” like the jumpmasters at Tel Nof, and dropped the pile into the receptacle. Pleased with this small victory, he put his thick fingers to his wide hips and looked around.

  He had never liked the office anyway. It was too big, and it was up on the third floor, too far from the troops. But Ben-Zion had insisted that if Baum was going to run Operations, he would have to sit up here with the rest of Olympus.

  Of course, Benni always took a bad situation and twisted it by the throat. His cavernous “private” office became a sort of free-for-all conference center for all the katamim under his command. He had quickly cured the boardroom atmosphere, having his subordinates haul in filing cabinets, bookshelves, extra desks, wall maps, and two green steel combination safes, for he insisted that intelligence officers worked better in smoke-filled, claustrophobic spaces. A comfy operations room invited you to kick back and ponder a problem, while a stinking cell made you drive for a solution so you could escape to fresh air.

  The IDF had an egalitarian, no-saluting, wrinkled-uniform reputation that smacked of insubordination, and Benni encouraged the tradition, for it often catalyzed into stunning field coups. In most Western nations, a soldier could expect to face his commander across a polished floor that served as a canyon between the ranks. Benni had replaced the CO’s desk with a T-shaped structure of tables, the head serving as his work space, while his team perched on plastic kitchen chairs surrounding the leg, a design that proclaimed, “Okay, I’m the boss. But go ahead, argue with me.”

  Baum hated the idea that his team members might say “Yes” to him when they meant “No,” or “Good idea” when they really wanted to scream, “Hishtagata? Are you nuts?” For many of his planning sessions, he placed someone else at the head of the T, while the rest of his crew paced, swigged Cokes, and blew a choking fog of cigarette smoke.

  Department legend had it that General Ben-Zion had once thundered into Baum’s office with an order, only to find the colonel’s driver ensconced happily in his chair, boots up on the blotter and wearing the uniform of an air force major. Baum, Eckstein, and the rest of their team were dressing in the singlets and shorts of a soccer club, an armorer was filling their gym bags with mini-Uzis and magazines, and the general had backed out without saying a word, apparently deciding that ignorance was the better part of valor.

  Yet Baum’s socialistic style did not prevent him from driving his crew like a chain gang overseer, and indeed the clearest clues to his work ethic were the road construction signs he had affixed to his doors. No engraver had ever carved a nameplate for him and at present the only evidence that herein lay the bustling lair of the Chief of Operations was a small red metal triangle nailed to the door side facing the corridor. It had been lifted from the concertina wire girdling a minefield on the Golan Heights, its meaning clear to any foolhardy interloper: Unless you are a professional and know exactly what you’re up to . . . Stay Out.

  The door suddenly creaked open, and Benni stiffened, for another visit by Itzik would surely unleash his worst insubordinate demons. But the head that poked inside belonged to Raphael Chernikovsky.

  The small, balding, bespectacled officer, known to all by his departmental sobriquet, Horse, was Benni’s top analyst and troubleshooter. He suffered the unenviable task of sitting in on all of Baum’s planning sessions, then tearing the proposals apart with astute critiques. It was an unpopular though indispensable position.

  “Shabbat Shalom,” Horse offered as he slipped in like a shy wraith. He was carrying a laptop computer, and one white shirttail was half out of his trousers.

  “To you too, Soos,” said Benni. He glanced at his watch, annoyed that even on the cusp of a weekend he could not indulge his melancholy in peace. “What’s up?”

  “Well,” Horse fumbled, smearing a wisp of red hair over his shiny scalp. “It’s about your retirement party.”

  Benni rolled his eyes. He did not want to even think about such a funereal soiree. “Aren’t those things supposed to be a surprise?”

  “I . . . Sure, I guess so. But no one thinks it is possible.”

  Benni folded his arms, pondering the backhanded compliment. After all, he was the grand master of conspiracies. “Yes. Well, do whatever you want. I’ll play along.”

  “Here in the office? Or would you prefer a restaurant?”

  “Let’s talk about it next week.” Baum waved a hand in the air.

  “We only have two weeks.”

  “Go home, Horse. It’s Shabbat.”

