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  “Why are you getting so mad for no reason? Emi, calm down. I swear I love Tzipi very much. She is really the love of my life. And, in addition to all the qualities you listed, I would like to add her most important quality: She’s a great lover and an unmatchable lay. There is no one like her in bed. But, what’s to be done? I need some novelty and thrills now and then. Let’s say that your wife is the best cook in the world. Don’t you eat out at a restaurant from time to time? What’s the harm? Is it forbidden to taste different dishes?”

  It is 06:45 and our conversation is interrupted. The UTA flight has just touched down, and I have to call the embassy.

  “Hello Yossi, this is Yiftach, and I want to know—”

  “Yiftach, leave everything and get back here immediately! Quickly! It’s really urgent!”

  “One second, Yossi, we’re waiting for the Regev family, you know. What’s happening with the IAI and the telegrams and the—”

  “Yiftach, do you understand? Leave everything and get over here. We’ve sent Udi to Le Bourget, and he’s on his way. He’ll probably arrive in fifteen minutes to help Emi. Shut up and move your ass, right now. Do you hear? Right now! When you get here, come straight up to the fifth floor.”

  Yossi hangs up. The fifth floor? That’s the Mossad floor! Something’s happened that requires immediate attention. I explain briefly to Emi and rush back to the embassy. At this hour, the traffic is still sparse, and I reach the embassy very quickly. A few minutes before seven thirty, I am already in a meeting with the head of the Mossad in Europe. Anyone unfamiliar with this man sees only an ordinary man of medium height—he looks like everybody’s uncle, or any other man of around forty-five. He has a marked Anglo-Saxon accent, but there is nothing about his appearance to make him stand out in a crowd. He doesn’t look like a Mossad super-agent—more like a spy in a British movie. The El Al representative in Paris, who is also taking part in this meeting, looks like a very respectable man. He is neatly dressed in the latest fashion and has a slight paunch. Every few seconds, he glances at his diamond-studded Rolex watch, which is worth thousands of dollars and which he bought duty-free at a bargain price. It makes him stand out in a crowd. The CDSE is also present at the meeting.

  When I sit facing them, a thought flashes through my mind. I had planned to call Chantal at her home in the morning from the airport to reassure her and arrange a rendezvous for this evening. However, because of the rush to get to the embassy, it slipped my mind completely. Now I will have to call her at work later in the day.

  “Listen, Yiftach, you know that the Americans are sending an airlift of heavy military equipment to Israel. Their planes land for refueling at an American base in the Azores. We’re helping by flying in jumbo El Al planes that have been converted into cargo aircraft. The El Al planes fly non-stop from the East Coast of the United States to Israel. There, they land at the Tel Aviv airport or at some military base belonging to the IAF. To be brief, a situation came up today—an El Al aircraft that is already in the air can’t reach Israel and must refuel somewhere en route. The Americans have not yet given us an answer whether it is possible to land this plane in the Azores Islands, and we are preparing Plan B. Do you have any ideas?”

  I replied without any hesitation or forethought. “Sure! There’s no problem, as I see it. It can land at Orly. I will arrange it very easily. No doubt about it.”

  “You understand that this aircraft isn’t carrying a children’s chocolate bonanza cargo? It carries ‘toys’ of a very different kind.”

  “I believe I do. Again, I repeat what I have said here countless times: from my brief acquaintance with Gerard Du Pont, the managing director of the Orly airport, I am confident that there will be no difficulty, and I don’t think anyone is going to examine us too closely.”

  “Okay,” the European Head of the Mossad Delegation agrees. “We can’t expect the Flight Captain to land on some cloud and wait patiently for us to decide what he should do. So, go to Orly immediately. The plane is expected to land in another four hours. It has slowed down to save fuel. Don’t tell your Gerard anything more than is absolutely necessary. Go right away!”

  “Wait a second,” the Paris El Al representative calls out as I get up and prepare to leave quickly before the traffic gets heavy as another workday begins. “Our station manager at Orly is there. Speak only to him. No one in the operations department needs to know anything about this.”

