Free Intercept by Patrick Robinson Page A
Authors: Patrick Robinson
blown him thirty feet through the air. The young Lieutenant Gavron had somehow climbed back into his tank and obeyed the immortal command of the towering Israeli hero, General Bren Adan: “FOLLOW ME!” Right fists raised, they flung the Egyptian army back from whence it came.
David Gavron never got over that brief but murderous war. He and Adan had toured the Bar Lev line where they were still removing thousands of bodies of young Israelis who had fought and died. General Adan had famously broken down and wept at this hot and sandy scene from hell, and Gavron had wept with him.
Even today, Ambassador Gavron visibly stiffened at the merest suggestion that Israel should somehow drop its guard. “We tried that in 1973, on our most holy day of the year,” was his standard reply to suggestions of compromise with the Palestinians, or the Syrians, or the Jordanians, or Hezbollah, or Iran and so forth. “It didn’t work terribly well then, and I’m not willing to give it another try.”
Bob Birmingham, head of the CIA, was talking to the head of the Mossad, and the most uncompromising member of the Israeli government. They were blood brothers, each of whose concern was the safety of their respective countries. The potential freeing of terrorist madmen like Yousaf and Ibrahim was nothing short of pure anathema to them both.
“David, did you get the feeling Epstein’s are moving fast on this?”
“Extremely. They’re dispatching Myerson and Renton first thing tomorrow. Dulles to Nassau, then Cuba. You want the flight number?”
“It would probably be judged politically incorrect if we took them out, so I don’t think we need that,” Bob jokingly remarked and then, more seriously. “David, I can’t help noticing there is a rather complacent tone to your voice at your obvious success on 12th Street.”
“Complacent, Bobby? Me? Never.”
“Just don’t forget who fixed the bug in that fat bastard’s desk lamp.”
Both men laughed, but Bob quickly changed his tone. “Seriously, David. What precisely is the Mossad’s position if the U.S. Appeals Court liberates these guys?”
“We don’t have a formal position,” said Ambassador Gavron. “But you may assume we will not like it. Not one bit. It’s like liberating a rabid pit-bull terrier onto a college campus.”
“I don’t think our guys have given a moment’s thought as to where this goddamned Yousaf and his pal are going when they leave the courthouse,” replied Birmingham.
“Well, they better start thinking, Bobby. Unless you’re planning to unclip their manacles right there on Constitution Avenue and tell ’em to catch a bus back to Afghanistan.”
The CIA chief was thoughtful. “The real problem is,” he mused, “Most countries don’t want them and won’t let them in, and the airlines won’t fly them without massive security, plus guarantees they will be allowed to disembark at the other end.”
“Well, if you let them go free, the Mossad will track them. Because we have to. There are people in Guantanamo who have committed shocking crimes against Israel. Guys on that killer list of fourteen.”
“David, right now it’s more than my life’s worth to start impeding our peace-loving president’s wish to unload Guantanamo and everyone in it. But come the day, the day of freedom, when some judge lets these bastards loose, there’ll be a backlash in public opinion. And from that moment on, we’ll also follow them, to the ends of the earth if necessary, anything to keep them out of the USA.”
“And for the rest of us?”
“I think the good ole USA will be in your corner, the way we always have been.”
JOSH EPSTEIN SMOOTHED the path to Cuba, just as he said he would. Myerson and Renton would fly privately from Havana down to Guantanamo, where the US Navy, with staggering reluctance, would meet them and drive them into the world’s most hated prison camp.
On the way to Dulles they had discussed the overwhelming problem
David Gavron never got over that brief but murderous war. He and Adan had toured the Bar Lev line where they were still removing thousands of bodies of young Israelis who had fought and died. General Adan had famously broken down and wept at this hot and sandy scene from hell, and Gavron had wept with him.
Even today, Ambassador Gavron visibly stiffened at the merest suggestion that Israel should somehow drop its guard. “We tried that in 1973, on our most holy day of the year,” was his standard reply to suggestions of compromise with the Palestinians, or the Syrians, or the Jordanians, or Hezbollah, or Iran and so forth. “It didn’t work terribly well then, and I’m not willing to give it another try.”
Bob Birmingham, head of the CIA, was talking to the head of the Mossad, and the most uncompromising member of the Israeli government. They were blood brothers, each of whose concern was the safety of their respective countries. The potential freeing of terrorist madmen like Yousaf and Ibrahim was nothing short of pure anathema to them both.
“David, did you get the feeling Epstein’s are moving fast on this?”
“Extremely. They’re dispatching Myerson and Renton first thing tomorrow. Dulles to Nassau, then Cuba. You want the flight number?”
“It would probably be judged politically incorrect if we took them out, so I don’t think we need that,” Bob jokingly remarked and then, more seriously. “David, I can’t help noticing there is a rather complacent tone to your voice at your obvious success on 12th Street.”
“Complacent, Bobby? Me? Never.”
“Just don’t forget who fixed the bug in that fat bastard’s desk lamp.”
Both men laughed, but Bob quickly changed his tone. “Seriously, David. What precisely is the Mossad’s position if the U.S. Appeals Court liberates these guys?”
“We don’t have a formal position,” said Ambassador Gavron. “But you may assume we will not like it. Not one bit. It’s like liberating a rabid pit-bull terrier onto a college campus.”
“I don’t think our guys have given a moment’s thought as to where this goddamned Yousaf and his pal are going when they leave the courthouse,” replied Birmingham.
“Well, they better start thinking, Bobby. Unless you’re planning to unclip their manacles right there on Constitution Avenue and tell ’em to catch a bus back to Afghanistan.”
The CIA chief was thoughtful. “The real problem is,” he mused, “Most countries don’t want them and won’t let them in, and the airlines won’t fly them without massive security, plus guarantees they will be allowed to disembark at the other end.”
“Well, if you let them go free, the Mossad will track them. Because we have to. There are people in Guantanamo who have committed shocking crimes against Israel. Guys on that killer list of fourteen.”
“David, right now it’s more than my life’s worth to start impeding our peace-loving president’s wish to unload Guantanamo and everyone in it. But come the day, the day of freedom, when some judge lets these bastards loose, there’ll be a backlash in public opinion. And from that moment on, we’ll also follow them, to the ends of the earth if necessary, anything to keep them out of the USA.”
“And for the rest of us?”
“I think the good ole USA will be in your corner, the way we always have been.”
JOSH EPSTEIN SMOOTHED the path to Cuba, just as he said he would. Myerson and Renton would fly privately from Havana down to Guantanamo, where the US Navy, with staggering reluctance, would meet them and drive them into the world’s most hated prison camp.
On the way to Dulles they had discussed the overwhelming problem