  “Okay. But the girls will want to prepare. They have been asking—”

  “Go home!” Benni boomed, and Horse stiffened as if he had touched a damp electrical plug. He backed up to the door and struggled for the flip handle.

  “Sure, Benni. Have a nice day off. I will see you Sunday.”

  “Yes.”

  Horse was now halfway out, shielding himself behind the doorframe. “Uh, how did it go with Itzik?”

  “Smooth as a rhino’s ass.”

  “Oh. So Eckstein will not be joining us?”

  “No. He stays in Africa.”

  “Oh. Too bad.”

  “Your dinner is getting cold.” Benni’s voice began to rise again. The door decapitated Horse’s shadow, and his rapid footfalls echoed away.

  Benni frowned, aware that he should follow his own advice and depart. It was a Friday eve, the Sabbath had begun, and his office held that terrible stillness of a sports stadium long after the main event. There were other sounds, from far away, for the three main floors and basement labs were always haunted by the lonely men and women who had to keep the thing alive. Here and there a telex chattered, a telephone rang, a printer spat decrypted text from a computer. But all in all, the building barely breathed, settling into its welcome weekend coma.

  He looked around and decided that the task, though simple, was too daunting for today. Maya and his two sons, Yosh and Amos, were holding Shabbat dinner for him. Some other time, a few small boxes, and all his personal effects could easily be packed into his car.

  His walls did not hold a single plaque, no trophies, medals, or citations, though there were plenty of those gathering dust in the attic of his home in Abu Tor. Instead, his priorities were displayed by a few pictures on a shelf behind his desk. First came early black-and-whites, himself not slim but muscular, in groups of uniformed comrades. Then the smiles of his family shone brightly from Agfacolor hues. And finally a few darker candids of Benni and Eckstein against the backdrop of several foreign cities.

  There was, however, a single item propped against one corner of the room, of which even Benni was much too proud to relegate to a rusty footlocker.

  The long black iron tube was reminiscent of an oboe, its bottom half cocooned in polished wood and splayed into a bell-shaped horn, with two thick pistol grips, a trigger, and a pull-down hammer jutting from the heavy body. Its mouth held a green metal phallus head, the nose cap a deactivated detonator. It was a Rocket Propelled Grenade 7-D, a Russian antitank device that had become the favorite of terrorists from Belfast to Baghdad. This particular Reaktiviny Protivotankovyi Granatomet had never actually been fired at Israeli troops or tanks, its fate reserved for glories greater than a single battlefield catastrophe.

  The weapon’s master had arrived in Israel back in 1986, but to Benni, those days of Ramadan still came to him in waking dreams. Each time he touched the puckered bullet scar that creased his belly, he rememb
ered Operation Flute and breathed sighs of relief.

  Benni stared at the RPG. He wondered if the fingerprints of Amar Kamil might still be found there, next to those of himself and Eytan, who together had in private moments hefted the device, shaking their heads in silence at each other.

  A gap of nearly fifteen years divided Baum and Eckstein, yet even with their very first handclasp of so long ago, they had known that they were destined to be partnered. Both men were German born, and both had shed the dusty uniforms of combat officers for the anonymous glories of AMAN, knowing that they would spend their lives assumed by friends and relatives to be the boring bureaucrats of some redundant government institution.

  They experienced, if such a thing existed, a melding of the minds, a quasitelepathic language that had them functioning as one, the resultant power doubled. It was a phenomenon Benni had previously found only with Maya, and that was after an adult lifetime of wedded joy and discourse. His relationship with Eckstein was born of blood, toil, danger, and that foolish, unimpeachable trust a man must have for his own parachute, if he intends to jump at all.

  It had nearly come apart one winter day in Munich, when, too eager to scratch the name of Amar Kamil from Israel’s elimination list, they had caused the death of a decoy placed before their path. Ben-Zion’s punishment had been to banish them to menial duties. Yet, in a very real sense, Amar Kamil himself had saved them, returning to the land of his birth and raising Operation Flute from the grave.

