Hunting Eichmann (22 page)

Adolf Eichmann, who was very much
not
in Tucumán, listened intently to Nick's wife, trying not to be alarmed by her story. She was right to think that what these men had told her was unusual, if not an outright lie. Although he had been willing to live in an area without water, telephone, or electricity because the land was cheap, an international company such as the one the men had described needed those services, and having them installed would be cost prohibitive. There were scores of better-suited areas.

So who were they? Eichmann knew that the hunt for him had restarted late the previous year. The newspaper
Argentinisches Tageblatt
had carried the announcement that he had been sighted in Kuwait, and a radio program his son Klaus (he did not call him Nick) had heard had detailed how Interpol was actively searching for him. When Klaus had rushed to his house in the middle of the night with this news, Eichmann had gone cold with fear. At the beginning of the year, a fortuneteller had predicted that he would not live past his fifty-sixth birthday.

Eichmann had begun to feel at least partially at peace just before this had all begun to happen. Although his house was a far cry from the Hungarian villa he had once enjoyed, it was his own. His job at the Mercedes-Benz plant was coming along well, and he had recently been promoted to foreman. His two eldest sons, Klaus and Horst, had moved out and started their own lives. Klaus worked as an electrician and rented an apartment with his new wife in central Buenos Aires. Horst was in the merchant marine. Dieter worked as an auto mechanic and would soon be out on his own as well. His youngest boy, Ricardo, was being raised as an Argentine and would never know about his father's role in the war.

Given that he had spent the past fifteen years in hiding, Eichmann was living about as normal a life as was possible. He was still plagued by the past and despised how he was portrayed in the press, as if he was solely responsible for the Final Solution, but there was nothing he could do about that. He had exorcised these demons as best he could with his interviews with Sassen. When he was dead, the truth about his actions would be revealed for all to read.

Those two men lurking around the neighborhood might be searching for him, he thought. They could be Jews, like that Tuviah Friedman, who had made the big Kuwait announcement. Then again, the latest reports were that he was in the Middle East—way off track.

Eichmann swallowed his fear. The strangers could merely have been in the wrong neighborhood. He was not going to disrupt his life because of a single unusual event. Nonetheless, his suspicions were piqued; he would have to keep a closer guard.

His sons, however, had neglected to mention to him the strange circumstances around the cigarette lighter, including how the gift had been addressed to Nick Klement and how the delivery boy had been so eager to know where the family lived. Given that information, Eichmann might well have put the two events together and run.

14

ONCE AHARONI LEARNED
about the name on the land purchase record, he wasted no time. The next day, he drove out to San Fernando. It was Saturday, and he guessed that Eichmann might return from Tucumán that weekend for his wedding anniversary. Aharoni had switched cars yet again and was now driving a black DeSoto. Accompanying him was an embassy secretary. They looked like any couple out for a weekend drive.

Coming from Don Torcuato to the southwest, Aharoni headed through the embankment tunnel on Route 202. He looked to the right, to where the Klement house was located, on Garibaldi Street. (He had eventually learned the name of the street from the land records.) A man was in the yard, taking down the wash. Aharoni slowed down. The man was at least fifty years old. He had a thin build and was probably between five feet seven and five feet nine inches tall. He was balding and had a high, sloped forehead. Before Aharoni could reach for his briefcase camera, the man collected the last garment from the line and returned to the house. But Aharoni knew the face. No question. He had spent hours staring at photographs of it in the Eichmann file.

"Why are you looking so happy?" the secretary asked Aharoni.

He had not realized that a grin had spread across his face, and his whole body was electrified. "No, nothing's happened," he said with a shrug. "I just remembered that today is my mother's birthday. Let's go and celebrate."

It was the best he could come up with, but she seemed to believe him. Later, he sent Harel a long cable that included the single line of code:
THE DRIVER IS BLACK
(Klement is Eichmann).

In Tel Aviv, Harel was ready. Over the past few weeks, he had sat at home every night, classical music playing on the transistor radio in his study, running through the many challenges they would face if Aharoni confirmed they had their man.

