The Nazi Hunters Read online

  Aharoni outlined the plan. The Chevrolet would be stationed on Route 202. It would turn on its lights in order to blind Eichmann as he walked toward them. The Buick would be parked on Garibaldi Street, facing away from Route 202, with its hood up, as if it had broken down. As Eichmann drew near to the Buick, Malkin would say something to him in Spanish to distract him before grabbing him. Then Tabor and Eitan would help drag him into the backseat.

  The plan decided, the team turned to the next issue. The gardener at Doron was a simple, gentle man, but he was suspicious about all the activity at the house. He was on the premises too often and could not be persuaded to stay away. One mention of the strange activities to the wrong person could compromise the whole operation. Everyone agreed without question that they must switch safe houses and keep Eichmann at Tira instead.

  On May 9, driving to San Fernando on reconnaissance, Rafi Eitan turned onto Route 202 near Garibaldi Street, and suddenly found himself at the scene of an accident. A car had smashed into a motorcycle. Before Eitan could turn around, a policeman stepped up to his window with the bloodied motorcyclist. “Hospital,” the policeman said.

  There was nothing for Eitan to do but nod enthusiastically and drive off with the man to get him medical treatment.

  The incident decided him on an issue that he’d been turning over in his mind for some time. He sat down with Harel later that morning and announced that they should postpone the capture by a day. He had doubted that the team would be ready when they had decided they needed to move safe houses. But now, because of the incident with the police, he was certain: He did not want to risk being seen in the area two days in a row.

  Harel was reluctant, but he agreed. They would delay the capture until May 11.

  “We’re planning for the operation to take place tomorrow,” Harel told Yosef Klein. “So, just be aware of that.”

  Klein had mapped out the airport for Harel — its every entrance, building, runway, and guard position, as well as the locations of some windows and doors. He had also outlined the routine movements into and out of the airport, as well as staff shift changes. He had learned quickly how Harel liked to do things.

  Now Klein told the Mossad chief that when he had gone to TransAer’s maintenance area earlier that day, he found soldiers and police everywhere. Whatever the reason, they could no longer use that area to board the plane. He had already selected an alternative: the Aerolíneas Argentinas facilities. Although they were closer to the main terminal, the area was poorly lit at night and guarded by only a few soldiers. What was more, it could be accessed without passing through the entrance to the main terminal.

  Harel gave Klein the go-ahead to set it up.

  Even with the one-day reprieve, the team rushed to finish their preparations. They needed to check out of their hotels, move into their assigned safe houses, and assume completely different identities.

  At Tira, Moshe Tabor again prepared a space for the prisoner. He had chosen a ten-by-twelve-foot room on the second floor for Eichmann’s cell. First he moved a cast-iron bed into the room. Then he secured heavy wool blankets over the two windows and four walls. These would muffle any sounds Eichmann might make. Tabor rigged a bell in the room, an alarm that could be activated from the front gate or the living room if the house was about to be searched. Two separate spaces served as hiding holes, both padded heavily with blankets. One was underneath the veranda, where there was a foot and a half of clearance between the wooden floor and the concrete foundation. The other was in a small storage space above the cell.

  In the kitchen, Zvi Aharoni attempted to teach Malkin the few phrases in Spanish he would say to Eichmann to put him at ease before grabbing him. At first they tried, “Can you tell me what time it is?” and then, “Excuse me, please?” but Malkin had unusual difficulty with Spanish. He settled for a simple “Un momentito, señor” (“a moment, sir”).

  Meanwhile, in the garage, Shalom and Gat washed the two capture cars to make them look worthy of their diplomatic status. They continued to practice changing the license plates and testing the hollow space behind the backseat.

  They stopped all this activity for one final meeting. Isser Harel stood before his men, and they were silent. “You were chosen by destiny to guarantee that one of the worst criminals of all time, who for years has succeeded in evading justice, would be made to stand trial in Jerusalem,” he began, his voice clear. “For the first time in history the Jews will judge their assassins, and for the first time the world will hear the full story of the edict of annihilation against an entire people. Everything depends on the action we are about to take.”