  Their renegade reputations remained intact. Down in the small cafeteria on floor two, the bogus cover of a comic book, drawn by one of Benni’s artistic analysts, was still taped to the wall. It showed Baum’s and Eckstein’s heads poking from a single body, whose muscled arms waved pistols, James Bond attaché cases, and streams of computer paper, HATEOMIM HANORAIM—The Terrible Twins—exclaimed the cartoon title.

  For General Ben-Zion, it was painful to watch the glories that he coveted heaped upon two men who obeyed barely one third of his orders, argued with another third, and ignored the rest. He could not disband a union that brought kudos from the Knesset, but he could promote them. They rose in ranks and the increase in responsibilities caused the separations in assignments.

  So Benni was a lieutenant colonel now, running Operations. Eckstein was a major in command of his own AMAN team, and had been sent to Ethiopia on a long-range mission, the importance of which Baum could not contest. Yet the colonel missed his right hand, his right brain, and he assumed that Eytan also suffered the phantom pains of amputation.

  Perhaps it was a sign—the separation, the falling winter night—that it was time to go. No other partnership would ever be the same, and Maya well deserved an end to many nights alone. Not that she had endured her trials in silence, mind you, but she had done most of her yelling at his photograph, while he was away.

  In just a few short weeks, Baum would be gone. No man was irreplaceable, and his ego, always held in careful check, did not permit the luxury of assuming that he would be missed for long.

  Yet who would run Operations? Who would lead the teams of Queens Commando into the wastes of foreign deserts, the alleyways of enemy capitals? If Eytan Eckstein stayed with AMAN, he might well sit behind this desk someday. But Benni had his doubts.

  Baum was nothing of a diplomat, but Eckstein was even less so. You had to be able to pilot a desk in AMAN with the skill of an F-16 jockey. As far as office politics were concerned, Eckstein was a kamikaze.

  “Well,” Baum whispered, half aloud, “he’ll have to fly alone.” But he wished that he could have his old partner as his copilot, just once more.

  There was a single file sitting on Baum’s tabletop, a thick packet inside a brown clasp cover, stamped with the title OR YAREACH—Moonlight—and a slash of SODI BEYOTER—Most Secret. He had intended to sign it out and take it home, but now he thought better of it and walked the file over to his safe. All the details had been hammered out, and with a bit of luck this mission would soon be put to bed.

  The Israel Defense Forces still had six prisoners of war being held by enemy factions across the Middle East. In a country of less than five million souls, every life was precious, and the IDF’s reputation was built on its commitment never to leave a dead, wounded, or captured soldier in the field. This obsession gave the man or woman at arms a sense of security, but it also gave the enemy a terrible advantage. An Israeli prisoner’s barter value in the political souks was greater than a wing of fighter planes.

  All of the prisoners were being held by terrorist factions, in turn controlled by Arab confrontation states. Three of the men had been blown from their tanks in 1982, at the battle for Sultan Yakoub, a mountain town in Lebanon that turned out to be a Syrian armored porcupine. The Syrians made a gift of the three Jews to Ahmed Jabril, chief of the Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine—General Command. President Hafiz al-Assad insisted that he had no influence over the notorious terror chieftain, even as Jabril took Turkish baths in Damascus with the commander of the Syrian Mukhabarat.

  The fates of two more servicemen were less clear, the identities of their captors the subject of some argument between AMAN and Mossad. This made the probabilities of rescue slim, so it was hoped that a policy of filling Israeli detention camps with captured terrorists would prod the opposition into an uneven swap. Yet no one on the other side seemed all that interested in recovering their Arab brothers, and they held on to their Israeli prisoners like amateur thieves with a priceless van Gogh.

  The frustrated Israelis even threw all their efforts into a bid to broker the release of American and German hostages held in Lebanon, which finally succeeded. Yet the hopes that Israeli prisoners would emerge with all the rest were shattered, and the crestfallen diplomats and intelligence officers went home with thank-you notes from Washington and Bonn.

  At last, one of the Israeli POWs was returned to the bosom of his family. He was a Druze soldier from a proud mountain village in the Carmel, and he came home in a box. Samir had been beaten to death by his captors, but the government still agreed to free two hundred dangerous men, in exchange for a memory.

