In the National Interest

It was a minor news item: "Due to heavy rains in the Jerusalem area, the airport at Atarot has been closed for the clay." The item had been slipped into the newscaster's file only a few minutes before he sat down in front of his Kol Yisrael microphone to read the 11-A.M. news.

"Do I have to?" he asked, shuffling through his script.

"Read it, and don't argue," replied his editor, pointing a finger to die ceiling, suggesting it was an order from die government, not the whim of a producer.

The newscaster grimaced and loosened his belt. "Wonder what they're up to now."

•

Six men in a truck heard the news item as they drove through, sheets of rain that obscured their vision of the Jerusalem--Ramallah road. The driver squinted and rubbed the fogged-up window with his right hand. A small man, wearing a soaked beret, turned to the four men in the rear of the truck. "With rain like this, they might have had to close the airport anyway." The four men were wearing khaki ponchos to conceal their uniforms, which were identical to those of President al-Bakr's special force of 25,000 praetorian guards.

"Just as well," one of them said; (continued on page 150) In The National Interest (continued from page 130) "surer this way." He was a handsome man with lightly graying hair and cool blue eyes.

Colonel Ori Elad glanced down at his boots. "David, there will be no communication." His voice barely rose above a whisper. "You should hear from me by fifteen hundred. If you don't. . . ." He didn't finish the thought. There was no need to elaborate.

The truck splashed through the main street of Shuafat, a predominantly Arab suburb of Jerusalem. There was a local legend that the Hebrew prophet Samuel had been buried in Nebi-Samuel, a small, now virtually deserted town on a hill overlooking their community. A mosque covered the site, considered holy by the Moslems, as well as by the Israelis.

A few minutes later, through the mist, the driver could begin to make out the shape of the control tower at Atarot. Although the Israelis had lengthened and hardened the runway so that Atarot could accommodate even the Boeing 707, the airport had not become a busy center of commercial travel. Now it was extraordinarily quiet, except for the relentless pounding of the rain. A sentry popped out of the mist and stopped the truck at one of the rear approaches to the airport. The driver cursed and lowered his window. David flashed his identification card. The sentry examined it, then the face of its bearer, and pulled back in disbelief. He had never before seen the chief of Mossad. "Excuse me," he stammered, and quickly raised the iron barrier.

The truck rumbled toward the far end of the runway, where a Soviet-built helicopter waited in the rain, its rotors spinning gently in the wind. The Israelis had captured many helicopters during the '73 war. They had re-equipped several with a sophisticated computer guidance system, which permitted helicopter pilots to fly at extremely low altitudes in nearzero visibility, avoiding radar detection in a flight pattern that followed the contours of the terrain.

The truck stopped a few feet from the helicopter, which bore the markings of the Syrian Air Force. David stepped into the rain. He was quickly followed by Ori and his three commandos. For just a moment, David stood before his men, as though he were in silent prayer. "I shall wait for you here, not at headquarters," he said. It was clear from the tone of his voice that there was to be no further discussion. "Good luck." David saluted his men. They returned his salute and boarded the helicopter.

Within seconds, the rotors roared into action, cutting through the rain in a blur that sent David scurrying back into the truck. Slowly, the helicopter rose, making a broad circular sweep through the clouds before proceeding in a north-northeasterly direction. The ride was rocky for the first 30 minutes, but the commandos were too busy to notice. They shed their ponchos, polished their boots and checked their Kalashnikov automatic rifles. Each commando carried a specially equipped pistol. It looked like an ordinary Colt, but it was electronically triggered. It was able to fire poisonous darts up to a distance of 300 yards. The advantage of the weapon, which had been developed by the CIA, was twofold. It was almost completely noiseless; and its effect, even in the case of a minor flesh wound, was invariably fatal.

The helicopter carried its unusual cargo through breaking clouds. Ori studied the landscape: a patchwork of brown hills and terraced farms; small villages with minarets and busy market places; fields where the soil was rich enough to produce harvests of tomatoes, watermelons, grapes, olives, oranges, even tobacco; wadis where shepherds tended their flocks. Almost 1,000,000 Palestinians lived on the west bank, once the heartland of Biblical Judaea and Samaria. Ori was born in a Jewish settlement near Tiberias, which looks down on the Sea of Galilee. His playmates were both Jews and Arabs; and, though he had fought in all of Israel's wars, including the war of independence in 1948, and had risen through the ranks to command an elite force of paratroop-commandos, he had never developed a hatred for the Arabs and he cherished the day when he could return to his kibbutz. He knew that that day would signal the start of genuine coexistence between the Israelis and their Arab neighbors. But, until that day came, he would fight in his unorthodox ways.

The helicopter lost altitude while flying over the western rim of the Sea of Galilee. Ori sat in a canvas seat, staring at the passing clouds with unseeing eyes. He recalled a series of exploits his commandos had accomplished, but he suspected none would be more significant than the one on which he was now embarked. The raid on Beirut's international airport in December 1968 had destroyed two thirds of Lebanon's commercial air fleet, but it had not stopped the Palestinian terrorist attacks against Israeli settlements. The snatching of an entire Soviet-built radar station at Ras Gharib, 125 miles south of the Suez Canal, in December 1969, from under the noses of the Egyptians, had possessed all the earmarks of a Hollywood extravaganza, and it had provided valuable military information; but it had little practical effect on the balance of power in the Middle East. The rescue of the passengers of an Air France jumbo jet, hijacked to Entebbe, Uganda, in July 1976, had won international acclaim for Israeli daring and ingenuity--it was Ori's favorite operation--but it did not put an end to terrorism. Ori glanced at his young colleagues. This mission, to Damascus, was different: It could accelerate the drift toward yet another war in the Middle East or it could stop it.

"Once more," Ori said, "let's go over the plans. There's not much time left."

The helicopter shuddered as it crossed the disputed border territory connecting Israel with Syria and Jordan. To avoid enemy radar, it twisted and turned, suddenly losing altitude, then regaining it, but it continued on its general course, flying across the Golan Heights south of Kuneitra and, on a bead, toward a lonely hilltop three kilometers west of the Syrian capital. Nothing was visible from 500 feet except an empty Soviet-built armored car. Ori smiled. His ground support, so far, was perfect. The helicopter bounced to a stop not more than five feet from the car and the commandos jumped out. The young pilot, who was also dressed in a Syrian uniform, checked his watch. "Pickup time, exactly one hour from"--he paused--"now!"

The commandos synchronized their watches. "Shalom," the pilot whispered.

"Salaamat," Ori responded with a wave.

Ori got into the driver's seat, his friends into the rear of the armored car. The engine coughed once, twice, before kicking into full power. Ori then drove the car at a measured pace along a narrow mountain byway toward al-Bakr's hideaway, perched on a mountain peak overlooking an army camp and, below it, Damascus itself. The hideaway, which resembled a Swiss chalet, was accessible only by a winding road with security check points interspersed along the way. It was a heavily guarded road at all times. Now al-Bakr's praetorian guard had supplemented the normal contingent of police and regular army troops and the entire operation had been placed under the personal control of General Rifaat al-Bakr, the president's younger brother. The reason for the special security precautions was simple: The hideaway was to serve as the site for an unusual gathering of military leaders from Syria, Algeria, Libya, Iraq and the Organization (continued on page 216) In The National Interest (continued from page 150) for the Liberation of the People of Palestine (O.L.P.P.). They were making their final preparations for a surprise attack against Israel.

Not far ahead, Ori could see the point at which the rarely used byway intersected the main road. He checked his watch. Timing was extremely critical. At what he believed to be precisely the right moment, Ori cut into the honking traffic heading toward a check point on the approach to the chalet. He waved wildly, as though apologizing to the driver behind him. A guard, wearing the same uniform as Ori, raised his. hand. Ori braked to a stop and handed his security pass to the guard.

"Days like this we don't need, brother." Ori tried to sound casual. "Is the general here yet?"

The guard looked at Ori, a trace of suspicion crossing his dark face. One of the Israeli commandos reached very slowly for his Kalashnikov gun, his colleagues bracing for trouble. A few endless seconds passed.

"None of your business," the guard snapped. But, before he could pursue his suspicion, he heard the singsong horn of an approaching black Mercedes. The guard nervously waved Ori toward the chalet. "Move quickly. It's Safat!"

Ori rammed his stick into first gear and the armored car resumed its ascent. The Mercedes did not even bother to slow down at the check point. From the back seat, a burly man waved at the guard, who noticed that he had only three fingers. Then the Mercedes proceeded toward the chalet, directly behind ori's armored car. Not by coincidence, Ori had become Safat's advance escort.

The caravan did not even stop at the last check point. Ori merely lowered his window and shouted, "Safat, Safat, brother; out of the way!" The two cars rolled into the circular driveway of the main house and stopped in front of an arched entranceway. The four Israeli commandos jumped out of their car and formed a makeshift honor guard for Safat, Ibrahim and Moussa, who walked into the house. Safat waved perfunctorily at the commandos. Ibrahim shot a glance at Ori. Nothing more. Then, as though they had been assigned to protect him, the commandos escorted Safat through a large foyer to a second-story conference room. Ori nodded to a Syrian officer who guarded a heavy oak double door.