  I am on my way, proceeding slowly along the Boulevard Périphérique, which is filling up with Frenchmen traveling to another regular workday. What am I going to say to Monsieur Du Pont? The Boulevard Périphérique traffic is a little heavy, and thoughts are rushing through my mind. What have I done? If everything works out, no one will say a word. That’s the way it is with us—if you pull off something that has to be done, that’s part of your job. But what if the French customs decides to examine the cargo on the plane? Two weeks ago, they arrested an Algerian diplomat at Orly for being in possession of a firearm, a cartridge, and a handful of bullets for the gun. It appeared to be a personal weapon. Just a fucking revolver! The press had a field day. And we are talking about dozens of tons of military gear on the way to a country under embargo by all the Western European countries. Why did I need this shit forced on my head? What will happen if they carry out a check? What do I tell Monsieur Du Pont that this plane is carrying? It’s not a regular passenger plane. They have erased the flags and El Al decals. There are no passengers on board, only cargo. Because there is an embargo, according to the letter of the law, the shipment must be declared. What do I do now? How did I get myself into this mess with my eyes wide open, idiot that I am?

  I must also remember to call Chantal in the middle of all this confusion. How will I remember to do that? Why do I always remember to call her only when there are no telephones in sight? Is there a part of my soul—one that wants to end the relationship with Chantal—that makes me forget her when there are telephones around?

  “Monsieur Du Pont is in a meeting. He will finish in an hour. Come back later,” says the uniformed customs officer sitting in Monsieur Du Pont’s reception room reading Le Figaro, the French daily newspaper. The authority that runs the airport is subordinate to customs, so all the police at the airport are actually customs officials. When an important classified meeting is in progress, a policeman-customs officer guards the entrance and keeps unauthorized people from entering the restricted area. The guard doesn’t even look up from the newspaper.

  I ignore the man’s arrogant behavior and say, “Please tell Monsieur Du Pont that Monsieur Cohen from the Israeli embassy asks to see him urgently for a minute.” The customs officer, with unconcealed reluctance, carefully folds the newspaper he is reading (which probably belongs to someone else) and enters the conference room adjacent to Monsieur Du Pont’s office, closing the door behind him. Two minutes that seem like an eternity go by before Monsieur Du Pont, with the customs officer in his wake, comes out of the meeting. Monsieur Du Pont appears to notice my agitation, because he nods to me to follow him into his adjacent office. As soon as we enter the room, he closes the door, but instead of going to his desk or to the corner with the armchairs, he remains facing me.

  He asks, “What can I do for you today, Monsieur Cohen?”

  I don’t know why, but I feel completely safe with him. And there is no time to spare! The aircraft must land for refueling. I have not prepared what to say or what not to say—my thoughts are only dealing with fears of trouble with the airport authority. Without thinking twice, I tell him the truth. “It’s like this, Monsieur, we are transferring military equipment from the United States to Israel in El Al planes.” I don’t tell him that the company’s decals have been erased. In fact, that is of no importance to him, since the aircraft’s registration number remains the same. “There is military equipment on board that the United States government is sending to us in Israel to defend ourselves from the cruel onslaught that you know about. I’ve already explained the develo
pments. The Soviets are equipping our enemies with the very best they have to offer, free of charge, and the only help we are getting is from America—here in Europe, all the governments have placed an embargo on us. I am certain you read the papers and watch television. There is nothing here that is not known to everybody. It’s just a sensitive issue of an aircraft that must stop for refueling because it cannot reach Israel on the amount of fuel it has left. The reason for this is of no importance. I am appealing to you because I believe you can help us. I told our ambassador about you and explained how much you have done for us, and he thanks you in advance for your help to our people in this difficult time.” Where do all these lies come from? And what’s more, in rather good French! I have no idea. It flows out of my mouth so naturally that I think for a second that I am better suited to being an actor than a lying diplomat.