  The sixth man was perhaps the most famous prisoner of war since Israeli agent Eli Cohen had been hanged in Damascus. Captain Dan Sarel was a member of the Israeli navy’s elite naval commandos, a small unit whose menu of services offered high-altitude night parachuting, long-range scuba navigation, and close-quarter combat skills that would frighten a rottweiler.

  On a moonless night in 1986, Sarel’s Flotilla 13 team had breached the Lebanese waters off Junieh, attacked a terrorist command post of Amal militiamen, and destroyed it under a storm of enemy flares and tracers.

  In the tradition of Israeli commanders, Sarel had then pushed his reluctant men into their Zodiacs, while he headed back into the madness to retrieve the body of a fallen comrade. Within seconds he was cut down by a burst of Kalashnikov rounds and snatched away by eager Amal fighters. The IDF command brought up everything they had, turning a secret mission into a blatant rescue effort that raged throughout the night. But at dawn, the exhausted gunship pilots turned for home and the missile boats withdrew from the smoking shoreline. It was clear that Dan Sarel, if he still lived, was on his way to the Bekka Valley.

  Sarel’s trail, unlike that of the other soldiers in captivity, did not go immediately cold upon his taking. The commander of Amal, Mustaffa Dirani, was in dire need of equipment for his warriors, and he correctly assessed the cash equivalent of an Israeli commando with the highest IDF security clearances. When Sarel survived his multiple wounds, an auction ensued, yet no other lip-smacking terror chief could match the government of Iran for buying power. Tehran quickly paid the top bid of $350,000, then had Dirani turn the Israeli captain over to Hizbollah, the orphan terror wing of Iranian Islamic fundamentalism.

  The Israelis knew that Tehran still pulled the strings, but they adhered to the rules of the game and turned to the puppet Hizbollah. Yet it was an iron doll that could not be moved, even when Is
raeli commandos from the elite Sayeret Matkal—General Staff Reconnaissance Unit—kidnapped Sheik Sa’id, the movement’s spiritual leader, from his bed in southern Lebanon.

  For years Benni Baum had watched in frustration as other officers dedicated life, limb, and careers to the recovery of Dan Sarel. The captain’s wife, holding a five-year-old daughter never touched by her father’s hands, made international appeals on television. Jews worldwide carried poster pictures of the captain during Israel Independence Day parades. Non-Israeli diplomats made appeals to the Iranians, only to be rebuffed across carafes of coffee and gulfs of mistrust. The name Dan Sarel became a symbol of the lost Israeli warrior, whispered in cafés in Tel Aviv, broached by Mossad agents risking their necks in unfriendly places, scoured for by AMAN researchers among the tons of intercepts pouring in from telephone, fax, and satellite traffic.

  Nothing.

  And then, one cool September morning, the message made its way from a grit-lined Arab hand into a soiled Jewish palm. It happened at the abandoned Lebanese village of Abu Zibleh, a cluster of bullet-pocked cement huts where Israeli paratroopers came to hone the arts of breaching rooms with assault rifles and grenades.

  An IDF lieutenant stopped his men with a raised hand and a shout of “Cease firing!”

  A Lebanese farmer stood quietly nearby. From his shoulder hung an ancient shotgun, from his right hand a lifeless pigeon, from his left, an envelope. The lieutenant read the letter, shook the farmer’s hand, gave him a fifty-shekel note as proof that they had met, and without further comment ordered his men to saddle up.

  The deal was simple, clear, too good to be real: Dan Sarel, in exchange for Sheik Sa’id, plus one thousand aircraft tires for F-4 Phantom fighter jets, one hundred Sidewinder missiles, and fifty TOW antitank systems. The note was signed by Abu Yasir, the nom de guerre of Sa’id Abbas Mussawi, general secretary and operational commander of Hizbollah. Mussawi had no aircraft larger than hang gliders, so it was clear that the tires and Sidewinders would only be counted by his men en route to Tehran. As for the TOWs, no one really expected Israeli tank commanders to provide the terrorists in southern Lebanon with a high-tech executioner’s ax.