After the 1948 war, it was natural that Hausner, with a background of intelligence work and flying skill, should become one of El Al’s first security men.
Compared to most Jews who came of age during that period, his life had been one of relative ease. He now lived in Herzlya in a small villa on the Mediterranean. He kept a series of mistresses and more casual acquaintances there but still faithfully visited his family in Haifa on the religious days.
In appearance, he reminded most people of a European aristocrat. He had a thin, aquiline nose, high cheekbones, and thick white hair.
Hausner looked at Yadin. “I hope they let me go on this flight.”
Yadin shook his head and smiled. “Who would they crucify if the planes blew up, Chief?”
"We don't use the words blow up in the same sentence as the word plane, Matti.” He smiled. He could afford to smile. Everything was going well. He had a perfect record and he saw no reason why Concordes 01 and 02 should spoil that record.
Matti Yadin got up and stretched. “Do we hear any rumblings from our intelligence services?”
Hausner kept staring out the window. “No. Our Palestinian friends are very quiet—whatever is left of them.”
“Too quiet?”
Hausner shrugged. He was a man who refused to make guesses based on no information. No news simply meant no news. He had faith in his country’s intelligence services. They had rarely failed him. If an insect hit any part of the web of Israeli Intelligence, the web quivered and the spider, at the center, felt it. Anything outside the web was too far removed to worry about.
Hausner drew the drapes and turned away from the window. He straightened his tie and jacket in a wall mirror, then walked across the office and opened the door into the adjoining conference room.
Yadin followed him and moved off toward the far wall, where he found a seat.
The conference room, which was crowded and noisy, became quiet. Everyone turned toward Hausner.
Around the large circular table sat some of the most powerful people in Israel. There was Chaim Mazar, head of Shin Beth, Israel’s Internal Security Service; Brigadier General Itzhak Talman, the Air Force Chief of Operations; General Benjamin Dobkin, representing the Army’s Chiefs of Staff; Miriam Bernstein, Deputy Minister of Transportation; and Isaac Burg, head of Mivtzan Elohim, “The Wrath of God,” the anti-terrorist group.
There were also five members of the Knesset present besides Bernstein. Along the walls, junior aides sat in chairs and a secretary was preparing to take notes at a small desk. Hausner came toward the table.
The group was an ad hoc committee put together to ensure the safety of the Concorde flight. One of their jobs was to question Hausner, and they meant to do it.
Hausner noticed that he was the only one present who was wearing a suit, as usual. He looked at Miriam Bernstein directly. Those eyes again. Nothing. Why, then, did he feel that she was always judging him? And then there was her sexuality. Hausner did not wish to admit to himself that she did not so much use it as that it was simply there. A fact. A sensual woman. He looked away from her. Strictly speaking, the Minister of Transportation was his boss. Perhaps, he thought, that produced the tension. He remained standing and cleared his throat. “I agreed to be at this meeting so that we wouldn’t have any more doubts about my ability to get an airplane off the ground.” He held up his hand to stifle a half-dozen incipient protests. “Okay. Forget it.”
The sparsely decorated room was illuminated by a large picture window with the same view as from Hausner’s office. He walked to the window. At the far end of the parking ramps, away from the other planes, the two long, sleek Concordes, each with a Star of David on its tail, stood gleaming in the bright sunlight. Around the aircraft stood Hausner’s security guards, armed with Uzi submachine guns and sniper rifles. The army had sent over a ten-man squad of infantry, too, which did nothing to improve Hausner’s mood.