The conference room was crowded with uniformed officers from various Arab countries. Aides in mufti scurried from one group to another, carrying attaché cases and papers. A large map of the Middle East stood on an easel behind a long rectangular table covered with green felt. Bottles of mineral water and trays of fruit were placed at neat intervals along each side of the table. Safat shook hands with the leaders of each delegation, showing special deference to General Abdul Hassan, the defense minister of Syria.

General Hassan took his seat at the head of the table. The deputy defense ministers of Iraq. Algeria and Libya and the chairman of the O.L.P.P. seated themselves behind their respective flags. The heavy doors were shut and locked. Two guards stood at attention, flanking the door. Ori positioned himself opposite Safat and Ibrahim. One commando stood about ten feet from Ori. The two others braced for action.

"Brothers, we are gathered here at a solemn hour in the history of the Arab family." Hassan began reading al-Bakr's message. "The Zionist entity is planning a new war of aggression, aided and abetted by American imperialism. This is not a new circumstance, and we must prepare for every eventuality." Hassan continued reading al-Bakr's boiler-plate welcome; and, when he had finished, with just a trace of disgust, he dropped it onto the table. Hassan pushed back his chair, placed both hands on his knees, stared at each delegation head with deliberate care and then boomed: "Brothers, we are here to plan the final details for a holy war against the Zionists. That war will start at dawn tomorrow, when the sun will blaze into the eyes of the enemy, by Allah's will, and he shall be blinded." Most of the men around the table nodded. Safat, who shared al-Bakr's reservations sat motionless. Hassan then launched into a detailed rundown of his plans for war.

When Hassan had completed his statement, Ori glanced at his three colleagues and quickly at Ibrahim. Then, with surefooted care, he approached Hassan and whispered in his ear:

"My name is Ori Elad, head of a special Israeli paratroop unit." Ori spoke in perfect Arabic. He poked a Colt into Hassan's back. "If you wish to stay alive, I would strongly advise you to say nothing, to do nothing, merely to sit where you are and watch." Hassan broke into an icy sweat.

Each of the three remaining commandos had already unsnapped the protective flap of his holster, while transferring his Kalashnikov to his left hand and resting his right hand on the butt of his electronic dart gun. Each man had a preassigned primary target. Within the space of five seconds, three almost inaudible ripping sounds punctuated the stillness of the room. The noise was no more than that of the slitting open of an envelope.

Moussa was the first to die, a tiny dart embedded in the base of his neck. The personal bodyguards of the Iraqi and Libyan deputy defense ministers seemed more surprised than injured. Each man gave a small gasp, clutched at his back and collapsed.

The first apparent sign of panic in the room came from Ibrahim, who, with surprising speed, pushed his own chair back and, tearing at Jamaal Safat's sleeve, pulled him under the table.

The Algerian delegate's bodyguard had managed to rise to his feet; he was fumbling for his pistol when he took a dart in the chest.

The Israelis seemed to pick their targets with casual ease, pivoting slightly toward each new sign of movement. Two Syrian guards, flanking the door, died within two paces of where they had stood. Only one managed to emit a muffled cry before crumpling to the floor.

The Iraqi deputy defense minister reached for a spot just below his right ear, even as he tried to slide under the table. His colleagues from Algeria and Libya remained rooted to their chairs. The Algerian had managed to place both hands on top of his head, in a gesture of surrender, when he, too, was shot in the neck. The Libyan was the last to die.

Within no more than 60 seconds of efficient slaughter, the Israeli commandos had killed everyone in the room--with three exceptions: Safat, Ibrahim and Hassan.

"Yankel"--Ori pointed at Hassan--"tie up this bastard." One of the commandos pulled a spool of special cord from his boot and tied Hassan's feet to his neck, tightly, arching his back in the process. If Hassan tried to move or stretch, he would choke himself to death. "Lie still and say nothing," Ori warned, while stuffing his mouth with heavy gauze. Ori then pounced on Safat and grabbed him by the collar. "I'd kill you, too, with great pleasure," Ori panted. "But, for some reason, my government wants you to live. You will walk out of this room with us and this fat pig of yours." Ori grunted at Ibrahim. "My orders are not to kill you, unless I have to. I am told you are an intelligent man, a leader of the Palestinian people. If you wish to remain their leader, you will do exactly what I say. One word, one false step--you're dead. You understand?" Ori was gripping his collar so tightly that Safat felt as though he couldn't breathe. Safat nodded. "You will leave this building walking between us. You will get into your car." Ori shot a glance at Ibrahim. "You understand, pig?" Ori punched him in the stomach. Ibrahim doubled up in pain. "You will drive directly to your headquarters in Damascus. You will not look back. We shall be directly behind you."

Ori checked the bodies quickly, making sure all of them were dead. He kneeled next to Hassan. "Good luck in the morning, General. We'll be waiting."

The Israeli commandos rearranged themselves into an honor guard, surrounding Safat and Ibrahim, and opened the door, quickly shutting it behind them. A Syrian officer saluted Safat, but the Palestinian leader paid no attention to him. Ori returned the salute. Trying to affect an unrushed and yet military appearance, the honor guard walked down the stairs and into the foyer. Syrian troops snapped to attention when they saw Safat. Ori paused for a moment to tell a Syrian officer that General Hassan was engaged in detailed discussions and he did not wish to be disturbed. Then, as though confiding a secret to the officer, Ori added: "Safat has to return to Damascus, but he has left his chief of intelligence upstairs. We shall all be back in about an hour." The officer escorted Ori's group into the courtyard.

Ori waved for Safat's car, while one of the Israeli commandos rushed to get the armored car. Safat got into the Mercedes, along with Ibrahim, and the four commandos hopped into their car. Slowly, the two cars pulled away from al-Bakr's hideaway and headed toward the first check point on the way down the road toward Damascus.

The Syrian officer was puzzled. Years of arch-flattening duty had sharpened his senses. One question rattled through his mind: Why had an officer of al-Bakr's special guard bothered to talk to him at all? That was most unusual. He decided to check the conference room. From the outside, everything appeared to be normal. But he turned the elaborate iron knob, just for good measure, and the door opened. It should have been locked. He unhooked his pistol and pushed open the door. He stood in momentary bewilderment, still unsure of what had happened. Then, at the far end of the room, he spotted Hassan, lying, as though paralyzed, in an awkward position. He raced toward him and cut his bonds. Hassan pulled the gauze out of his mouth. "Stop them," the defense minister shouted. "They've kidnaped Safat." The officer, filled with a mixture of pride and panic, ran down the stairs, screaming out an alert to all check points.

Without any challenge, however, the Safat procession had passed through the first check point, and then the second. At that point, the Mercedes began picking up speed, as it careened down the mountain road toward Damascus--Ibrahim, a human shield, spread-eagled over Safat on the floor of the car; their driver, ignorant of what was happening, rose to the occasion by keeping a heavy hand on his horn and scattering a few peasants and goats that had somehow managed to get onto the road.

Ori, meantime, had turned his armored car off the road--back onto the unpaved byway that would lead him to the hilltop, where he hoped the helicopter would be waiting. Within seconds after he turned, a Syrian guard at the nearest sentry point got word of the attack and fired his rifle into the air. He rushed toward a jeep that was parked nearby. Ori was driving at a brisk pace when he saw through his rearview mirror that he was being followed.

He increased his speed. In the distance, he saw the helicopter. Its rotors were already turning. The four commandos leaped out of their car and into the helicopter; even before the fourth commando had hit the deck, the helicopter was airborne, zigzagging into the sky, in an evasive pattern, to avoid the blast of machine-gun fire coming from the pursuing Syrians. The Israelis returned the fire, but it was merely a reflex action. They were already out of range.

•

Darius Kane sat at his desk, in his hotel room, nursing a bleeding knuckle. He was staring at a mark on the wall where, in growing frustration, he had just slammed his fist. He knew, instinctively, the moment he had left Felix Vandenberg's suite, that his story on Soviet and Israeli penetration of the O.L.P.P. would have to wait. Vandenberg had, for the moment, provided a more pressing alternative. Darius started typing the lead of a radio report.

NNS News has learned that U. S. intelligence satellites have picked up alarming evidence of massive troop build-ups on both sides of the Syrian-Israeli border. Secretary of State Vandenberg is known to be deeply concerned that war could break out on the Golan Heights, possibly within the next 24 hours.

Once Darius began typing, he felt better. It was the story of the hour, no question about it. The other material could, quite legitimately, wait.

When he had finished three versions of the "war" story, Darius placed his call to New York. When the phone rang, he asked to be connected with a recording studio. He gave them a voice "level" but no preliminary comment. It was only after he had finished that he asked to speak with the editor.

"I'm already on." It was Vic Laslo.

"Hey, Darius, guy, that's a helluva story!