  Harel then reviewed the capture plan and the responsibilities of each member. From the lead car, the one stationed on Garibaldi Street, Malkin would make the first move on Eichmann, and Tabor would back him up. Aharoni would drive, and Eitan was to remain out of sight, ready to lead the team and assist where necessary. In the second car, parked on Route 202, Shalom would be the driver, Gat would act as lookout, and Dr. Elian would be on hand to administer any medicine required.

  Then they talked backup plans. What should they do if they found out that Ricardo Klement was not Adolf Eichmann? This was still a possibility, albeit a faint one. Still, if they discovered that they had made a mistake, Harel instructed Malkin and Tabor to drive Klement several hundred miles north of the city and to drop him off with some money. Then they were to cross over the border into Brazil while the rest of the team got out of Argentina.

  What would happen if Eichmann managed to escape and reach his house? Their orders were to break into the house, using whatever means necessary, and to grab him there.

  What if the police chased them before they reached the safe house? They were to use every evasive driving maneuver in their repertoire, break every traffic law, and even use the second car, the one driven by Shalom, to ram their pursuers if necessary.

  What if they were caught with Eichmann? “Under no circumstances whatsoever are we to let him go or allow him to escape,” Harel said. As many of the team as possible were to slip away, but Rafi Eitan was to handcuff himself to Eichmann and ask for the ranking Argentine police officer. He would then declare that he was a Jewish volunteer, operating without governmental authority, who had heard that this notorious Nazi war criminal was living in Buenos Aires and wanted him brought to trial. Until he was promised that his captive would be held pending an investigation, Eitan was to do everything possible not to be separated from Eichmann.

  Every single member of the team knew the stakes when they began the operation, but hearing what they were to do if they were caught made the risks even more real.

  “Are there any questions?” Harel asked.

  Thinking of his wife and two children, including a daughter barely six months old, Yaakov Gat asked, “If there’s a problem with the authorities, and they arrest us with Eichmann, how long can we expect to sit in jail in Argentina?”

  “I checked,” Harel replied, surprising no one. “Maximum, ten years. But with diplomatic influence, maybe two or three.”

  “Who looks after our families?” Gat asked, knowing it was a question the others wanted answered as well.

  “I’m responsible,” Harel said firmly. “I’m in charge.” Not one of the team doubted him. His loyalty to his people was unquestioned.

  Harel finished by wishing good luck to every one of them. They were now on their own.

  When the Mossad team awoke on May 11, they faced a long day of nervous waiting before they could execute the capture that evening. Tabor and Malkin double-checked that the safe house was ready and finished the hiding places. Shalom, Gat, and Eitan drove to San Fernando and back to check that no obstruction had appeared along the routes. Aharoni made a rushed trip to a garage to buy a new battery for the Buick.

  By early afternoon, they had run out of ways to pass the time. Everyone involved in the capture operation waited at Tira. Between games of chess and gin rummy, they looked for anything other than the operat
ion to talk about, but there was no point. Some retired to their rooms to relax — maybe even to sleep — but they were always back in the living room shortly after, more on edge than ever.

  An hour before they were due to leave, Malkin splashed some water on his face and pulled on a wig, a blue wool sweater, and black pants. For a long time he stared at himself in the mirror, mentally charging himself up. Memories of his family overran his thoughts, followed by a rush of fear that he might fail his team and, in some way, all the people who had died because of Eichmann, including Fruma, her husband, and their three children. To push these feelings away, he repeated to himself, “I’m going to catch him.”

  Then he went downstairs to find everyone else was ready. Tabor had also put on a wig, covering his bald head, and he wore a heavy overcoat that made him look even more like a giant than usual. The others had dressed in jackets and slacks. Some wore ties, to look more like diplomats, but they were not in disguise. Only Malkin and Tabor would be outside the car.

