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Goldberg let out a frustrated sigh and through gritted teeth said, “I know it’s a war, but there are other issues to consider.”
“Like what?”
“Like our allies.”
“You mean our allies who firebombed Dresden and Tokyo and then dropped atomic bombs on Hiroshima and Nagasaki?” Freidman stared back at the prime minister with righteous conviction. They’d had this discussion many times before and their views were identical. “War is ugly, and sometimes you save more lives in the long run by being more brutal than your enemy. We should expel every Palestinian from the occupied territories and not allow them back until every major Arab state signs a peace treaty with us … and damn the international community.”
The prime minister shook his head. “You know better than that. The political will to launch
such an operation isn’t there.”
“Why don’t we find out?”
Goldberg was angry at himself for getting so far off track. Freidman had once again shown that he was willing to go to great lengths to get what he wanted. Maybe, Goldberg thought, he would even be so devious as to put me in a position where I had no choice but to lash out. He looked hard at the director general of Mossad and wondered just how far he’d go to get what he wanted. The answer, he knew, was that he would go very far indeed.
“Look me in the eye and tell me what role you had in the death of the Palestinian ambassador.”
It was easy to offend some people, but not Ben Freidman. Goldberg might as well have asked him what he’d had for lunch. “I had absolutely nothing to do with Ali’s murder.”
Goldberg searched for some hint that his old friend was lying to him. After only a second or two he knew it was a worthless exercise. He’d seen the man on too many occasions lie with the same impunity as he told the truth. “Did Mossad have anything to do with the ambassador’s death?”
Freidman shook his head. “I might be crazy, David, but I am not stupid. Why would I be so dumb as to kill the Palestinian ambassador to the UN while he is in America?” He frowned dismissively. “I do not mourn Ali’s death. He was a two-bit thug dressed up as a diplomat. He’s in Ramallah almost every month. If I wanted him dead there would be easier ways to do it, with far fewer repercussions.”
These words had the opposite effect on Goldberg than he had intended. Through Freidman’s defense the prime minister glimpsed the very reason why he might have thought he could get away with killing the ambassador. Sound-minded people would eventually decide that the director general of Mossad would never risk offending the Americans when he could simply kill the ambassador when he was visiting the West Bank. Now Goldberg was truly worried. What if one of his closest advisors was working behind the scenes to provoke an all-out war?
Freidman could tell that Goldberg was not buying his denial. In a more ingratiating tone, he said, “I promise you, David, I had nothing to do with this. I have already spoken to Director Kennedy and she believes Ali’s assassination may have something to do with a business deal gone bad.” Freidman was stretching the truth a bit, but felt it was needed.
Goldberg gave him a skeptical look. “What kind of business deal?”
“Ali has been known to deal in arms from time to time.”
“Weapons?”
“Yes.” Freidman was happy to see this seemed to give the prime minister some hope.
“And you say the Americans knew about these activities?”
“Yes, as do the French, British, Germans, Russians and I’m sure quite a few other intelligence agencies.”
“I would like to see Ali’s file as soon as possible and give the Americans everything we have on him.”
“It’s already in process.”
Goldberg felt a little bit better, but he still had the Hebron disaster to contend with. “Assuming we are fortunate enough to be cleared of any wrongdoing in Ali’s death, it will still be too late to help us with the Hebron thing. With the current political mood the UN is sure to vote for inspectors by today or tomorrow.”
“Have the United States stall.”
“They won’t. Not right now.”
“Then just deny the inspectors access.”
Goldberg had already thought it through and discussed it with his closest political advisors. Dejectedly he replied, “I can’t. It would be political suicide. My cabinet would fall apart, and I’d get a noconfidence vote within twenty-four hours.”
Freidman knew he was right, but wasn’t willing to give in so easily. The two men sat in silence, both of them trying to find a way out of this complicated mess. Freidman had come up with only one option when his thoughts were interrupted by a muffled rumble coming from outside the building. Both he and the prime minister got to their feet and went to the window, just as another explosion was heard in the distance. Unfortunately, this was a noise that they had become all too familiar with.
Within minutes, reports were streaming into the prime minister’s office. Three suicide bombs had gone off within minutes of each other. Two in West Jerusalem and one in Tel Aviv. The damage and death toll was unknown, but expected to be high. Emergency response teams were at each site and searching frantically to make sure no other bombs were set to explode. It was a new and particularly evil trick of the martyr brigades to set secondary devices to detonate later and kill the paramedics who rushed to the scene to help the victims.
Freidman grabbed Goldberg by the elbow and led him into a corner out of earshot from his aides. “This is your opportunity.”