Does anybody else have it?"

"Not to my knowledge."

Laslo seemed to sense that something was wrong. "Can I get anyone else for you?"

"No, thanks, Vic. Just tell TV what I've got; and tell them I'll be in touch a little later."

Darius hung up quickly. He had been concerned that the Israeli censor might not allow him to complete his reports. He wasn't far from wrong. The phone rang again.

"Mr. Kane? This is the military censor's office."

"What can I do for you?"

"Would you mind telling where you got the information for your report?"

"Yes, I would."

"Pardon?"

"I said I would mind; very much."

"Oh." The Israeli sounded surprised.

"Well, nice talking with you." Darius hung up before the censor could respond.

It took less than an hour for Darius' reports to rebound from NNS Radio back to Jerusalem. Every wire service in the U. S. had tried to confirm his story independently. When they failed, they began quoting NNS. Israeli radio and television were not far behind.

By three o'clock, the Israeli foreign office, under enormous public pressure, released a statement confirming half the report. Arab forces, the statement conceded, were massing on or near the Golan Heights.

At 3:30, a limousine carrying the Secretary of State pulled up in front of the prime minister's office. A top-heavy battery of microphones had been set up. Vandenberg ignored them and walked into the hallway and up the stairs that led to the prime minister's office.

Ya'acov Ben Dor greeted him with a broad smile.

"Don't look so glum, Felix. Things can always get worse."

Vandenberg smiled; a tight, professional smile. "In this part of the world, Ya'acov, I think there's a law to that effect."

Ben Dor drew his colleague into a private office. "Sit down, Felix. Can I get you something?"

"You can relieve my curiosity. What are you so bloody cheerful about?"

"I've given you some cards, Felix. Trumps."

"I don't play bridge. What are you talking about?"

Ben Dor pulled a cigarette from the pack that lay on his desk and tapped the filter end against the glass cover of his watch. "Late this morning, a team of Israeli commandos flew into Damascus. I won't bore you with details, but they engaged in a degree of . . . selective elimination. The Pentagon would like that term, don't you think?"

Vandenberg sat as though frozen to his seat.

"The principal members of the Iraqi, Algerian and Libyan delegations were elimmated; but the Syrian defense minister was spared, and so was Safat. Our men made it absolutely clear to them that they, too, could have been killed but that they were being deliberately spared, because Israel wants to prevent war and to continue moving toward a settlement. Our men went in and out without suffering a single casualty."

Vandenberg had turned pale with fury. He was obviously having trouble controlling his voice.

"You're saying that after giving me your solemn pledge of twenty-four hours of negotiating time, you launch an attack in the heart of Damascus?" Vandenberg looked frantically around the room, as though searching for any vestige of solace that might help him regain his self-control. He found none.

"You have in all probability destroyed whatever infinitesimal chance I might have had of preventing war. How could you have put me in this position? What do you imagine that the Arabs will do now? What can they do, except attack you? Their honor's at stake!"

Ben Dor assumed an air of almost patronizing formality. "Mr. Secretary," he began, "you seem to have overlooked the fact that we are not totally inexperienced in dealing with the Arabs. Whose pride are we talking about? The Iraqis'? The Libyans'? Even you don't like dealing with them. The only ones whose pride could be involved are the Syrians, and we've taken care of that. I told you that Hassan was deliberately left unharmed. Honor. Is that the word you used? Do you really believe the Syrians are going to admit that a handful of Israeli commandos was able to penetrate al-Bakr's most tightly guarded home, break up a meeting that no one in the world is even supposed to know about and then escape without a single casualty? My God, Felix, they don't even have a scrap of evidence that we were ever there!"

The Secretary had regained his composure. "From what you've told me," he noted dryly, "the corpses of those people that you--what did you call it, 'selectively eliminated'?--those corpses could provide some fairly convincing evidence."

Ben Dor adapted himself to the change in mood. "I don't believe, Felix, that they're about to advertise that." Resting his elbows on the desk, the Israeli leaned toward Vandenberg. "Believe me, they won't say a word. I'll even go one step further. This may be the best possible time to approach the Arabs for a settlement. Safat knows that he could've been killed. Al-Bakr knows that we not only spared his defense minister but humbled the most dangerous adversary that he has. They won't attack us now, Felix. They've lost whatever element of surprise might have existed. They know we're on full alert; but, even more important, we've also let them know in unmistakable terms that we're ready to negotiate. Talk to them now, Felix. Go to Damascus and talk to them."

Vandenberg shook his head. "I don't even know if they'll see me now."

"They'll see you," Ben Dor said firmly.

"Let me think about it," responded Vandenberg. He had already made up his mind to go.

•

Frank Bernardi was stunned at the news of the raid. His pessimism about its consequences filled the room. "I don't see that we have any options, Felix."

Vandenberg watched his Undersecretary without expression.

"If we stay here or go back to Washington, we forfeit any ability to influence the outcome. The only thing you can do is go to Damascus, Felix."

Vandenberg issued a thin smile of approval. "I agree," he said. "Any word yet from the Syrians?"

"No," scowled Bernardi, "and I don't think there will be. After all, to them, it's got to look as though you knew about the whole operation."

"That's what worries me more than anything else," Vandenberg agreed. "Even if al-Bakr sees me, how the hell do I convince him that the Israelis pulled this stunt without our knowledge?"

"You don't." Bernardi was crushing a throw cushion between his hands. "He's not going to believe you, anyway. Ben Dor's got to give you something; a concession, something tangible."

Vandenberg viewed his friend with open approval. "I think there's hope for you yet, Frank. Get Ya'acov on the phone for me, will you?"

The conversation was brief and deceptively simple.

"Ya'acov. I don't have time to argue and I don't have time to play games. You're the one who got me into this mess and you're the one who's going to help me get out of it. I want your authority to tell al-Bakr that Israel is ready to engage in a serious West Bank negotiation, if he can get Safat to publicly acknowledge two forty-two and three thirty-eight."

This was a reference to a pair of United Nations resolutions that, among other things, confirmed the right of "all nations in the area" to an independent existence. A Safat acknowledgment of resolutions 242 and 338 would amount to an indirect O.L.P.P. recognition of Israel's "right to exist"--an issue that lies at the core of the Arab-Israeli dispute.

"Not enough, Felix." Ben Dor's voice was flat and final.

"What the hell do you mean, 'Not enough'?"

"Not enough." He paused, searching for the right words. "If they want our cooperation"--he raised his voice--"if you want our cooperation, Safat is going to have to get his friends to rewrite the O.L.P.P. covenant that calls for Israel's destruction. Otherwise, putting aside my own feeling, there'd be no chance of getting such an agreement through the Knesset."

"Supposing they just drop the phrase calling, in effect, for Israel's destruction. That, plus explicit acceptance of two forty-two and three thirty-eight?" Vanden-berg was holding his breath.

Ben Dor reflected for a few moments in silence. Then, he said, "Felix, we Israelis are modest people. We're not asking for the moon."

Vandenberg decided to press his case. "In that case, Ya'acov, I also want to be able to say that you're willing to accept Safat as a legitimate representative of the Palestinians."

"Absolutely not!" The prime minister's voice rose in outraged indignation.

"You're not listening to me, Ya'acov. I said a legitimate representative, not the."

There was silence at the prime minister's end. While the raid against al-Bakr's headquarters was in progress, Ben Dor had held an extraordinary meeting of his cabinet, during which he had advised his colleagues of the attack and warned that Israel would have to be prepared to make concessions, in the event that negotiations did materialize, subsequent to the raid. He had already requested--and he had already received--authority to proceed essentially along the lines that Vandenberg had just outlined. Ben Dor confided none of this to the Secretary of State.

"You know what you're asking, Felix?"

"I do know, Ya'acov, believe me."

"Even if it works, my opponents will introduce a no-confidence vote against me in the Knesset."

"I understand that, but you're exactly what Israel needs now, Ya'acov--a statesman, not just a politician."

"Don't start flattering me, Felix. I may change my mind."

"I have your permission, then?"

"My very reluctant permission.'

"Thank you." Vandenberg hung up. His father had once told him, "When someone gives you what you want, don't press your luck. Take it and run."

•

By late afternoon, Darius' story was being graphically confirmed throughout Israel. Military reservists were seen in the large cities and the small kibbutzim rushing to active duty, hitchhiking rides to their units. Israeli housewives were stocking up on staples in a frenzy of panic buying. Even members of the Israeli cabinet, summoned to Jerusalem by the prime minister earlier in the day, were now confirming, confidentially, that they had been ordered not to return to their offices in Tel Aviv but to stay close to the Knesset in the event of an emergency meeting. There was an almost palpable air of crisis.

At seven P.M., a grim-faced prime minister appeared unexpectedly at the King David Hotel. He refused to talk with reporters, but he did deliver a short, ominous speech to a largely American gathering of the United Jewish Appeal. Ben Dor, speaking in English, said, "Israel always has and will continue to exercise restraint in the face of provocation; but it would be a tragic miscalculation if anyone were to confuse restraint with the inability to act. The government of Israel does not seek confrontation, but neither will it shrink from it. Israel is dependent on the help of others; but our course of action will never be controlled by that dependency. We have the strength and the daring to inflict a crushing defeat on anyone who plans or tries to carry out our destruction."