First, the mission would occur almost nine thousand miles away in a country few of his agents knew and whose language even fewer of them spoke.

Second, the environment would be hostile. Only in the two years since the election of the pragmatic, liberal-minded President Arturo Frondizi had the government turned friendlier to Israel, but there were still many within the halls of power—whether civil or military—who were at best antagonistic to Israel and Jews. Harel knew this firsthand. In 1955, he had been to Buenos Aires when Peron was being ousted from power—there to counter the threat Jews faced from certain quarters. In January 1960, there had been an outbreak of attacks on Jewish synagogues, clubs, and homes, just as there had been in Europe. The city also had a large German community, including some former Nazis, who would add to the danger.

Third, at such a distance, Harel's agents would not have easy, quick communication with Tel Aviv. They would be traveling under false identities, completely alone and without official cover, unable to call on local support because of the mission's secrecy.

Fourth, if they were discovered, they faced imprisonment—or worse—for violating Argentine sovereignty. Israel would incur no end of international political problems, and the black mark against the Mossad would inhibit its activities elsewhere.

Fifth, their target was a former seasoned officer in one of the most deadly security forces in history. Eichmann had intimate knowledge of surveillance and operational tactics, and he knew how to defend himself. During the war, he had been very careful about his security and had never moved around unarmed. Fifteen years may have passed since peace had been brokered with Germany, but Eichmann had spent that time in hiding, and for him the need to stay vigilant remained.

These challenges were multiplied by the fact that the mission was essentially three operations rolled into one. They needed to capture Eichmann alive, without being seen or followed. Then they would have to keep him in a secure location, avoiding detection, for an indeterminate period of time, until the plans for the third part of the mission fell into place—smuggling Eichmann out of Argentina in complete secrecy. Nobody could know who had taken him until he was in an Israeli prison and Harel's people all were safe.

If they succeeded in the mission, the Mossad chief knew that the payoff would match the challenges and risks involved. On a purely professional level, the Mossad would earn its place among the top intelligence agencies in the world. More important, the Jewish people would see justice done to one of the Holocaust's leading organizers. The world would be forced to remember the assembly line of death that the Jews had faced—and it would be reminded that such horrors must never be allowed to be repeated.

Given what was at stake, Harel wanted to be on the ground in Buenos Aires to oversee the mission. High-level decisions might need to be made at an instant's notice, and his agents could hardly wait for cables to and from Israel. But Harel could not participate in the operation itself. He needed someone to select a team, manage the agents, plan the tactical operations, and execute them to the letter—someone he trusted implicitly.

Rafi Eitan, the Shin Bet chief of operations, had been nicknamed "Rafi the Stinker" during the Israeli War of Independence when he had crawled through a sewer system to blow up a British radar installation on Mount Carmel. Born on a kibbutz in Palestine's fertile Valley of Jezreel in 1926, Eitan had an instinct for adventurous missions. As a child, he saw a movie about Mata Hari, a Dutch spy during World War I, and told his mother that he wanted to be a spy. It was much more than an idle fantasy. At twelve, he joined the Haganah, using his youth to elude British suspicion. At eighteen, he was recruited by the Palmach, the Haganah strike force, and participated in the attack on the Atlit detention camp that freed more than two hundred Jewish immigrants held by the British. At twenty-one, he was given command of a reconnaissance platoon that operated behind enemy lines.

On the day the Israeli state was declared in 1948, Eitan was wounded in the leg. He dragged himself back to camp, and once his leg was in a cast, he returned to his battalion to fight. For the rest of the war, he stayed with his reconnaissance platoon, specializing in leading nighttime assaults. His commanders in army intelligence knew that he had nerves of steel, improvised quickly, and killed without hesitation.

Harel called Eitan into his office. One could not picture a more unlikely individual for the long résumé of military actions and secret operations. The thirty-four-year-old was only nominally taller than Harel, with the barrel chest and muscular arms of a farmer. He was extremely nearsighted and wore Coke-bottle glasses that made his eyes seem to bulge out from his face. Often he cocked his head slightly, because he was also deaf in his right ear, another war injury.

