The Glory (30 page)

The stocky Ramatkhal strode up and down the deck, dark curly hair stirring in the harbor breeze, talking to the raiders and
to sailors at sea details, then he descended to the CIC and the engine rooms. Noah did not warn the watch below that Dado
was coming. Surprise inspection, for good or ill, was salutary. Returning from below, Dado remarked, to Noah’s considerable
relief, “A smart boat. You’ll do well.”

As the Ramatkhal’s car drove off the wharf, it passed two women approaching the
Gaash
in slovenly jeans.
What the devil?
Noah thought, who arc these civilians, and what arc they doing here? He hurried to the gangplank, where sailors were gaping
at them as they came aboard. The blonde was a stranger, but he recognized the beefy woman with the bouffant brunette hairdo
at once. It was Amos Pasternak.

T
his raid had been a long time coming. Arab terrorism had been expanding into a fourth front against Israel, with the hijacking
and blowing up of airliners, taking and killing of hostages, letter bombings, car bombings, and machine-gun and grenade attacks
on airport terminals, synagogues, Israeli consulates and embassies, all planned, armed, and funded by PLO headquarters in
Beirut. The seizure of Israeli athletes as hostages at the Olympic Games in Munich had achieved a peak of world attention.
A bungled attempt at rescue by the German special services had resulted in the bound and helpless athletes being machine-gunned
to death. Great were the media cries of outrage. Talk of actually calling off the Olympics lasted a day or two. Then, after
suitable memorial ceremonies for the murdered Jewish competitors, the Games went on as before.

Within the Israeli government an exceedingly grim mood prevailed thereafter. At a meeting of the armed forces chiefs in the
Prime Minister’s residence, Sam Pasternak presented the picture of possible retaliation. “It comes to this, Madame Prime Minister.
If it’s to be a decisive blow, then the target is Beirut. Specifically, two buildings in the heart of Beirut — the PLO headquarters
building, and the apartment house where the big shots have their fancy suites. We have the intelligence and forces to do that
job. It’s a political decision.”

Drawn and sallow from her sleepless nights during the Munich hostage crisis, Golda asked, “Do it how?” She cut short discussion
of a “surgical air strike” in a very tired voice down to a cigarette croak. “
‘Surgical’
is a word, gentlemen. There would be civilian deaths, maybe many. The terrorists welcome headlines of death, the gorier the
better. We have to consider world opinion.”

From the long bitter colloquy the general decision emerged that something would have to be done, probably in Beirut, and that
planning for various options should go forward. Six months later nothing had yet been done. Then the same terrorist group
kidnapped two American diplomats in Sudan, and after some inconclusive negotiations with Washington, murdered them.

“Now we go,” said Moshe Dayan, and Golda approved.

S
am Pasternak asked his son that morning, when he came to say goodbye, “You’ll be wearing women’s clothes? Why? They’ll only
trip you up, if things get warm.”

His extended term in the Mossad ended, Sam now had a small office in Ramat Aviv, one secretary, and at the moment no income.
Offers from industry and political parties were coming his way, including an invitation to run for mayor of Tel Aviv. In this
courtship time he was going slow, being not coy but careful. Committing himself would be easy. Making a wrong move which he
would regret for years might be even easier. At his age the margin for recovery from wrong moves was shrinking.

“I’ve trained and rehearsed in a dress. No problem,” Amos said. “The target’s a luxury high-rise, where ladies come and go.
Some of those PLO big shots screw whores at all hours of the night. We strike at one in the morning. It makes sense.”

“All right, you land on the beach. How do you get from there into Beirut?”

“Mossad guys, passing as rich European businessmen, will be waiting. They’ve rented cars.”

“Let’s say the cars aren’t there.”

“Then I guess we abort. They’ll be there.”

“Traffic in Beirut is a mess. How can you keep to a timetable? Moreover — what are you smiling at?”

“Dado called us in yesterday, and asked those same questions and plenty more. He’s satisfied with the plan. So is Moshe Dayan,
and he’s been keeping track of our training for months. He kept postponing the raid until the American diplomats incident
came along. Great instinct.”

“But what about your tank battalion? How could you leave your command for this devilry?”

“They sent out the call for Sayeret Matkhal veterans months ago. I volunteered, and my brigade commander approved.”