The speech, though delivered in a flat monotone, brought the audience to its feet. The applause continued even after the prime minister left the hotel.

At eight P.M., Darius was just about to leave the hotel himself, on his way to the satellite facilities in Hertseliya, when spokesman Carl Ellis cornered him in the lobby. "The Secretary's flying to Damascus tonight."

"What time?"

"The press buses leave here in half an hour."

Darius raced back to his room and called Jerry Blumer at the National News Service office at Hertseliya. "Jerry? Now, don't interrupt me and just listen. I've got to leave here in just a few minutes. Vandenberg's going to Damascus tonight. I'll need a crew at the airport. Did you hear about Ben Dor's speech?"

"Yeah. Kol Yisrael carried it live."

"All right. We've got that on film. Now, I suggest we handle the story this way. We can use the film you've got of the reservists hitchhiking to their units. We've got some good footage here of housewives and panic buying. I'm going to start voice-over with the same stuff I used on my radio spots--the satellite intelligence material. Cover that any way you can. Then the reservists, then the housewives. Then we go to a big chunk of Ben Dor, here, this evening; and I'll do an oncamera close at the airport. If you want to, you can cover part of that with the Vandenberg departure footage. Any problem?"

"No. I'll see you at Ben Gurion."

By 9:15 P.M., the newsmen arrived at the airport. By 9:30, Darius had filmed his oncamera close, twice, and recorded his three radio spots. He was about to hand Blumer copies of all his scripts, when a small black-and-white Israeli police car, flashing a blue light on its dome, led the Vandenberg motorcade to the side of the Secretary's waiting Boeing 707. There was no departure statement, not even a pro forma wave in the direction of the cameras. Vandenberg got out of his limousine and strode purposefully up the front steps of his aircraft.

There was no briefing on the flight to Damascus.

•

Syrian president al-Bakr thumbed an endless succession of amber worry beads across his forefinger, past the palm of his right hand. He had accorded the proper protocol to the Secretary of State, but there was not even a suggestion of warmth. The interpreter was a Syrian, a member of al-Bakr's personal staff; his English was flawless, though lacking in elegance. Vandenberg had the uneasy feeling that certain subtleties, shadings, nuances eluded the man and therefore evaporated, without ever reaching the Syrian president. Vandenberg, believing that diplomatic flexibility decreases in direct ratio to the number of people involved in a negotiation, had proposed that he and al-Bakr meet alone. The Syrian president, however, had insisted that his foreign minister join them; and so Vandenberg had included Bernardi, too.

Al-Bakr seemed to be in a sour mood.

"There is only one issue to be discussed: Israeli aggression." The interpreter reduced the Arabic to stenographic notes and repeated the sentiment, flatly, in English. It was the third time in less than ten minutes that al-Bakr had returned to the same theme.

"Mr. President," retorted Vandenberg, "I don't minimize the gravity of the situation. But unless both sides are prepared to exercise utmost restraint, simple inertia will carry us into a war, the consequences of which are impossible to anticipate, except that I think we can confidently predict that it will bring untold anguish to all peoples of the Middle East."

Vandenberg felt it was time to break the cycle of platitudes. "Mr. President. What I'm about to say carries with it the risk of grave misunderstanding; and I'm sure you'll believe me when I say that I do not lightly violate diplomatic confidences. However, I think it's vitally important that we grasp the opportunities as well as the obvious dangers of the current situation."

The progress of the worry beads was momentarily stalled.

"During the past few hours, acting under instructions from my President, I have communicated with the leaders of the Soviet Union. We have proposed an immediate and total halt of arms shipments from the United States to Israel, against the assurance of a similar halt in Soviet war supplies to Syria."

The proposal had, in fact, been tacked to the end of a blistering cable that Vandenberg had sent to the Kremlin early that morning. There was little or no chance that the Soviets would even respond. The Secretary did not expect al-Bakr to be favorably impressed, either, but he wanted to underscore the probability that if war broke out, America's role as a mediator would be finished. The Arab world would fall, once again, into the Soviet orbit. Israel, with U. S. backing, would oppose them. Since al-Bakr had, in recent months, thrown his personal influence behind a policy of moderation, such polarization was not, for him, a promising prospect.

"Our actions, Mr. Secretary, as you well know, have always been those of an independent nation. While we value the support of our Socialist friends, we pursue our own policy--if I may say so, sometimes with the encouragement of parties who are not always able to live up to their commitments." The U. S. Congress had yet to authorize all the economic aid that Vandenberg had pledged to al-Bakr seven months earlier. "Also, it is my impression that U. S. generosity to Israel has been at such an extraordinary level for so long that their capacity to wage war would hardly be affected by a temporary break in the supply line." Al-Bakr paused before adding, "Even if the American Congress were to permit such an interruption."

The meeting was not going well. Al-Bakr's tone was getting angrier. Bernardi leaned over to Vandenberg and suggested a 15-minute break.

The Syrian president, inclining his head politely, placed his right hand over his heart. If his guests required a short rest, then, of course, they would take a break.

Vandenberg and Bernardi walked out of the conference room, down a flight of stairs and outside into the garden. The Secretary of State was depressed, almost morose. "We're getting nowhere, Frank. Maybe we should just pack up." They walked in figure eights around the rose bushes. "I think I'm going to tell al-Bakr that I feel my usefulness has been exhausted. If I put Ben Dor's proposal before him now, he'll piss all over it. He's not in a mood to negotiate."

Bernardi had been exposed to the Secretary's fluctuating moods on more than one occasion. He brushed aside Vandenberg's pessimism. "You're only reacting to what he said, Felix. Did you hear what he didn't say?" Bernardi didn't wait for an answer. "He didn't even mention the Israeli raid." He smiled. "Ben Dor was right. He's not going to bring it up. Give him something to salve his pride, Felix, and I think the man's ready to deal."

They continued walking through the garden, almost brushing shoulders, their voices lowered. Vandenberg had his hands clasped behind his back. "It's possible," he conceded. "You could be right." Vandenberg's voice had taken on a faintly more optimistic tone. "I don't have to let him know that Ben Dor's proposal is firm. I could raise it as a possibility."

"Exactly."

"And if he doesn't bite?"

"You can still threaten to leave the area."

"I'm not very hopeful, Frank."

Bernardi placed a big hand protectively around his friend's shoulder. "You never are, Felix. Let's go upstairs."

They returned to an empty conference room. Al-Bakr had left, as had the interpreter and the foreign minister. The Secretary and the Undersecretary of State sat down and waited. Several minutes passed before a young man, whom they both recognized as a mid-level functionary of the Syrian foreign ministry, entered. "The president asked if you would be kind enough to come and join him upstairs."

Vandenberg and Bernardi exchanged glances but said nothing.

Al-Bakr greeted them at the entrance to a small, second-floor dining room. He was as openly effusive now as he had been grim before. "Mr. Secretary!" He took obvious pleasure in the look of surprise that, involuntarily, had crossed the faces of both of his American guests. A splendid Arabic meal had been arrayed on a long wooden table; but standing before the table, almost in a receiving line, were the Syrian defense minister, Abdul Hassan, the foreign minister, who had participated in the earlier meeting, the chairman of the O.L.P.P., Jamaal Safat, and his chief of operations, Ibrahim el-Haj.

"I believe you know all of my Arab brothers." Al-Bakr was enjoying the scene.

Vandenberg was still somewhat nonplused, but he walked down the line, regaining a little of his composure with each handshake. By the time he reached Safat, he even permitted himself a warm smile, grasped the Palestinian's elbow firmly with his left hand, enclosing Safat's hand with the other. Then, still holding Safat's elbow, Vandenberg turned toward the table and a huge roast lamb, which occupied center stage. "Which end of the lamb should I talk into?"

There was a burst of nervous laughter.

During the meal, Vandenberg made a good deal of small talk, waiting for the Syrian president's move. When at last there came a lull in the conversation, al-Bakr picked up his water glass.

"I would like to propose a toast. For some time now, with the help of our inexhaustible friend"--he nodded in Vandenberg's direction--"and his distinguished predecessor, we have been moving slowly, but gradually, in the direction of a just and lasting peace in the Middle East. We have long known that a final settlement would not be possible unless it took into account the legitimate interests of the Palestinian people. This issue has been too long deferred and the wholly justifiable indignation of our Palestinian brothers has been too long contained. We are at a crossroad; and we may not pass this way again. If we fail in our efforts to achieve political ends by political means, the alternative is obvious. The alternative is war, and war is a tragedy for mankind. The tragedy may be unavoidable, but we owe it to history--to our children and to our children's children--to summon up every last remnant of good will that is within us, before the dogs of war, which even now are restrained by nothing more than threads, are finally and irrevocably unleashed."