  Before they left, Eitan reviewed their plan one more time. He offered no eloquent words of inspiration. Each of them knew what he needed to do. It was half past six. Time to go.

  Adolf Eichmann began his day as usual, rising from bed before sunrise. He shaved, washed himself in a pail of water, and then had breakfast. He left his house, caught bus 203 at the kiosk, and began his daily two-hour trek to work at a Mercedes-Benz manufacturing plant. He switched buses twice, catching the one for the final leg at Saavedra Bridge, which separated the city center from the outlying districts of Buenos Aires. This bus was filled with the same people every day, mostly his fellow workers. He offered only spare greetings to the other passengers during the twenty-mile ride. Some of them knew his name, Ricardo Klement, but that was about it.

  At the plant, he clocked in like everyone else and put on a pair of dark-blue Mercedes-Benz overalls. As a foreman, he spent the morning winding his way up and down the assembly line, checking the work in progress. When the 12:30 P.M. whistle blew, he took his lunch break, alone, in the restaurant at which he ate every working day. An hour later, he returned to work exactly on time, and stayed there until he finished his shift.

  Eichmann’s Mercedes-Benz identity card.

  Zvi Aharoni turned the Buick limousine off the highway, heading toward Route 202. Rafi Eitan sat beside him, and Tabor and Malkin were in the back. They all kept their eyes trained on the road, though they glanced at one another occasionally. They knew that each of them depended on his teammates for the success of the operation — and, potentially, for his own freedom and even his life.

  At 7:35 P.M., they reached Garibaldi Street. Shalom, driving the Chevrolet, had taken a different route, but the two cars arrived at the same time. Gat was in the passenger’s seat, at relative ease. He knew they had a good plan. More than that: He had faith in the team.

  In the backseat, the doctor was quiet and still. He was looking at the Mossad agents through different eyes. They were almost a separate breed of men, he thought, so calm in the moments before this covert operation began.

  In five minutes, the bus would arrive. They had not wanted to be in the area for too long before the capture in case they drew attention to themselves, but now they needed to move quickly to get into place. Shalom stationed the Chevrolet on Route 202, facing Garibaldi Street, and turned off the headlights. A truck was parked behind them, between their car and the railway embankment, its driver preoccupied with eating his dinner. There was nothing they could do about him now.

  Aharoni stopped the Buick limousine on Garibaldi Street, ten yards in from Route 202, facing Eichmann’s house. Tabor and Malkin stepped out into the cold and lifted the hood. Tabor bent over the engine; he would be hidden from Eichmann when he turned onto the street. On the limousine’s front left side, Malkin leaned slightly forward as well, as though he were watching Tabor’s efforts with the engine.

  Eitan climbed into the backseat, his forehead pressed against the cold glass as he kept his eyes trained on the bus stop. From the driver’s seat, Aharoni stared in the same direction through a pair of night-vision binoculars. There was no reason for them to speak; they only had to wait and to watch.

  Seconds before bus 203 was scheduled to show, a boy wearing a bright red jacket, about fifteen years old, pedaled down Garibaldi Street on his bicycle. He stopped at the limousine. Aharoni stepped halfway out of the car — he was the only one of them who spoke any Spanish. He knew he needed to get this boy out of there, quick and quiet.

  The boy asked what was wrong with their car, if they needed help. Aharoni smiled at the boy, saying, “Thank you! No need! You can carry on your way.” The boy took off, his unzipped jacket flapping around him in the wind as he disappeared into the darkness.

  Then 7:40 P.M. passed, and the bus still had not shown up. Three minutes later, they saw the lights of a vehicle approaching from the direction of San Fernando. They had spent enough nights on the railway embankment to know that it was the bus.

