Then there was the American problem. Israel’s staunchest ally, and her staunchest pain in the ass. They’d only sell more F-15Es if the West Bank settlements were halted. So much opportunity. So much important work to be done. And Benjamin Jacobs found himself mired in shit — ankle deep, in fact, or at least that had been the case an hour ago during his morning constitutional to the first-floor men’s room.
Jacobs sat in a wide leather chair behind his weighty desk, listening with determined patience.
“Portable toilets, sir,” Lowens said with stiff seriousness.
Jacobs was glad that Lowens was here. He doubted anyone else in his government could present the issue with such dignity, or for that matter, with a straight face. Lowens was the assistant deputy council of something-or-other, but after today, Jacobs mused, he would always associate the man with toilets. Special Assistant to the Prime Minister for Toilets — perhaps a new cabinet-level position.
“It’s a temporary solution, sir, but our only option at present. Last night some men were working on a water main across the street and they tangled into a sewer pipe. There was backflow, which the older plumbing in this building didn’t prevent as it should. We have cleaning crews working overtime, but it will take a couple of days to straighten out. Our only option for the time being is to bring in portable toilets. Unfortunately, setting up these facilities will be problematic. If we put them in back of the building there are security concerns, and that leaves only one other option.”
“I can’t imagine,” Jacobs deadpanned.
“We can put them on the roof. Lift them up with a crane, or maybe a helicopter.”
The Prime Minister’s eyes closed, visualizing the spectacle, and a tortured look fell across his naturally photogenic, politician’s face.
Lowens pressed on. “I realize it might look silly getting them up there, but if we do it at night … well, once they’re in place no one will be able to see them. We can hide them between the stairwell and the air conditioning equipment. That would be optimal. For appearances.”
Jacobs remained silent at the pause.
“Ms. Weiss thought I should run it by you before we did anything,”
Lowens finally added, an obvious disclaimer from a career civil service man. Betty Weiss was Jacobs’ Chief of Staff.
“Put the toilets on the roof, Mr. Lowens,” Jacobs said, exasperated. “Anything else I should know about?”
“No, Mr. Prime Minister.” On that, Lowens, having spent twelve years serving politicians at various levels, clearly recognized the chance to retreat. “I’ll keep you informed,” he promised. The staffer got up and left the room with exemplary decorum, no doubt hoping he’d done nothing to endanger his prospects.
Jacobs mumbled to himself, “Keep me informed. Please.”
His secretary knocked once on the open door.
“Yes, Moira?”
“It’s Anton Bloch, sir. He says it’s quite important.”
Jacobs considered a quip about the importance of his last meeting, but held his tongue. “Send him in.”
Anton Bloch was Director of Mossad, Israel’s vaunted foreign intelligence arm. When he entered the room the look on his face was grim. But then it always was. He was a solid man whose large, square mug gave a decidedly blunt appearance. His hair was cut high and tight on the sides. On top it was gone.
Without waiting for an invitation, Bloch took the seat Lowens had just vacated.
“Polaris Venture,” he said.
The name got Jacobs’ attention, and the Prime Minister braced him-self as Bloch shuffled through a stack of papers in his lap.
“We’ve lost her.”
Jacobs spoke slowly, wanting to be clear, “You mean you don’t know where she is? Or has she sunk?”
“Definitely the first, maybe both … we think.”
Jacobs deflated in his chair as Bloch found the paper he wanted and began inflicting details.
“The ship had two satellite systems, a main and a backup. They were supposed to transmit encoded coordinates hourly. Late yesterday we stopped getting the signal. She was off the west coast of Africa the last time we heard from her.”
“And you don’t think it’s a technical problem?”
“That’s what we hoped, at first. We spent all last night trying to raise her, but no luck. The communications links are independent, with batteries to back up their power supplies. The odds of everything failing are slim, but if that’s what happened, our man on board had instructions to use the ship’s normal radio gear to send a message — in the clear if necessary.” Bloch descended into grim certainty, “No, I have a feeling there’s more to this than communications problems.”
The Prime Minister put his elbows on the desk and buried his face in his hands. He took a deep breath as he recalled the previous week’s meeting. “Anton, when we debated this mission we came up with a worst case scenario. Is that where we are?”
“It’s going to take some time to find out, but yes, she may have sunk. Or been hijacked.”
The Prime Minister slouched lower. His political instincts had told him this was a risky venture. But Bloch and the rest had made it sound so easy. Of course, in the end, the decision had been his.
“How many of our people were on board?”
“Only one, from my section. And a crew of fifteen, all South African Navy.”
“What about a rescue? If she sank there would be survivors, right?”
“There’s a good chance. The British and French have aircraft, and of course they’d be willing to help. Morocco is closer, but I doubt it has much capability for search and rescue that far out. The problem is—”
Jacobs waved him off with both hands, “I know what the problem is. If we ask for help, a lot of questions will come up. What kind of ship? Where was it going? What was on board? Everything could come out.” The thought made Jacobs’ stomach lurch. “What would our capabilities be?”
“For a search? I’d have to ask Defense to be sure, but we’re awfully far away. It’s not the kind of thing our Navy and Air Force are built to do. We probably have a half-dozen airplanes that could get out that far. And our ships, the few real ocean-going ones we have, are all here. It would take days to get them to the Atlantic.”
“How do we find out what’s happened?”
Bloch was out ahead for once. “We have to send a reconnaissance aircraft, our EC-130. I’ll get right with Defense and have it sent to the area. My team arrived in South Africa the day before Polaris Venture sailed. They installed, among other things, two emergency beacons. If the beacons come into contact with salt water, or are turned on manually, they’ll emit a signal once every hour on a certain frequency. Our EC-130 is instrumented to pinpoint these kinds of beacons. It’ll take a day or so to get the airplane overhead, but if the ship is there we can get a good fix and find out exactly where she went down.”
“And if she’s not there?”
“Then she’s been taken. And we’ll find her.”
Bloch spoke with a certainty the Prime Minister knew was optimistic.
“All right, call Defense and have them send out everything they can for a search. I’ll convene the Cabinet in two hours,” Jacobs said with a look at his watch.
Bloch scribbled notes onto the mess of papers in his lap, then strode to the door, a locomotive gathering steam. Jacobs yelled for Moira and she appeared almost instantly.