It was a remarkably moderate statement, which all but begged Vandenberg to prevent a new war. It was the kind of opportunity for which the Secretary of State had been silently praying. Al-Bakr was inviting him to deal directly with Safat.

"Mr. President, Chairman Safat, distinguished colleagues," Vandenberg began, speaking very slowly. "Every confrontation has, within it, the seeds of opportunity. Wars are not begun because of events but because of the ability or inability of men to perceive the nature of the opportunity inherent in those events. If war, which has already brought so much suffering to all the peoples of this region, is avoided, it will be because of the vision of statesmen like you, Mr. President.

"Those of us whom history has chosen to play the role of intermediary can act only in the context of leaders whose perceptions transcend the facile solutions of brute force."

Vandenberg turned slightly, as he said those last words, so that he was facing Safat.

"We stand ready to lend our support to all those who favor peaceful solutions; and the United States will always exert its influence in that direction. I propose a toast, therefore, to the vision of President al-Bakr and the courage of those who are prepared to join with him in the search for a just and lasting peace in the Middle East."

The stage had been set. Al-Bakr, his ministers of defense and foreign affairs, withdrew silently from the room. Only the interpreter, Safat, Ibrahim and the two Americans remained behind.

Vandenberg was more than a little discomfited by the presence of Ibrahim, knowing that every word of his conversation with Safat would be transmitted back to the Israeli government, but he proceeded, nevertheless, explaining his perception of Israeli thinking with meticulous care.

A major roadblock came during their long discussion of a single word: a.

Safat had been expounding his views.

"The Arab summit conference of 1974, at Rabat, named Yassir Arafat as the legitimate representative of the Palestinian people. Since the O.L.P.P. now occupies the role among the Palestinian people once held by the P.L.O., I, Jamaal Safat, am the rightful inheritor of that responsibility. If I agree to accept UN resolutions two forty-two and three thirty-eight, I must insist that the Israelis accept my leadership of the Palestinian people."

Vandenberg felt seriously inhibited by the presence of Ibrahim. "Frank," he said, turning to his Undersecretary of State, "I think you and Mr. el-Haj should examine the question of how we're going to implement this exchange of understandings."

Bernardi understood immediately and rose to his feet, but Ibrahim remained seated. Safat nodded to his deputy.

"It's premature," whispered Ibrahim in Arabic. "There is no understanding yet."

"Go with him." It was an order.

Ibrahim looked sullen, but he complied.

Safat gripped both arms of his chair in a show of mock apprehension. "Am I to be subjected now to the full force of the Secretary's renowned persuasive powers?"

Vandenberg smiled deferentially. "From what I've heard, the chairman's powers of resistance are certainly more than equal to the challenge. However," he added quickly, "my powers of persuasion have been grossly exaggerated. If I have any abilities in this field at all, they lie in the capacity to find areas of common understanding and interest. For example, in our first meeting, you impressed me with your conviction that the O.L.P.P. would benefit from recognition by the United States Government. As I indicated to you then, and I repeat now, that would be feasible only after the O.L.P.P. conceded Israel's right to exist. What we're discussing, therefore, would seem to transcend the importance of one word."

Safat began to interrupt, but Vandenberg overrode his objections. "Especially . . . especially since the perception of reality is sometimes far more important than objective reality itself. Recognition by the United States, which could flow out of this agreement, would confer upon you, Mr. Chairman, the last remaining vestiges of international legitimacy. I'm not insensitive to the distinction that exists in being 'a' representative or 'the' representative of the Palestinian people; nor would I insult your intelligence by suggesting that the Israeli government would not prefer to deal with another representative. But, if you'll forgive me for being blunt, Mr. Chairman, that is purely an internal Arab problem. You've pointed out, quite correctly, that the Rabat conference of 1974 indirectly conveyed to you the authority to speak on behalf of the Palestinian people. You either retain that authority or you don't. The United States can neither confer it upon you nor take it away. If the Arab world regards you as 'the' legitimate spokesman for the Palestinians, then you are. If, on the other hand, the Arab world believes that you must share that authority, then you will share it. What (continued on page 228) In The National Interest (continued from page 224) you will have to consider, Mr. Chairman, is whether your position will be undermined or enhanced by an additional degree of international legitimacy."

Safat sat, tugging thoughtfully on a ragged tuft of hair. "And how," he asked finally, "does the United States view King Mohammed's role?"

"As I said, Mr. Chairman, ultimately, that becomes an Arab question. Certainly, in the initial stages of contact between the O.L.P.P. and the Israelis, King Mohammed may play an invaluable role. But, I repeat, eventually, the question of who represents the Palestinian people will have to be resolved by the Arab world. That discussion is premature."

"I think," Safat said slowly, "that you are somewhat too modest, Mr. Secretary, in your assessment of American influence. Whom will Washington back in this matter?"

"The question," Vandenberg repeated, "is premature. It depends on far too many variables. In the course of the next few years, Jordan and the O.L.P.P. will create their own realities. The United States is not inflexible. We adjust to a changing world. Look at China, look at Vietnam, Cuba, Syria."

"Why should I trust you?" Safat was beginning to yield. He needed one more gentle push, one more measure of encouragement.

"I'm not asking for your trust, Mr. Chairman. I'm asking you to make a cold, clinical evaluation of the world, of your own interests, as you see them. By becoming a recognized participant in future negotiations, do you damage your position or enhance it? That's the issue; and only you can decide it."

Safat sat silently for a few minutes, "Is that all?" he asked finally,

"No, Mr. Chairman. I would be less than candid with you if I didn't raise one more point."

"And that would be what?"

"That would be dropping a certain phrase from the covenant of the O.L.P.P." Vandenberg paused. "I would have hesitated even to raise the issue, if it hadn't been suggested to me that you were already going to consider it at the next meeting of your National Council." The Secretary was smiling.

"It is too late to engage in games, Mr. Vandenberg. Your intelligence is extraordinarily good. That has already been decided, as you indicated, but I must tell you now that we have no intention of substituting any explicit recognition of Israel." Safat looked at Vandenberg.

"Certainly, not now."

"Nor would I expect you to." Vandenberg barely missed a beat. "Now."

The silence that followed must have lasted several minutes, but neither man moved or spoke. Finally, Safat stood and extended his hand to the Secretary of State. Vandenberg took the Palestinian's hand. One of the most troublesome log jams in the Middle East had cracked.

"I think," suggested Vandenberg, "that we should ask our colleagues to join us, don't you?"

Safat nodded.

It was four o'clock in the morning by the time the final arrangements were concluded. Safat would return to Beirut, where, later that morning, he was scheduled to give an interview to the British Broadcasting Corporation. In the course of that interview, which was to be released at noon, he would reveal the O.L.P.P.'s willingness to recognize UN resolutions 242 and 338. He would say nothing at that time about changes in the covenant. At the same time, he would announce his understanding that the Israeli government was prepared to recognize him as "a legitimate representative of the Palestinian people." That announcement would be confirmed by Israeli prime minister Ben Dor. At noon, precisely, the governments of Israel and Syria would announce the simultaneous easing of the alert status of their troops. Secretary Vandenberg would then announce the impending release of an important statement by the White House at eight A.M., Eastern standard time. The Washington statement would contain American guarantee of all the understandings reached by the Syrians, the Israelis and the O.L.P.P. The United States would also announce, for the first time, that the U. S. Government was itself giving serious consideration to recognizing Jamaal Safat as "a legitimate representative of the Palestinian people." By six P.M., Middle Eastern time, the governments of Israel and Syria would begin pulling back their forces along the Golan front.

The subject of the Israeli commando raid on Damascus the previous day was never broached.

•

During the night, Darius had obtained from his Armenian cameraman, whose sources were legion and frequently reliable, some tantalizing pieces of information. The previous day, Darius learned, there had been either an attempted coup or an Israeli raid near Damascus. The sources differed on that key point. They agreed, however, that there had been casualties at President al-Bakr's mountain hideaway. Several ambulances had been seen leaving the area and there had been an exchange of gunfire on the outskirts of Damascus. Darius had struggled, for much of the night, to put that information into the larger context of his knowledge. Shortly before three, though, he, too, had fallen asleep.

When it came time to leave for Tel Aviv, Darius was a little surprised at the haste. Fifteen minutes after he and the other reporters had arrived at the airport, the Secretary's limousine arrived, pulling up so tightly to the front ramp of the aircraft that no questioning was possible. Within three minutes, they were airborne--arid, again, there was no briefing on the plane.

It was not quite six o'clock in the morning when the Secretary's plane taxied to a halt in front of the main terminal at Ben Gurion Airport. Vandenberg had slept exactly two hours out of the past 48, and it was beginning to show. He stood for a moment at the head of the El Al ramp, took a deep breath of air and picked his way slowly down the stairway and toward the knot of Israeli officials and security men who awaited him on the tarmac.

A crowd of Israeli and foreign journalists was trapped in a distant press enclosure, shouting questions--to no avail. The traveling newsmen tried to hear snatches of conversation between Vandenberg and the Israeli ministers who had come to welcome him.