“Well, I hope this is the last time. You’ve done enough special jobs. You’ve got your decorations, Amos. Your future is in
the tanks.”

“You just don’t want me to have a good time, Abba, the way you did.”

The telephone rang. Pasternak grunted and pressed an intercom buzzer. “I told you, no telephone calls.”

The secretary croaked in the box, “It’s Mrs. Nitzan. She says it’s important.”

Sam glanced at his son, whose face went blank. “I’ll call her back.”

“Abba, this is an excellent plan,” Amos said. “We’ve rehearsed it down to seconds.”

“I’ve rehearsed many such plans. Some successful. Some not so successful.”

“I know that. Dado said to us,
‘The deeper you go behind the lines, the greater the surprise, and the better your chances for success.’
I believe he’s right, and we’ll soon see.”

Pasternak’s stern look faded in a laugh. “Okay, I’ve already studied the plan.” Senior Israeli officers after retiring tended
to stay in touch as consultants. “In fact I contributed a detail or two. I’m still welcome as a kibitzer at the Mossad. I’ll
probably be in the Pit to hear how it goes.” He came out from behind the desk and they hugged each other. “One thing, Amos.
Has Colonel Shaked drilled you to bring out not only the wounded but the dead, if there’s trouble?
At all cost
?”

“That’s doctrine, Abba.”

“It’s more than doctrine. Your raid may be a big success, but if the Fatah gets one Jewish boy’s body, they’ll claim a victory.
They’ll blackmail us to trade for his body all the terrorists we’ve got in jail, and for millions of dollars, too. They’ll
hang the body upside down in a public square. They’ll stage dancing crowds for American television. They think that’s good
public relations.”

“You exaggerate, but we’ll bring out our casualties. I hope there won’t be any.” Another embrace, and the son left. Staring
out the window, Sam returned Amos’s wave from his car across the street.

Scratchy voice on the intercom: “General, Eva Sonshine called. Her mother’s back in the hospital. Dinner is off. She’ll phone
you at home later and may come by.”

“Anyone else?”

“Uzi Rubin. He wants you to return his call.” This was the chairman of a heavy-industry conglomerate.

“Get Mrs. Nitzan.”

D
ead of night.

Three hundred yards from the landing beach, Noah’s boat was barely moving on a black glassy sea. The city glow on low clouds
shed a sort of artificial moonlight over sea and shore. The cluster lamps of the promenade lined the cliff above the beach,
and neon signs glittered and jumped, blue, red, white, yellow. “Could almost be Tel Aviv,” said Colonel Shaked, the raid commander.
A lean bespectacled officer in uniform, Shaked was remaining aboard the boat to control the many-pronged operation by wireless
network linked to the Pit, the underground command center in Tel Aviv.

“Engines stop,” Noah ordered. “Prepare Zodiacs for launching. Raiding party prepare to disembark.”

“There go the headlights,” said Amos. The automobiles on the shore were blinking: two flashes, pause, two flashes, darkness.
After a full minute, the signal repeated.

“So, Amos, you move,” said Colonel Shaked.

Heavy splash of rubber boats. Lighter splashes of frogmen who would tow them in; silent approach, not even putt-putting of
outboard motors. Noah shook hands with Amos, and Colonel Shaked accompanied the unit leader to the deck. The raiders, in shabby
city clothes, went climbing down jingling chain ladders, Amos in a hiked-up red wool dress. Sea and wind conditions lucky,
thought Noah. Gentle swell, light offshore breeze. In a fresh wind the frogmen would have had problems pulling in those high-riding
Zodiacs, which now moved off smoothly and melted into the night. Colonel Shaked returned to the bridge and put on headphones.
Side by side he and Noah watched the promenade with binoculars until the cars pulled away. “Unit Amos en route to target,”
Noah heard Shaked report to the Pit. The commander laughed and turned to him. “Dado says, ‘Keep calm,’ ” he told Noah.

The phosphorescent bridge clock read a quarter to one. “What do you hear from the other units?” Noah ventured to ask Colonel
Shaked.

“Holding to plan. So far, so good,” said Shaked, and he dropped down the ladder to the control and communications center.
Overhead Noah heard the thudding of a rescue helicopter showing no lights.