  Malkin prepared himself, repeating the words “Un momentito, señor” over and over in his head, gauging where in relation to the road and the car he would make his move. Tabor readied to drop the hood and help him. They would have to keep Eichmann from screaming — but they had practiced plenty. Malkin was to seize him by the throat, spin behind him, and drag him toward the open car door. Tabor would grab his legs and help throw him into the backseat. Both reminded themselves that they were not to hurt Eichmann. They had no guns, nor any need of them.

  The lights from the bus cut through the night. They braced themselves. But instead of stopping opposite the kiosk, the bus kept going, past the second capture car and underneath the railway embankment. Then it was gone. It had not even slowed down near its usual stop.

  A rush of doubt overcame the team. Had Eichmann altered his schedule or gone on vacation? Had he returned early from work? Worst of all, had he learned of their presence and fled from Buenos Aires?

  Malkin looked toward the Eichmanns’ house. Only a single lamp was lit. Typically, after their target returned home from work, there was a lot more light and activity. He was definitely not at home, but this did not rule out the possibility that he had taken the week off, or disappeared completely. After all, because of the rush to switch safe houses and to finalize their plans, the team had not watched Garibaldi Street for two nights.

  The surge of expectation slowly ebbed. Nobody wanted to voice the concern they all shared: They might have missed their opportunity.

  The wind continued to strengthen. Thunder from the approaching storm grew closer, and now and then there was a burst of lightning in the distance. Every few minutes, a train roared by on the tracks.

  Five minutes passed. Then ten. Another bus came down the highway. The team readied for action again, but this bus did not stop either. The possibility that Eichmann had simply missed his usual bus was becoming unlikely.

  Shalom and Gat got out of the Chevrolet and stood on Route 202, looking over at the limousine to see if there was any movement. According to their plan, if Eichmann did not show up by eight o’clock, they would leave and come back the next day. The longer they stayed in the target area, the greater the chance the police would happen upon them.

  Behind them, they heard the sudden start of an engine. They whirled to see the truck that had been parked to their rear take off down the highway. At least that driver was no longer a concern.

  After taking a few steps closer to Garibaldi Street and seeing no activity at the limousine, Shalom decided to wait. He did not want to go over to talk to Eitan, because if somebody was watching them, they could then connect the two cars. He would stay where he was until he saw the limousine pull away.

  As 8 P.M., their deadline to leave, arrived, Aharoni turned in his seat and asked Eitan, “Do we take off or wait?”

  Eitan had made up his mind when the first bus had passed without stopping. He knew they were jeopardizing their chances to come back the next day, but he also knew that the team was m
ore ready now than it would ever be again. “No, we stay,” he said firmly.

  The minutes passed slowly: 8:01, 8:02. They all stared down Route 202. Tabor and Malkin felt certain that Eichmann was not coming, that they would have to spend more nights mentally preparing for the moment when they would grab him. They waited for the word from Eitan to close the hood and pack up.

  At 8:05 P.M., headlights broke the darkness once again.

  Isser Harel sat alone in a café not far from Tira, sipping a hot tea with brandy. He had checked out of the Claridge Hotel that morning and left his suitcase in a railway-station locker. If the operation met with disaster or if he were followed, he could disappear without a trace. Which was all well and good, except that he was so miserable with fever that even thinking of attempting such an escape felt beyond him at that moment.

  He checked his watch: almost eight o’clock. His men would already have Eichmann in their hands — if everything had gone as planned. He did not expect anyone to come to the café to inform him of their success or otherwise for at least another forty-five minutes.

  He kept his mind off what might have gone wrong by mulling over what he expected Vera Eichmann to do when her husband did not come home. There was no way she could go straight to the police, Harel was sure. She would only be reporting a missing husband — a common enough occurrence that the Argentine police would not marshal their forces to investigate. Only if she confessed that Ricardo Klement was Adolf Eichmann would a serious search be launched. Before she took that step, she and her sons would no doubt check the local hospitals and Eichmann’s workplace, which would give Harel’s team at least a couple of days’ lead time — maybe more. Then again, they could not rule out a hunt by Eichmann’s sons or by his Nazi associates and their friends in the German community . . .