Darius walked toward the Secretary's limousine. He approached one of the agents. "Which side is he getting in?"

"Right here," murmured the agent.

Darius intercepted the Secretary some ten feet from the car, falling into stride with him. "Congratulations," he said quietly.

Vandenberg hesitated for only an instant, looking at Darius with the trace of a smile. "One of these days, Kane, I'm going to tell you about these last forty-eight hours."

"I'm glad you got it."

Vandenberg made no effort to discredit Darius' assumption of success; but just before he got into the car, he warned, "Don't go overboard, yet. I still have to talk to Ben Dor."

"When do you do that?"

"As soon as I can change my shirt." Then, just as the door was closing, Vandenberg leaned forward in his seat. "I want to see you for a couple of minutes, after I talk to Ben Dor."

Darius knew what was troubling the Secretary. The man's power to concentrate on a wide variety of problems, simultaneously, was extraordinary. He was still engaged in the process of nudging the Middle East almost single-handedly back from the brink of war, but one small part of his brain was still occupied with Darius' story about the O.L.P.P. penetrations. Darius shook his head in grudging admiration.

•

Ben Dor was solicitous. "You're tired," he observed, helping Vandenberg off with his coat.

"I'm fine," remarked the Secretary of State, heading for the prime minister's study.

Ben Dor poured two cups of coffee and pushed a plate of buns across his desk. "Have one. Esther made them herself."

Vandenberg reached first for the coffee.

"So," began the prime minister, "how did it go?"

"I thought you'd know already." Vandenberg looked up with a slightly malicious smile. He knew that there was little chance that the Israeli agent could have summarized and transmitted the substance of the all-night meeting in the brief time that had elapsed.

Ben Dor pouted. "No. That fast it doesn't go."

Vandenberg reached for a bun; he took a large bite. "In that case, I feel a little better. I don't like to bore you with stale news."

Ben Dor tapped impatiently on his desk with a letter opener. "Come on, Felix. Don't play games with me."

Vandenberg rubbed his eyes wearily. "All right. It went well. I'll tell you the part you'll like least first. I finessed your agent out of the room during the key part of my conversation with Safat. He may be a first-rate spy, but I don't know how much he understands about diplomatic language. I didn't want him fouling things up at the last minute."

Ben Dor shook his head from side to side. "I'm not so sure how well I understand your diplomatic language, either."

"You understand it, Ya'acov, better than anyone. I had to convince Safat that he was only 'a' legitimate, representative. I told him that's all that you or we could accept and if he wants any kind of recognition from either one of us----"

Vandenberg hadn't really expected to slip it past Ben Dor that easily, but the Israeli didn't even let him finish the sentence. "Wait a minute. When did U. S. recognition become a part of the deal?"

"I didn't promise him recognition. I promised him a statement from the White House this afternoon, if everything else goes according to plan, saying that the U. S. Government is giving serious consideration to recognizing Safat as a legitimate representative of the Palestinian people."

"You had no right to go that far, Felix."

Vandenberg smiled solicitously. "Ya'-acov. My old and dear friend, Ya'acov. For years now, we have withheld recognition from the O.L.P.P. on the specific grounds that they persistently refused to recognize your right to exist. Now, if everything goes according to plan, Safat is going to make that policy shift public during a BBC interview about three and a half hours from now. If he doesn't do it, there won't be any announcement; but, for God's sake, Ya'acov, you can't expect the United States Government to take a more rigid posture toward the O.L.P.P. than your government does."

Ben Dor conceded the point, reluctantly. "You still shouldn't have done it without discussing it with me. What about the rest of it?"

Vandenberg ran his hand briskly over the rough stubble on his face. "The quid pro quo for the BBC interview is that you make a similar announcement, any way you see fit, that you're prepared to recognize Safat as 'a' negotiating partner if the O.L.P.P. goes along with two forty-two and three thirty-eight. Unless you have some other preference, you may want to leak it to Kane. It'll keep him off the penetration story, until I have a chance to talk to him again." Vandenrberg paused, "And, by the way, he confirmed what we already know about the O.L.P.P. changing its covenant again."

Ben Dor nodded. "What about the Arab army on the Golan?"

"Twelve noon. You and al-Bakr will release a simultaneous statement that the alert is being lifted and the troops on both sides are being pulled back."

Ben Dor leaned back in his chair. "It seems you've done it, Felix. Mazeltov!"

Vandenberg gave an audible sigh of relief and dropped the bun he'd been holding onto the floor.

Eight-fifteen A.M. The lobby of the King David Hotel was jammed with tourists, security men, reporters, cameramen and a dozen or so members of the hotel staff. Jerusalem continued to be gripped by war fever. There had been no indication from any quarter that there were grounds for relaxation. An expectant hush enveloped the lobby as Secretary Vandenberg passed through the main entrance. Everyone had been pushed unceremoniously behind the rectangular boxes of plastic plants and the entranceway in front of the registration desk was empty. A dozen hand-held floodlights bathed Vandenberg and his security escort in a harsh brilliance. Lines of fatigue were etched on the Secretary's face and he seemed, literally, to have trouble walking. He ignored everyone.

Darius was waiting on the sixth floor, near the elevator.

"You're going to have to wait a few minutes," Vandenberg grunted, as he moved toward his suite. He turned, trying to see past his security detail. "Frank, I want you with me."

As he entered the room, Vandenberg stripped off his jacket, tie and shirt, flinging them onto a chair. He turned abruptly, motioning Bernardi to him into the bathroom. "First thing we've got to do is cable al-Bakr and Safat. Repeat the details of the understanding and tell them Ben Dor agrees on all counts." Vandenberg started to shave. "What time is it in Washington now?"

Bernardi calculated quickly. "One-thirty in the morning."

"Well, that's too goddamn bad. If I can't sleep, why the hell should they? Get Stewart and the President for me."

The conversation turned out to be brief but warmly cordial on the President's part. First, Vandenberg sketched out the terms of the agreement he had reached with the Arabs and the Israelis. He said that, if the President approved, he'd dictate a rough draft of a statement to Harlan--for release the next morning.

"When I heard you were calling," the President said, "I thought we might be going to war--now I'm damned pleased that it worked out so well. I have no questions. You're to be congratulated, Felix."

After he'd dictated the draft to the National Security Advisor, Vandenberg collapsed on a couch. "Go and get a few hours' rest," he said to Bernardi, "and, by the way, you might send Kane in."

Vandenberg made no effort to conceal his own exhaustion as Darius entered the suite. "You can imagine," Vandenberg droned, "how eager I am to engage in a protracted discussion of First Amendment guarantees; but before I take my allotted hour's sleep for the night, I wanted to determine whether the National News Service can survive the deferral of another war."

Darius grinned. "It's a good thing you're tired. I was afraid you might indulge in some hyperbole."

The Secretary pushed out his lower lip, thoughtfully. "Tell me what you think you've got."

Darius saw that there was to be no further bantering. It was time to lay out everything he knew and, where possible, to fill in the gaps with educated guesses.

"All right, Mr. Secretary. Let's take it in order. I don't know whether the Russians initiated the kidnaping of your wife, but I am sure that one of Safat's top lieutenants is a Soviet agent. So at least they knew about it and played a key role in it. In any event, they've tried to make the most of it by undermining, in fact, by trying to destroy, your role here in the negotiating process.

"For the longest time, I couldn't understand the Israeli connection in all of this. Nothing Ben Dor's done these past several days has made much sense. For a while, I thought the Russian agent might even be an Israeli, or vice versa; some kind of double agent. But now I'm convinced that there have been at least two high-level penetrations of the O.L.P.P. The Israelis have got a man in there, too. Just what part he played in your wife's kidnaping, I don't know.

"Now, just twelve hours ago, everything here spelled war. You spend the night in Damascus and the whole picture's been turned around. Why?" Darius answered his own question. "I can think of two reasons. I know that there was some kind of military operation in Damascus yesterday, before you arrived. If it was a coup attempt, it had to be unsuccessful. If al-Bakr had been overthrown, you wouldn't have any deal now. But I'm more inclined to think that the Israelis pulled one of their John Wayne stunts. They've got a man on the inside; so if there was a war-council meeting of the Rejectionist Front--and they're the only ones who'd really be pushing hard for a military showdown these days--the Israelis would have known about it and could've broken it up. I can't see al-Bakr getting too upset over anything that undermines the influence of his defense minister's friends."

Darius was waiting for some kind of reaction from Vandenberg, but the Secretary of State hadn't moved.

"So, in that context," Darius continued, "you fly into Damascus and meet with al-Bakr and Safat. You blow the Soviet agent's cover and deliver some kind of conciliatory message from the Israelis. Al-Bakr figures he's never going to be in a stronger position domestically and puts the arm on Safat." Darius paused again, but there was still no reaction. "That's it," he added.

Vandenberg stared blankly at Darius for a long moment, struggling to understand how the reporter could have constructed a scenario so close to reality. Finally, he responded, in a voice heavy with gloom. "Don't you think we have enough problems already?"

