the founder of modern Israel and its first prime minister.
Harel had ruled not only the Mossad, which was primarily responsible for activity outside Israel, but also the Shin Bet, the secret internal police whose mere existence was kept a state secret until the mid-1970s. When I joined the Mossad, Harel had already been out of power for almost two years. But he continued to cast a long shadow, influencing organizational procedures and philosophy long after his departure. As in any other intelligence-gathering organization, discipline in the Mossad had been tight to prevent leaks and infiltration attempts by hostile powers. The high moral standards imposed by Harel, which had become the norm, continued to be applied. That was fine with everyone, though to be sure there was a double standard involved. When you were on a mission outside Israel, you were expected to lie, cheat, steal, or even kill. But when you returned to Israel you had to be the exemplary model worker and citizen. Never run a red light, tell a lie, or, God forbid, forget to turn over a receipt for ten bucks you spent on the job. Outside Israel we made sizeable cashpayments to informers who hadn't exactly been in the habit of giving out receipts. But in Israel? Don't even think of it. Outside Israel we had had other ways to keep a receipt — sometimes on paper, sometimes on a roll of film. The backup unit used photography in the prevideo era. The recording of the “receipt” was useful not only for bookkeeping purposes. Once you had an informer on film receiving payment from you, he was yours forever.
I had been a deputy on several major operations. It was fascinating and dangerous, but at that level there had been no room for personal initiative or original thinking. I quickly discovered that my lone-wolf personality, cutting corners on my way to the target, was in direct conflict with the rigid structure of such a discipline-based organization.
Then there was a major problem. Two groups from Mossad had been sent to Rome in January 1971. I'd accompanied Alon, a blond and athletic-looking senior case officer, and a small backup unit had followed separately. The Mossad was collecting information on the hijackers of an El Al flight from Rome on July 22, 1968. The hijackers, who called themselves the Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine, had diverted the plane to Algeria. Thirty-two Israeli passengers had been held hostage for five weeks, the first-ever hijack of a civilian aircraft by Palestinians. It was standard procedure to investigate incidents like this, no matter how many years it took. Nothing was ever shelved, no unsolved case was ever closed, until the responsible individuals had been identified and brought to justice, in public or (more likely) clandestinely.
Our target was a Libyan diplomat keener on his payoff than on his loyalty to Khadafi, the Libyan dictator who'd been in power for just one year. We planned to meet the diplomat in a café. He thought he was going to be interviewed by Scandinavian journalists investigating the hijacking, and he'd promised to bring someone along who had firsthand knowledge of the operation.
I sat at a table with Alon who held, as agreed, a white umbrella — an old trick of the trade. The diplomat arrived with a dark-skinned young man who scanned the area with piercing eyes. Then he looked at me, our eyes met, and he recognized me. The young man was Hammed, aPalestinian who happened to work in my parents’ garden as a landscaper. How did he get here? It really wasn't important. What was important was that, through an extraordinary coincidence, my cover had been blown. The moment Hammed recognized me, he snapped something to the diplomat; they turned around and left the café in a hurry.
“It's a professional risk,” said Alon afterward. “There's no way to know if a person you once met as a friend might not return as an enemy.”
My disappointment was acute. Not only had the operation failed, but
Harel had ruled not only the Mossad, which was primarily responsible for activity outside Israel, but also the Shin Bet, the secret internal police whose mere existence was kept a state secret until the mid-1970s. When I joined the Mossad, Harel had already been out of power for almost two years. But he continued to cast a long shadow, influencing organizational procedures and philosophy long after his departure. As in any other intelligence-gathering organization, discipline in the Mossad had been tight to prevent leaks and infiltration attempts by hostile powers. The high moral standards imposed by Harel, which had become the norm, continued to be applied. That was fine with everyone, though to be sure there was a double standard involved. When you were on a mission outside Israel, you were expected to lie, cheat, steal, or even kill. But when you returned to Israel you had to be the exemplary model worker and citizen. Never run a red light, tell a lie, or, God forbid, forget to turn over a receipt for ten bucks you spent on the job. Outside Israel we made sizeable cashpayments to informers who hadn't exactly been in the habit of giving out receipts. But in Israel? Don't even think of it. Outside Israel we had had other ways to keep a receipt — sometimes on paper, sometimes on a roll of film. The backup unit used photography in the prevideo era. The recording of the “receipt” was useful not only for bookkeeping purposes. Once you had an informer on film receiving payment from you, he was yours forever.
I had been a deputy on several major operations. It was fascinating and dangerous, but at that level there had been no room for personal initiative or original thinking. I quickly discovered that my lone-wolf personality, cutting corners on my way to the target, was in direct conflict with the rigid structure of such a discipline-based organization.
Then there was a major problem. Two groups from Mossad had been sent to Rome in January 1971. I'd accompanied Alon, a blond and athletic-looking senior case officer, and a small backup unit had followed separately. The Mossad was collecting information on the hijackers of an El Al flight from Rome on July 22, 1968. The hijackers, who called themselves the Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine, had diverted the plane to Algeria. Thirty-two Israeli passengers had been held hostage for five weeks, the first-ever hijack of a civilian aircraft by Palestinians. It was standard procedure to investigate incidents like this, no matter how many years it took. Nothing was ever shelved, no unsolved case was ever closed, until the responsible individuals had been identified and brought to justice, in public or (more likely) clandestinely.
Our target was a Libyan diplomat keener on his payoff than on his loyalty to Khadafi, the Libyan dictator who'd been in power for just one year. We planned to meet the diplomat in a café. He thought he was going to be interviewed by Scandinavian journalists investigating the hijacking, and he'd promised to bring someone along who had firsthand knowledge of the operation.
I sat at a table with Alon who held, as agreed, a white umbrella — an old trick of the trade. The diplomat arrived with a dark-skinned young man who scanned the area with piercing eyes. Then he looked at me, our eyes met, and he recognized me. The young man was Hammed, aPalestinian who happened to work in my parents’ garden as a landscaper. How did he get here? It really wasn't important. What was important was that, through an extraordinary coincidence, my cover had been blown. The moment Hammed recognized me, he snapped something to the diplomat; they turned around and left the café in a hurry.
“It's a professional risk,” said Alon afterward. “There's no way to know if a person you once met as a friend might not return as an enemy.”
My disappointment was acute. Not only had the operation failed, but
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