Everyone was conscious of the quiet. Hausner pointed dramatically. “There they are. Pride of the fleet. They cost a mere eighty million dollars each, with the spare tire and radio. We charge all passengers first-class fare, plus a twenty-percent surcharge, and yet we haven’t made a shekel from them, as you know.” He looked at Bernstein, who was one of his severest critics in the Knesset. “And you know one of the reasons El Al hasn’t made a profit? Because I demand the tightest security that is humanly possible. And good security has a high price.” Hausner moved a few feet down the length of the bright window. Squinting eyes followed him. “Some of you,” he began slowly, “were worried about profit a few short months ago, and you were willing to let security become lax because of it. Now, the same people,” he looked at Miriam Bernstein, “are concerned that I have not done enough.” Hausner walked back toward an empty seat and sat down. “O.K. Let’s get this over with.” He looked around the table. He spoke in a fast staccato voice. “We’ve had those birds on the line for thirteen months. Since the time that we got them, they have never left the sight of my security people. We’ve had the bulkheads and baggage holds armored while they were being built at the factories in St. Nazaire and Toulouse. All maintenance is done only by El Al mechanics here at Lod. Today, I personally checked the fuel going into the craft. It was pure Jet A kerosene, I assure you. When we first got the Concordes, I demanded and got an auxiliary power unit installed in the front wheel well. The rest of the world’s Concordes have to be started by an external ground power unit. By installing the APU, I can dispense with two trucks going up to my birds at foreign airports—the preconditioned air truck and the ground power unit truck. We can start our own engines anywhere, any time, after which the birds are self-supportive. We took the extra weight penalty of the nine-hundred kilogram APU, as we’ve always taken the extra weight penalty in the name of security. You can’t make money that way, of course, but I won’t have it any other way. And neither will you.”
Hausner looked around, waiting for a comment, but there was none. He continued. “We also go through the extra expense and bother of performing most services only here at Lod. For instance, no water bowser gets near my birds except here at Lod. If you fly El Al, you’re pissing Jordan water in Tokyo. The toilet service is only done here, also. Furthermore, after every flight, the cleaning service, supervised by my personnel, goes over each plane very thoroughly, in case anyone decided to leave a package for us. We probe the seats, examine the toilets, and even open the barf bags. Another point—the galley service is done at Lod and nowhere else. As for the food on these Concordes, I checked it myself as it was being stowed in the galleys. You have my assurance that everything is kosher. In fact, the company rabbi ate the meal and all he got was indigestion.” Hausner leaned back and lit a cigarette. He spoke more slowly. “Actually, in one very important respect, this flight is more secure than any other. On this flight we don’t have to worry about the passengers.”
Hausner nodded toward Matti Yadin. “My assistant has volunteered to head the security team on Concorde 01. I have volunteered to do the same on 02. However, the Prime Minister has not yet informed me if I am to go with the mission.” He looked slowly around the table. “Are there any other questions regarding El Al security? No? Good.”
There was a long silence. Hausner decided that since it was his conference room, he was supposed to be chairman. He turned to Chaim Mazar of Shin Beth. “Would you like to make a report?”
Mazar got up slowly. He was a tall, thin man with the eyes of someone who had been in Internal Intelligence for a long time. His manner was abrupt—some thought rude. He began without preamble. “The big worry, of course, is some maniac with a small, shoulder-fired, heat-seeking missile standing on a roof somewhere between here and the coast. I can assure you that there is no one standing on any roof between here and the coast. Nor will there be anyone standing around anywhere in the flight path at takeoff. I have asked the Defense Minister to call short air-raid drills in the flight path. There will be helicopters over the whole area. There has been no si
gn of guerilla activity of any sort inside of Israel. I am confident there will be no problems. Thank you.” He sat down.
Hausner smiled. Short and to the point. Good man. He turned to Isaac Burg, the head of Mivtzan Elohim.
Burg remained seated but leaned slightly forward. He was a short, gentlemanly looking, white-haired man with a twinkle in his blue eyes. He affected fussy habits and mannerisms that were very disarming. In reality, he had no such habits. He was much younger than he looked, and he was capable of killing in cold blood while he searched his pockets for a nasal spray. No one would have believed that he was the man who had nearly completed the job of wiping out the multitude of Palestinian guerilla organizations around the world. His men had been brutal in hunting down the last of the disorganized groups, but the result had been an almost complete end to terrorist attacks at home and abroad. Burg smiled. “We ran into a Palestinian guerilla just the other day in Paris. He was an important member of Black September. One of the last. We questioned him with much vigor. He assures us that there are no plans that he is aware of to disrupt the peace mission. The guerillas are so dispersed and untrusting these days that we can’t be sure they speak even to each other. But one of my men, who is a ranking member of one of the Palestinian intelligence services, informs me that there is nothing planned.”