"You're not denying any of it?"

Vandenberg exploded. "For Chrissake, Darius, you don't really believe that I'm going to respond point by point to that patchwork of speculation and hypothesis, do you?" Lowering his voice, the Secretary confided, "Look, you're right about one thing. We're on the verge of a historic agreement. Within the next few hours, the Israelis and the O.L.P.P. are going to announce a modified recognition of each other; and that's going to be followed by an immediate pullback of forces along the Golan border. Now, I'm telling you this, off the record, to impress upon you the incalculable harm you could do with your exploration of the dark corners of rumors about raids and penetrations. I mean, there has to be some outer limit where the requirements of a free press are subordinated to matters of peace and war."

Darius could feel a tightness in his chest. "I'll hold the story, Mr. Secretary, but I won't kill it."

Vandenberg sighed with exhaustion and exasperation. "I'm too tired to argue now, Darius. Just promise me, before you write anything about what we've discussed, that you'll talk to me again."

Darius gave the pledge reluctantly. "All right," he frowned. "What about the O.L.P.P.-Israeli recognition story? When can I use it?"

Vandenberg picked up the phone, depressing a button that connected him with one of his secretaries. "Get the prime minister for me."

He replaced the receiver. "I don't know how you feel about being involved in history, but since Safat is making his end of the announcement in a BBC interview, I suggested to Ben Dor that he might want to deliver his part through NNS."

The buzzer on the phone interrupted the conversation.

"Ya'acov? I've got Darius Kane here with me." Ben Dor seemed to be raising some kind of objection.

"No, of course," Vandenberg concurred. "It would have to be on a 'hold for release' basis for noon." The Secretary looked at Darius, who nodded his agreement. "I'll put him on."

Darius found himself, five minutes later, standing in front of the elevator outside the Secretary's suite, in a state of utter confusion. On the one hand, he had, scribbled in his notebook, the text of an extraordinary Israeli announcement. Despite the qualified nature of the language, the Israeli prime minister had acknowledged his archfoe, Jamaal Safat, as "a representative of the Palestinian people." Darius alone had just been handed one of the major stories of the year. On the other hand, he recognized that he was being used as an instrument of high-stakes diplomacy.

"Screw it," he muttered to himself. "What the hell's the difference if he gives it to me alone or announces it at a press conference?" There was a difference, though, and Darius knew it. By limiting the announcement to a single news agency--and a foreign one, at that--Ben Dor had retained a margin of deniability, in the event that anything soured in the interim. Furthermore, Vandenberg had, once again, maneuvered him into a position where the story of the penetration and the raid would have to be deferred for at least a few more hours. Darius Kane felt dirty, resentful, and yet excited.

•

The satellite report had gone smoothly.

"Piece o' cake," was Blumer's verdict, though his screams had echoed throughout the building when it appeared for a while, earlier in the evening, that film of the defense minister had been misplaced.

Darius had discovered long ago that the big stories are generally the easiest to do. Besides, there were no late developments.

By seven P.M., Secretary Vandenberg had emerged from the prime minister's office, exuding a sense of accomplishment and satisfaction.

"I will," Vandenberg had told the crowd of waiting reporters, "be returning to Washington tomorrow morning. Immediately upon my return, I'll be meeting with President Abbott. It's possible that I will be back here in the Middle East in two weeks, to engage in a more intensive search for a west-bank settlement, based on the O.L.P.P.'s acceptance of resolutions two forty-two and three thirty-eight and the decision of the Israeli cabinet to allow me to proceed on that basis."

With that piece of film securely in hand, Darius had reached Hertseliya before 8:30 and he had been able to spend more than three hours composing his report.

Now it was approaching two o'clock in the morning and Darius had passed beyond simple exhaustion. As his car eased into the King David driveway, Darius wanted nothing more than an uninterrupted half hour, soaking in a hot tub.

The lobby was empty. The bar was closed. Darius took the elevator to the fourth floor, unlocked the door to his room and stepped over a pile of messages and communiqués that had been gathering since late afternoon. He was tempted to ignore them all. He had already stripped down to his shorts and was making his way into the bathroom when he gathered up the harvest of paper, glancing quickly at one sheet after another. Then he found the message from one of Vandenberg's secretaries. "Come up to the Secretary's suite whenever you return." The word whenever was underlined.

Darius closed his eyes. He didn't feel up to another confrontation with Vandenberg; but he knew that one was unavoidable.

At two-thirty, after a quick cold shower, he was once again escorted into the Secretary's suite.

Vandenberg was standing by the window, holding a glass of soda water. He motioned in the direction of the bar. "Help yourself."

Darius poured himself a glass of ginger ale before joining the Secretary. "It's an impressive sight, even at night." He inclined his head in the general direction of the Old City.

Vandenberg's manner was preoccupied; his expression, mournful. "It's ironic, isn't it?"

"What's that, sir?"

"Here I am, on the verge of reaching a breakthrough of almost inconceivable proportions between the Arabs and the Israelis, and the whole thing may be jeopardized by the nature of our own adversary system."

Darius tried to find a suitable response but couldn't; a brief period of silence followed.

"I can't argue this with you, Darius. I'm genuinely trying to understand it. Perhaps you can explain it to me."

"Aren't you being just a little disingenuous, Mr. Secretary?"

Vandenberg turned on Darius without anger. "No. I'm absolutely serious. I know that you, and several of your colleagues, believe me to be insensitive to the democratic process; but perhaps you can explain how the cause of democracy will be served by destroying the only real chance for peace that the Middle East has known."

Darius was feeling dizzy with fatigue. "I'm sorry, Mr. Secretary, but it isn't a journalist's duty to weigh the consequences of a story he writes--only to judge its accuracy. Even if you convinced me you were right in this case, it would be irrelevant to the general rule."

"I'm sure you don't expect me to believe that no reporter has ever compromised his ideals and broken the rule," Vandenberg said. "Then why do we have to be so hypothetical? If you broadcast a story saying that the Russians and the Israelis have planted agents in the O.L.P.P.'s upper echelon, what do you think Safat's chance for survival would be?"

"Slim."

"Exactly. And even if he managed to hang on after that, do you seriously believe that he'd be able to conduct a policy of moderation toward Israel? And if there were an Israeli agent in the O.L.P.P., how long do you think that man would go on living after you broadcast your story?"

Darius' head was throbbing. He put down his glass on the window ledge and leaned against the back of a chair.

Vandenberg apparently decided that he had pressed his argument to maximum advantage. "I can't tell you what to write and what to withhold; but, please, Darius, I ask you as a friend to consider carefully what you're doing."

Darius nodded. "You know," he acknowledged, "I was planning to get a couple of hours' sleep tonight, but I think you've just taken care of that."

Vandenberg looked at Darius sympathetically. The Secretary realized that Darius was in the grip of an impossible dilemma.

•

Darius didn't sleep at all that night. He was up at seven. He showered, shaved and pulled on the clothes he would wear on the plane later that morning.

He was seated at a desk in the corner, trying to fashion his lead sentence. It took a long time before he began typing, but once he started, his fingers flew across the keys of his typewriter with a relentless fury.

By the time Darius completed the story, all of his self-doubt had vanished. He knew he was doing the right thing. He pulled the last carbon book of paper out of the typewriter, stacked it with two others on the desk, then picked up the phone and dialed the press room just off the lobby. "Morning. This is Darius Kane. What time are we leaving for the airport?" Pause. "And do you know what time we're scheduled to get into Andrews?" He scribbled on a hotel memo pad. "Where are we refueling?" Another note on the pad. "OK. Thanks very much."

In less than ten minutes. Darius had packed his suitcase and garment bag and placed them outside the door. They would be picked up, taken to the airport and fluoroscoped by security personnel. The bags would reappear on the tarmac at Andrews Air Force Base.

Darius telephoned Blumer at the bureau. "Jerry. I'm going to go downstairs in about five minutes to film a stand-upper. It's a very good story and I can't tell you anything about it over the phone, but it's very, very big. I'm going to film it twice. I want one version to go to London, for a possible bird tonight. The other one I want you to ship to New York.

"Now, wait a second, don't interrupt. I know it won't get there in time for the show if you send it on a regular commercial flight. What if we chartered to Athens?

"All right, I'll let you worry about it, but, believe me, money is not going to be an object on this one; and it's got to get there in time for tonight's show.

"OK. I'll see you at the barricades."

He filmed his report against the backdrop of the Old City. His Israeli cameraman, Gregor, couldn't believe his ears. "You sure about all that, Darius?"

"I'm sure." Darius took him by the arm. "Gregor, for a few hours, anyway, please don't say anything to anyone about this story."

Gregor shrugged. "My English, you know, is not very well. I no understood what you said." He pointed his thumb in the direction of his sound man. "He speaks even worse English than me."

"Than I." Darius corrected him with a grin.

"You see?"