  Without saying a word in response to my lengthy Zionistic rant, Monsieur Du Pont goes to his desk, fidgets around in one of its drawers, and pulls out some forms. As he hands them to me, he asks, “When is the aircraft due to arrive?”

  “In three hours’ time,” I reply.

  “Fine, please instruct El Al to complete these forms and bring them back to me, filled in and signed. Tell El Al to write for the cause of this unscheduled landing ‘Cargo plane in fuel distress,’ and everything will be okay. It’s a problem that happens here quite often. No one will ask you to declare what is on board the plane. Come back here in forty-five minutes. I will end this meeting and invite you for coffee while I prepare the permit for the aircraft to land and refuel, and we will coordinate it with the control tower.”

  I rush down three flights of stairs and hurry to the El Al office. After explaining to the station manager what he has to do, I close myself up in the security officer’s room and call the embassy to report what is happening. Immediately after that, I contact my department to find out what is going on today. It is already after nine o’clock: Gadi, who mans the phone in my office at the embassy, reports that Emi has already returned from the Le Bourget airport with the Regev family. David Regev is meeting various people at the embassy to update them and be updated, and his wife and children are resting on the consular floor after flying throughout the night. The women in the consulate are taking good care of them. In another half an hour, Emi will drive the Regevs to a hotel near Orly, where they will stay until their flight home this evening. Udi will bring the vehicle back to the embassy, and Emi will join him on the way back. Gady, who received the classified mail that Regev brought from Dakar, will send it on this evening’s flight with our DIP.

  “By the way, I almost forgot,” Gadi adds, “Afflalo phoned our contact man at Dassault. He is waiting for your call at ten because he has problems with the urgent shopping list.” Gadi dictates the telephone number and verifies that I note it down correctly.

  I have a few minutes to organize my thoughts. Afflalo, a representative of the IAI, drives out to Dassault daily to buy parts for the Mirages, which are relatively old fighter planes with a short flight range. They cannot stay in the air long enough to sustain in-depth bombing in enemy territory, so their role boils down to protecting Israel’s skies. The tough work is left to the American-made Phantoms and Skyhawks. The Mirages fly around the clock and have a fast turnover of spare parts all the time. Every morning, three purchase lists arrive from the IAF. One list is for parts needed on the same day—we call that the “frantic list.” The second list is for parts required within forty-eight hours—the “urgent list.” The third list is for parts required “as soon as possible,” without mention of a precise time; we call this the “third list.” Usually, the items on the “frantic list” are shipped to Israel on the same day, packed as DIP or sent as cargo (marked as auto parts) on El Al. We found a commercial company that deals in auto parts and belongs to a Jew, a friend of the chairman of the French Zionist Council. The company suddenly began sending motor vehicle parts to Israel. The bills of lading and invoices go out on a legitimate company’s name, with its ID number, as required by law—in this case, the vehicle just happens to be a fighter jet. But that’s just a minor detail. All the rest is accurate.

  The next problem is to find space on the plane. We can usually dispatch the items on the frantic list on the same day. Those on the urgent list will be delivered to Israel in forty-eight to seventy-two hours, on passenger planes or on cargo planes that come here, as required. Afflalo is the man who deals with Dassault, and then he has to fight with me, with the IDF representative, and with the El Al representative about transporting the purchases to Israel.

  Robert, better known as Bob, the El Al station manager, brings me the signed forms for Monsieur Du Pont. “You can handle the rest of it with the dispatch department. I have to return to the office in town, but I will be back here to deal with any problems that may arise before the plane lands at noon. It is expected to arrive at 11:55 a.m., and it will touch down when the control tower allows it to.” I have fifteen minutes to burn until Monsieur Du Pont comes out of his meeting, and I use the time to try and reach Afflalo before ten. Afflalo is waiting near the telephone and is pleased to hear from me earlier than expected.

  “Yiftach, we have a problem. One of the spare parts on today’s frantic list is out of stock. It will be available shortly.”