Burg fumbled for his pipe and finally located it. He stared at the pipe for a long second, then looked up. “Anyway, as far as we know, the Arab governments now want this Conference to succeed as much as we do. They’ve let us know through various sources that they are keeping a close watch on known and suspected guerillas in their nations. In case they are a little lax, we are doing the same thing.” He stuffed an aromatic blend into his pipe bowl. “John McClure of the CIA, who is attached to us, informs me that his agency has not picked up any rumblings from Arab groups around the world. Mr. McClure, incidentally, is beginning his home leave tomorrow and will be flying with the peace mission as a courtesy.” Isaac Burg smiled pleasantly as he lit his pipe. The sweet smoke billowed over the table. He looked at General Dobkin. “How about the Arab hinterlands?”
Benjamin Dobkin rose and looked around the room. He was a solidly built man with a thick neck and close-clinging, curly black hair. Like most Israeli generals, he wore plain combat fatigues with the sleeves rolled up. His massive arms and hands were what most people noticed first. He was an amateur archeologist, and the strenuous digs into the ancient tells had added a lot of bulk to his already massive frame. When he had commanded an infantry brigade, every man in the brigade became a willing or unwilling archeologist. Not a drainage trench, a latrine, a foxhole, or anti-tank ditch was dug without the soil being sifted at the first possible opportunity. Benjamin Dobkin was also a religious man, and he took no pains to hide his deep faith. Officer Evaluation Reports on Dobkin always included words like “solid,” “steady,” and “self-possessed.”
He clasped his massive hands behind him and began. “The problem is—has always been—that guerillas can get away with the most outrageous antics in the hinterlands of underdeveloped countries. Israeli Army Operations cleaned out many of these Fatahlands. The Arab governments themselves partially finished the job.” He looked around. “But unlike some of my friends here, the Army cannot and will not exclude the possibility of some sort of aggression by Palestinians or other Arabs originating out of these rural Arab areas where there are still pockets of guerillas. The Army has only limited access, but we do send many Army Intelligence people there, where, with luck, they pass as Arabs. We spy out the land.” He hesitated. “As we’ve always done. As we did three thousand years ago. ‘And Moses sent them up to spy out the land of Canaan, and said unto them, “Get you up this way southward, and go up into the mountain: and see the land, what it is, and the people that dwelleth therein, whether they he strong or weak, few or many.” ’ ”
Ya’akov Sapir, a left-wing Knesset member who was anything but religious, interjected. “And these army spies of Moses, if I remember correctly, reported that this land was a land flowing with milk and honey. I don’t think anyone has trusted an army reconnaissance report since then.”
There were a few tentative laughs around the table and from the chairs along the wall.
General Dobkin regarded Ya’akov Sapir for a long moment. “And as a member of the Knesset Postal Committee, I think you might be interested to know that the Corinthians’ replies to Paul’s letters are still sitting in the Jerusalem Post Office.”
This brought more laughter.
Hausner looked annoyed. “Can we dispense with these learned Biblical barbs, please? General? Would you continue, please?”
Dobkin nodded. “Yes. All in all, it looks good. My counterparts in the Arab countries have sent word that they are moving to neutralize the remaining guerilla pockets where they can be located.”
Chaim Mazar leaned forward. “What kind of operation could they mount against this peace mission if they weren’t neutralized, General?”
“Sea and air. We are still concerned about sea and air. The Navy Department has assured me, however, that the flight path of the Concordes over the Mediterranean is being thoroughly patrolled not only by their craft and the American Sixth Fleet but also by the navies of Greece, Turkey, and Italy, who are staging a NATO exercise along the flight path. In addition, a sea-to-air missile, of the type that would be needed to bring down an aircraft flying at the height and speed of the Concordes is much too sophisticated to be either owned or operated by terrorists. And even if they did own one and managed to launch it at sea, the Air Force escort would have ample time to identify it, track it, and shoot it down. Isn’t that correct, General?” He looked at Itzhak Talman, Air Force Chief of Operations. Everyone turned toward Talman.
