Chapter 54
JERUSALEM, ISRAEL
THIS is quite the shit sandwich you’ve handed us.”
Ben Friedman fought to keep his smile hidden.
Prime Minister Uri Sharon was extremely direct, even by Israeli standards.
He’d attended high school and college in the United States and had a habit of slipping bits of American slang into his Hebrew when he grew agitated.
Friedman spoke excellent English, but shit sandwich was a new one even for him.
Judging by Director Rothenberger’s expression, the idiom was also unfamiliar to the target of the prime minister’s rage. Still, one did not have to be fluent in Western slang to divine the meaning behind the statement.
The PM’s red face and roaring voice did the trick.
“I’m not sure I understand,” Rothenberger said.
Friedman closed his eyes and massaged his temples.
Unlike his Western counterparts’, the Israeli PM’s office was not a grand symbol of the nation he led.
Nor was it particularly roomy. As the only non?cabinet member present, Friedman had selected a chair as far from the PM’s desk as possible.
He was still suffering the effects of jet lag from his quick back-and-forth across the Atlantic and didn’t want to draw attention to himself.
Unfortunately, in a space this small, that wasn’t really an option.
The PM was pissed and the entire room was in his blast radius. Though still in their infancy, the 1990s had already proven to be turbulent years for Mossad directors. Two men had held the role in the last eight years.
That number was probably about to increase.
“Then let me spell things out,” Sharon said, enunciating each word as if he were speaking to a child.
“You convinced me to let the Italians arrest the Pakistani because you were fearful of what might happen should the operation to kill him go awry. Now we find ourselves in a bit of a pickle—one of the world’s foremost experts in the manufacture of chemical weapons is in the hands of a terrorist cell and the Iraqis are about to transfer chemical weapons to one of our mortal enemies. Was there anything I forgot?”
Though the question was obviously rhetorical, Friedman opened his mouth with the intention of offering his boss a modicum of support.
The man had ignored his counsel on this matter, but the constant leadership turnover in an intelligence organization that was already on its heels wasn’t good for the Mossad or the nation-state of Israel.
Things were bad, but all was not lost.
Yet.
“That operation was helmed by my director of operations. Mr. Friedman is here to answer your questions.”
Friedman closed his mouth.
This time, he worked to conceal a different emotion.
Anger.
He knew that the director was a political animal who had designs on a seat in the Knesset.
That the man had no allegiance to or particular love for the Institute was obvious, but then again, neither had most of his predecessors.
Friedman had hoped that the man’s career aspirations would at least inspire him to allow the Mossad to do its job, but it seemed that he was more interested in escaping his tenure at his nation’s foreign intelligence service with his reputation unblemished.
Which meant someone else would need to be held accountable for his poor operational decisions.
Like Friedman.
“Mr. Friedman?” Sharon said.
Friedman had never personally interacted with the PM before now, but the man was the closest Israel had to a celebrity politician.
Like all Israelis, he’d completed compulsory service in the Israeli Defense Forces after high school, but unlike most, Sharon had volunteered for the grueling selection process necessary to serve in special operations.
He’d excelled in a training pipeline in which attrition rates of fifty percent were common and was eventually selected for one of Israel’s premier reconnaissance units.
Before completing his time in the military, the prime minister had risen to the rank of team leader and had conducted numerous operations in Lebanon, Syria, and, if the rumors were to be believed, Iran.
While also a politician to his bones, the PM had lost men in combat.
He understood the operational risk-versus-reward calculus and had a reputation for backing the men and women on the ground, regardless of the political cost.
In short, Sharon was everything the Mossad’s current director was not.
Friedman decided to treat him as such.
“My understanding was that rehabilitating Israel’s image on the world stage was the primary consideration for the operations you mentioned,” Friedman began.
“As such, we’ve attempted to use national partners whenever possible rather than taking decisive action alone.
Allowing others to act on our behalf carries with it the inherent risk that they cannot or will not execute with the same level of proficiency our own forces would employ. ”
“A lesson we learned well in Munich,” Sharon said. “Why we must continuously relearn this truism is beyond me. And what about now, Mr. Friedman? Where do we stand?”
Friedman saw the warning look from his boss.