  “What d’you mean, out of stock? That can’t be. You said they always keep a minimal reserve of parts!” I am actually shouting now, as if that will help.

  “That’s right, but they gave that minimal reserve to the French Air Force yesterday. Per their routine, they immediately put in a production order to bring the minimum reserves back to normal, but according to them, it will take a week to ten days.”

  “Did you check the real extent of the urgency for those parts with the IAF?”

  “Yes, I did,” Afflalo replies, “and it really is frantic. Without this part, the plane is completely out of commission, and they require several of them on the shelf at all times. When the part wears out, the plane becomes unusable—you understand what that means. The shipment to the French Air Force included three of them. We wanted to order two of them immediately and another two on the third list, but we would take all three if they would let us have them.”

  “Let me speak to the person in charge at Dassault,” I say, taking charge of the situation. We have to shake up those Frenchmen, who aren’t overly prepared to move their asses. Marcel Dassault is a huge concern with strict procedures, and it is impossible to change even a comma. Trying to ask them to rush an order is like asking Paris to move to a different location—in other words, impossible. I have to find a creative solution to avoid interfering with their procedures and routines.

  “Here, I’m transferring you to the person in charge. His name is Monsieur Castagne.”

  “Bonjour, Monsieur Castagne speaking.”

  “Bonjour, Monsieur Castagne, my name is Monsieur Cohen. All of us here at the Israeli embassy and the Ministry of Foreign Affairs in Jerusalem greatly appreciate what you are doing for Israel in this difficult hour, and we thank you for your help and responsiveness to our urgent requests.” I have so little time! I have to run to Monsieur Du Pont, so I keep my Zionistic lecture short and get to the point. “We are desperate for that part you sent to your air force yesterday. Actually, we have been asked to supply it today. Can you call and ask the person who received it to return it? Can you find an excuse? For example, can you say that you mistakenly sent the wrong part? What do you think?”

  “Monsieur Cohen, do you really doubt the intelligence of the man in the French Air Force?” Castagne asks—or rather, declares.

  “Please, Monsieur Castagne, I don’t doubt anything. I just hope in my heart that he is on our side. And if he is on our side, I hope he will understand and agree to return the parts and wait for a few days for you to manufacture them for him. And if not, at least we will know that we tried everything possible. I know that you have organized procedures, and I don’t want to ask you to speed up the production
, especially as I don’t know the significance of these parts or how long it takes to manufacture them.”

  “I’m not sure I can do that, Monsieur Cohen. You’re putting me in an awkward position. I’m sorry, Monsieur, with all the sympathy that I have for Israel, I cannot make a call like that. Let me find out from the department in question how long it will take to manufacture this item.”

  That Castagne is behaving as if I’m asking him to steal something! “Monsieur Castagne, would you like me to bother our ambassador to call you personally and request this of you? Will that show you how much we need your help?” I am lying unashamedly. Our ambassador certainly has other, more important tasks, and I would never consider involving him in any illegal activity to acquire equipment. But dans la Guerre, comme à la Guerre—the end justifies the means. How does the motto of the Mossad go? “For by wise counsel (smart thinking) thou shalt make thy war.” Everything is permissible, even telling lies, as long as they are white lies for the motherland.

  Monsieur Castagne softens a little when he hears that I am willing and able to involve the ambassador. He asks me not to bother the ambassador with such a trivial matter. He promises to think about it, and I ask Afflalo not to leave him in peace. Afflalo has a few more things to attend to at Marcel Dassault for at least another hour, so he promises to keep watch on Monsieur Castagne and report any developments to Gadi at the embassy.

  I hurry back to Monsieur Du Pont with the El Al documents. On my way, I wonder when Emi will finally arrive to help me with all this running around and rushing down airport corridors, brainstorming about what awaits us each second. The challenges rain down from the heavens, and I am having a hard time concentrating on all of them without help; they demand that I think rationally and find creative solutions that work instantaneously. Shit! I suddenly remember. I was right by a telephone in the security officer’s office, but I forgot to call Chantal.