Harel recounted the recent developments in the search for Eichmann and Aharoni's work of the previous three weeks. "What are the odds that this man is really Eichmann?" Eitan asked.

Harel explained that they might not know for certain until they had the target in their grasp. Aharoni was still gathering evidence. Then he went on to describe in detail what they faced in attempting a capture on Argentine soil.

"It's a big operation," Eitan agreed with a thin smile. "We've never yet had one like it."

"I'm putting you as the commander," Harel informed him. "A. Take the most suitable men for the job, since you know what it will take to do it. B. Volunteers only. Ask each man if he is ready to volunteer. I don't know how this will end, and if they are caught, theoretically they could even end up with a life sentence."

"None of them will hesitate," Eitan said quietly and confidently.

On Sunday, March 20, Aharoni lay on a mattress in the back of an old Ford pickup, peering with his binoculars through a hole cut in the heavy tarpaulin that covered the back of the truck. The driver, yet another
sayan
arranged by Yossef, was inside the nearby kiosk eating a late breakfast. The truck was parked facing the kiosk, providing Aharoni with a perfect view of the Eichmann house, which was 160 yards away. Although he had already cabled Harel that his investigation should come to an end, since he was certain he had identified their target, Aharoni had one more task. He wanted a good photograph of Eichmann to allay any doubts that Harel might have.

While Aharoni waited for Eichmann to come out of his house, he took a series of shots of the surrounding area for the operations team that would plan the capture. He also sketched a map of the neighborhood.

At quarter to noon, Eichmann unexpectedly walked past the truck from the direction of the kiosk. He had obviously been out early that morning. He headed down Route 202, then turned left before Garibaldi Street, crossing an empty field to get to his house. This time, Aharoni got a long, clear look at Eichmann, who was dressed in brown slacks, an overcoat, and a green tie. He wore glasses, was mostly bald, had a prominent nose and broad forehead, and walked with a slow gait. Aharoni was sure that this was the right man. Unfortunately, Eichmann was too far away for Aharoni to get a good photograph of him.

For the next hour, Aharoni watched Eichmann. When he arrived at the house, he spoke to a boy playing in the garden, straightening the child's shirt and trousers. He swatted at a cloud of flies that surrounded the front door before going inside. Later, he came out wearing casual cotton pants, bought some bread from a baker's horse-drawn cart, and fetched some supplies from the shed. His son Dieter came home, and the whole family went into the house, probably to have lunch.

When the truck driver returned from his breakfast, Aharoni signaled him to leave. On his return to the embassy, he wrote a long report in invisible ink to be delivered to Harel by diplomatic pouch. Aharoni reviewed everything he had learned in detail, then suggested that the operation phase must begin, because any additional steps toward identifying Eichmann might cause him to flee.

Nonetheless, at 9:15 that night, Aharoni returned to San Fernando in a faded red jeep, accompanied by "Avi," an embassy official, and his wife. Aharoni had seen couples parked in the area at night and knew that the two would not attract any attention. Wearing overalls and carrying a pair of binoculars, Aharoni left the jeep and crept toward the house. His aim was to get a peek at the interior, in case the operations team needed to go into the house. It was a very dark night, perfect for the task, but Aharoni soon noticed that there were no lights on in the house. He made his way back to the jeep only a few minutes after he had left it. To his shock, the jeep was gone. Had he gotten lost? he wondered. He walked around the area for a few moments before spying the jeep, fifteen yards away, in the ditch along the side of the road. Aharoni could hardly believe his eyes.

He found Avi and his wife huddled on the ground by the jeep. They had tried to turn the vehicle around without turning on the headlights, in case they needed to make a fast return to Buenos Aires. Avi had not noticed that the street was raised, and he had backed straight into the ditch. Aharoni was livid at their foolishness, but his anger paled in comparison to his fear that the Eichmann family, whose house was less than 150 yards away, would discover them. Either they or their neighbors would notice in an instant that the three were foreigners—and likely Israelis—and Eichmann would know for sure that he was being watched.