U
nder the bright globe of a promenade light, a man at the wheel of a Mercedes gave Amos a waggish greeting as he was sliding
into the front seat. “
Giveret
[Madame], how’s your father?” A woman made room for Amos, a real one, apparently a real blonde, and by the streetlights,
quite attractive; especially compared to the phony blonde, a very tough-looking paratrooper under the wig, who was getting
into the other car, a Buick.

“He’s fine.”

“Great gentleman, your father.” The pudgy driver wore a dark Italian-cut suit and several gold rings. He had the beautifully
waved gray hair of a European man of affairs, maybe an importer or a banker; much too soft and sleek a fellow, one would have
thought, to be anything else. Amos glanced over to the other car, where all his paratroopers were now inside. The blond-wigged
one gave a thumbs-up.

“Yallah,” Amos said.

The Mercedes drove out into a boulevard jammed with traffic, much resembling Hayarkon Road on the Tel Aviv beachfront. Altogether
Beirut was an Arab Tel Aviv: squat old structures and towering new, office buildings, shabby shops, fancy shops, and brightly
lit cafes lined higgledy-piggledy along the avenues. In the dark narrow side streets the buildings were tumbledown, the pavements
full of potholes. Just like home! The driver led the other car in a zigzag route through the city, getting directions in French
at each turn from the blond woman. Amos broke his silence to say in French, “You know this city pretty well.”

“Born and raised in Beirut. In the good old days, Papa was in business here.” She smiled at Amos. “You look very pretty.”

“Sorry I’m getting you all wet.” The Zodiac had shipped much water, soaking Amos’s shoes and nylons and bedraggling his dress.

“Let that be my worst problem tonight.”

This was his first reprisal raid scented with costly French perfume, thought Amos, quite a change from helicopter drops near
terrorist bases, or stealthy night crossings of borders in the wilds. Northwest Beirut was a neighborhood of imposing walled
villas, and high-rise flats with large corner balconies, very much like the wealthy district of north Tel Aviv where they
had rehearsed every move of this raid. The car halted for a moment in the Rue de Verdun at a darkened two-story villa, with
tall palms poking over the high garden wall, before going on. “This is where we’ll be posted,” said the woman, “until you
come out.”

The Buick went by with the squad that would provide cover for Amos’s attack on the apartment house. Another assault unit had
turned off in different cars to hit the headquarters building. Amos’s eye was on his wristwatch, for the two strikes had to
be simultaneous. “B’seder, we go,” he said. Across the street from the apartment house, two Arabs, guns slung on their shoulders,
were talking and smoking cigarettes. They quite ignored the Mercedes as it drove up and stopped; obviously, as intelligence
had reported, such posh cars came and went here all the time.

“Bonne chance,”
murmured the woman as the car drove off.

Amos and his three companions strolled nonchalantly into the house under the eyes of the guards. Toughest moment. Pounding
heart. Okay, all the way in, beyond the streetlight. One remained in the dim lobby, Amos and the other two bounded upstairs,
each to his assigned floor.
Deep penetration, total surprise
. So it was working out. Behind this third-floor door, Amos’s target, was Abu Youssef, the planner of the Munich massacre,
and the real brains of the Arab terror network strewing death worldwide. Silencer on the gun. Shoot off the locks and hinges.
No misfire of the silencer, thank God, no gunshot, just crunches of metal. Through the doorway! A light snapped on far inside
the flat. Amos raced to that room. There naked under a blanket was the black-bearded Abu Youssef, unmistakable from his photographs,
beside a naked woman, both staring at him in sleepy shock. Rotten job, but this was it, and he killed them both with four
shots, mere muffled thumps; they scarcely moved as they moaned and bled and died. In a smell of gun smoke, he hurried through
the flat looking for documents and record books, swept whatever he found into a suitcase from which he dumped a woman’s clothes,
and went out to the landing.

There he waited and listened. Eerie quiet on this staircase! What was going on above? Amos leaped up three flights, saw an
open door, and sidled inside with gun at the ready. On a rich carpet in the large front room a clothed mustached man lay dead,
blood pooling in his long black hair. A broken venetian blind dangled in the window, and beside it was one of his men, Yoni,
pulling documents from a bookcase. “Amos, this stuff is gold,” he said in a conversational tone, riffling the papers. He gestured
at books, pamphlets, and documents he was piling on a chair. “Take a look.”

“Listen, take what you can grab and let’s go.”