Nothing obvious, just a simple glance, but he knew the gesture’s intent.
If he toed the party line and gave the director cover, all would be forgiven.
But if he answered the PM in a manner that contradicted Rothenberger, his remaining tenure at the Institute would be short, unpleasant, or both.
Friedman hesitated, but the pause was only for show.
His intent had solidified with the PM’s invocation of the Munich disaster.
The terrorist attack against the Israeli Olympic team twenty years ago had been a watershed moment for both the Israeli psyche and the Institute.
No longer would the world’s only Jewish state entrust the safety of its citizenry to others.
Or at least that’s what his predecessors had sworn to each other two-plus decades earlier.
Whether the Jewish state’s current leadership had the same mettle was yet to be seen.
“We stand at the threshold of an opportunity, sir,” Friedman said, locking gazes with the PM.
“But it is not an opportunity without risk. If we do nothing, the Syrians will have access to Iraqi-made weapons of mass destruction. And not just a few decaying shells. Our reporting indicates that Hussein is transporting the entirety of his chemical weapons program along with his stock of precursors as payment for safeguarding the munitions.”
“The Syrians will now be able to fabricate their own munitions?”
Friedman nodded. “Even if the Syrians fail in this regard, our most conservative analysis suggests that Iraq possesses enough chemical weapons to kill fifty thousand Israelis. Chemical weapons whose efficacy has been proven both on the battlefield against Iran and against Iraqi citizens.”
Friedman knew that Sharon was aware of Hussein’s propensity to gas his own countrymen.
If the rumors were to be believed, the PM’s unit had been one of those tasked with surveying the aftermath in order to verify which chemical agents had been employed.
Even so, Friedman wanted to foot-stomp the danger threatening his homeland.
This was not some experimental program cooked up by a jihadi tinkerer in a garage laboratory.
Hussein had employed his munitions to great effect in the Iran-Iraq War as well as to quell Kurdish uprisings.
This was not a hypothetical threat.
“The Americans are far better equipped to deal with this,” Rothenberger said, trying to regain control of the conversation, “and to weather the ensuing international fallout. Let them handle it.”
This time Friedman didn’t bother to hide his smile. Rothenberger might be a political savant, but he had a thing or two to learn about a warrior’s mindset.
“I respectfully disagree,” Friedman said.
“The Americans can be great allies. They can also be monumental hindrances. Our fellow Israelis expect the people in this room to keep them safe. Not Europe, not the United Nations, and not America. Iraq’s chemical weapons in Syrian hands represent the greatest threat to the nation of Israel in more than a decade. ”
Once again, Friedman had purposely chosen his time reference. Once again, the date’s significance slid over Rothenberger’s head.
“Stopping this convoy is beyond the Mossad’s capabilities,” Rothenberger said. He glared at Friedman as if daring his subordinate to disagree with him.
Friedman’s smile grew even wider.
His boss had just unknowingly made his point for him.
“I agree,” Friedman said. “Destroying the chemical weapons before they reach Syrian hands will require a combined military- and intelligence-driven solution. Just like it did in 1981.”
Friedman saw the instant Rothenberger realized he’d been outplayed.
One moment, the Mossad’s director was wearing a slightly baffled expression.
The next, his features twisted in anger.
After shooting Friedman a look that said their professional relationship was over, he turned to make his case to the PM.
“Sir,” Rothenberger said, a pleading tone in his voice, “the strike against Iraq’s nuclear reactor shouldn’t be viewed as a worthwhile precedent.”
“Why not?”
Rothenberger sputtered. “The international outrage and condemnation that followed our operation was universal.”
The PM shrugged. “And yet here we are. Israel’s diplomatic relations with the world are fine, but more importantly, Iraq doesn’t possess a nuclear weapon. Will there be diplomatic nonsense after we destroy the chemical weapons convoy? Perhaps. But do you know what I am certain won’t happen?”
“What?”
“A Syrian attack on Israel with Iraqi-manufactured chemical weapons.”
The PM swiveled his gaze from the wilting director of his foreign intelligence service to Friedman. “Are you prepared to assist with intelligence gathering and targeting for an IDF strike in Iraq?”
Friedman inclined his head. “Of course.”
“Then get to work.”