Itzhak Talman rose. He walked toward the picture window and looked into the distance. He was a tall, handsome man with a clipped British military mustache and the look of a dashing ex-RAF pilot. He spoke a mixture of bad Hebrew and worse Yiddish with an upper-class British accent. Like the British officers whom he emulated, he had a cool, detached, and imperturbable manner. But like a lot of those old officers of the Empire, Talman was play-acting. Actually, he had a highly nervous, emotional nature, but he kept it very well hidden.
Talman turned back and faced the table. He spoke in a dispassionate voice. “My very best fighter officer, Teddy Laskov, is personally leading a squadron of hand-picked pilots, who are in turn flying the best fighter craft in the world. They are, at this moment, supervising the arming and maintenance of those twelve craft at the far end of this airfield. Teddy Laskov assures me that he can spot, track, intercept, and shoot down anything in the sky, including Foxbats, SAM’s, and Satan himself, if he gets on the radar.” He looked around the room over the heads of the men and women assembled there. “Air Force Intelligence informs me that not only have the guerillas never had the capability to make an aerial attack, but they have none now. But if anyone were to mount an attack against those Concordes, they would have to put up, into the air, what would amount to the most powerful air fleet in the Mediterranean.” Talman stroked his mustache. “Teddy Laskov is the best we’ve got. As soon as those birds break over the coast, they are my responsibility, and I accept that responsibility with no hesitation.” He walked back to his seat.
Teddy Laskov, who had been in the corridor listening, opened the door quietly. Several heads turned toward the object of Talman’s praise. Laskov smiled self-consciously and waved his hand to indicate that no one was to pay him any attention. He stood against the wall.
Miriam Bernstein had been trying to catch Hausner’s eye. Hausner studiously ignored her. He looked around the table and toward the seats along the wall, but no one appeared to have anything further to add. “All right, then—”
Miriam Bernstein rose. “Mr. Hausner.”
“Yes?”
“I’d like to add something here.”
“Oh.”
“Thank you.” She offered Hausner a smile which he s
eemed not to notice. She looked down and shuffled through some papers in front of her, then looked up. “I’ve been listening very carefully to what has been said here, and while I’m impressed with the precautions that have been taken, I am frankly worried about the spirit they were taken in and especially the language used to describe these precautions. Gentlemen, we are going to this veida, this Conference, to make a Brit Shalom, a Covenant of Peace.”
Miriam Bernstein paused and looked around the table, meeting the eyes of each man in turn. “Talking of shooting things from the sky, of questioning suspected Arabs in friendly countries with much vigor, of sending Army spies into Arab lands—these are justifiable under some circumstances, but at this moment in our history, I would take the risk of keeping a very low, nonaggressive profile. We don’t want to go into the United Nations like a bunch of cowboys with our six-shooters blazing. We want to go there looking as if we came to talk peace.”
She drew her lips together as she thought of the words she would use to speak reason without appearing to speak surrender. She had been associated with the peace wing of her party for many years and felt obligated to give this warning as they stood on the threshold of seeing peace become a reality. She had not lived in a place that was at peace for one day in her entire life. She extended her hands, palms up, in a conciliatory gesture. “I’m not trying to create a problem where none exists. I’m just saying that all military and intelligence operations should come to an almost complete halt during the weeks ahead. This is an act of faith on our part. Somebody has to holster his gun first. Even if you should see Satan himself on your radar screen, General Talman, don’t shoot him out of the sky with one of your missiles. Just explain to him that you are going on a peace mission and that you will not be goaded into an aggressive act. He will see that you mean to have your peace, and that—and Providence—will send him away.” She looked around the room and her eyes fixed on Teddy Laskov for a split second.