•

At the airport, Darius conveyed the essence of his story to Blumer, who merely whistled. "Too risky to try satelliting that stuff out of Hertseliya," Jerry agreed. "The censors'd kill it in a flash. Better to ship it out your way."

Even though Darius was conscious of the roaring of the airplane engines, he still lowered his voice. "Call O'Conner and tell him he's got a bombshell flying his way, but don't spell it out. Tell him I'll call him from Torrejon, when we refuel."

"Darius?" Blumer looked at his protégé with pride. "You're one hell of a reporter."

"I know." Darius whacked Blumer across the back. "Not bad yourself," he grinned. He picked up his typewriter and carrying case, walked slowly across the tarmac and boarded the Vandenberg plane.

He sat down next to Brian Fitzpatrick, whose Irish imagination had been sprung by exhaustion.

"I'm starting to feel like one of the ancient Visigoths," Fitzpatrick growled, "doomed to wander endlessly around the earth."

"Yeah," said Herb Kaufman, with perfect timing, "but at least they got to rape and pillage. All we get is briefed."

"Not on this leg." It was Carl Ellis. He squatted down in the aisle, next to Darius. "Try not to be too conspicuous about it," he whispered, "but the Secretary'd like to see you up front after we take off."

Darius barely moved his head in agreement. He delayed as long as he could, waiting until his colleagues had settled into their customary "long flight" pattern of reading, sleeping and liar's poker. After they had been airborne for about 30 minutes, Darius sauntered up the aisle, stopping briefly to chat with one of the secretaries. Then he slipped into the forward cabin, noticing that Bernardi was making a conscious effort to avoid him. Ellis motioned Darius into the conference cabin. "He's waiting for you."

Secretary Vandenberg sat on one of the couches that were attached to the inner cabin walls. He made no pretense of being otherwise occupied. Darius seated himself a few feet away.

Vandenberg's expression was impassive. "What have you decided?"

Darius tried to keep his voice calm. "I filmed the report in Jerusalem. It's already on its way. It should be on air tonight before we get back."

There was a flicker of panic in Vandenberg's eyes, but it was almost immediately replaced by a look of fathomless sorrow. He seemed to be fighting to control his anger. "Darius, you people in the media pretend to be the guardians of our way of life--but you're actually the gravediggers of democracy!" he said with icy contempt. "If the press won't govern itself, sooner or later somebody does it for them. I scarcely have to mention Germany, Greece, Hungary and other examples. That's not a threat. It's just one of the laws of history if you insist on limitless freedom without responsibility." Vandenberg had regained some of his self-control. "Could you still keep the story off the air?"

"I could," Darius replied coldly, "but I won't."

"Then there's nothing more to be said."

Darius got to his feet. "I'm afraid you're right."

Leaving the conference cabin, he almost collided with Bernardi in the aisle. "I thought you had a few more brains than the others," Bernardi said.

Darius had anticipated the reaction but felt stunned, nevertheless.

In the forward cabin, Bernardi was just being summoned by the Secretary of State.

"I want that story killed, Frank."

"What did he do? Film it and leave it in Israel?"

Vandenberg pounded his fist on the couch. "I don't know."

"Look, it may not be all that bad, Felix. We can call the Israelis and have them confiscate the film. If he sent it somewhere else, we can find that out quickly enough. Film cans have a way of getting lost."

Vandenberg shook his head. "No. What good does it do if we get the film? All we gain is a couple of hours. He'll just do the story when he gets back to Washington."

"We don't get into Andrews until after the evening news shows are off the air."

"Goddamn it, Frank, talk sense, will you? I want the story killed. I don't want it on tonight, or tomorrow night, or a week from next Tuesday." Something occurred to Vandenberg. "Isn't Ed Langston the board chairman at NNS?"

Bernardi nodded. "Do you know him?"

Vandenberg was wiping his glasses with a paper napkin. "I've met him a couple of times. What's more important, though, is that he knows me. Also, I think he's the kind of man who'd be suitably impressed if he thought he could do his country a service." The Secretary made his decision. "I want to talk to Langston."

•

Arrangements had been made for the Secretary of State to use the American base commander's office at Torrejon. Communications already had Edward Langston on the phone; the network chairman had been advised that the nature of Secretary Vandenberg's business with him was a matter of urgent national security.

"That means," a U. S. official explained apologetically, "no recording devices, no secretary on the extension."

"I understand," Langston had answered, softly; but he really didn't understand and he was nervous, wondering what in God's name could have prompted the Secretary of State to be calling him in such dramatic fashion.

Vandenberg did nothing to diminish the sense of drama.

"Ed. I'm calling on you as a friend and as a patriot." Vandenberg knew his man. "I'm counting on you to keep the essence of this conversation in the strictest confidence."

"I think you know me well enough for that, Felix." Until that moment, it would never have occurred to a man like Langston to address the Secretary of State by his first name, but Vandenberg seemed to invite the familiarity.

"Good. I want you to know, first of all, that I've never made this kind of request before; and if I didn't believe that world peace were at stake, I wouldn't make it now."

Langston's mouth had begun to feel a little dry.

"One of your reporters, Darius Kane."

"Yes?"

"He's a first-rate journalist, but he's stumbled onto part of a story that could have devastating consequences if it's broadcast prematurely."

"What's the nature of the story?"

Vandenberg repeated the main points of what Darius had told him the previous day. Aware of Langston's right-wing reputation, Vandenberg concluded: "As long as the Russians are unaware of what we know, Ed, we have an edge on them; but, most important of all, if the Middle East explodes because of this story, it'll drive the Palestinians and possibly the Syrians and the Egyptians right back into the Soviet camp. You can imagine what kind of pressure that'll put on the Saudis and what that's going to mean, in turn, to our oil supplies. We've worked damn hard to get the Russians out of the Middle East. I don't think it's worth one television report to let them get their hands back on the area again." Vandenberg waited for a response. "Ed?"

"What are you asking me to do, Felix? Kill the story?"

Vandenberg picked his way through this mine field very carefully. "I wouldn't put it that bluntly, Ed. I'm asking you to delay it. Give us a chance to get things rolling in the Middle East. A few weeks from now, the situation could be radically changed."

Langston gazed at the Manhattan skyline from his 52nd-floor office. He had never before felt so close to the shaping of his nation's destiny. He was elated but controlled, responsible. He phrased his answer with the instinctive caution of a successful businessman. "Whether or not I decide to help you, Felix, one thing must be understood. This conversation never took place."

Vandenberg leaned back in his borrowed swivel armchair. "I understand totally, Ed. I'm very much indebted to you."

The transatlantic line died. Langston felt a little short of breath. He looked at the phone, hoping it would ring again. He wanted desperately to be able to talk to someone, anyone. He was, he mused, in the awkward position of the apocryphal pastor who, having squeezed in a few holes of golf on Easter Sunday, shot a hole in one and couldn't tell anyone about it.

He pressed a button on his intercom, connecting him with his secretary. "I want O'Conner up here, right away."

•

Bill O'Conner found Langston in an expansive mood. Langston harbored no doubt about his ability in the business world, but news had always been a slightly different matter. His distaste for journalists had matured over the years and the fact that he now ran his own stable had never relieved him of the suspicion that his subordinates considered them-selves members of an elite to which he could never aspire. Langston savored the unfamiliar intoxication of having just been absorbed into the establishment. He was about to participate in "making policy" and, onerous as the burden might be, there was no doubt in Langston's mind that he was acting in the national interest.

"Have you talked to Kane yet?" Langston asked.

"I just got off the phone with him, Ed. How'd you hear about it so fast?"

Langston ignored the question.

"I want the story killed."

O'Conner had expected more of a preamble. "You're joking." He hadn't intended to say that. It had just slipped out.

"I want it killed," Langston repeated.

"Do you mind telling me why?"

Langston was very much in control of the situation. "I'd like to, Bill." He sounded genuinely regretful. "I'm simply not in a position to discuss it."

"Well, I'm sorry, Ed, I can't accept that. You don't just pretend that a story like this doesn't exist----"

Langston interrupted. He adopted an avuncular tone. "Bill, before you say something that you may regret later on, I think you should know that I do not consider this matter open to debate. There are larger issues at stake here than you know about. The story is to be dropped. That's an order."

O'Conner was not a coward and his commitment to news was genuine. "Don't put me in this position, Ed. I don't want to resign, but you're not leaving me much of an option."

"I hope you don't mean that; and, for both of our sakes, I'm going to pretend you didn't say it. I think there are a few factors you should consider. I want to assume first off that my executives have some faith in my integrity. If I don't give you a specific reason for my decision, it's not because I don't choose to, it's because I'm not able to. Then, too, I think you ought to give some thought to the quixotic reaction that your resignation might have. You have a home, a family. You're at the peak of your career, but you're not a young man, Bill. I don't think any of your former employers would trip over themselves to rehire you. Anyway, your financial stake in this company is not inconsequential."

The company's stock-option plan had just crossed O'Conner's mind, too.

"But, most important of all, Bill," Langston continued, "is the fact that your resignation wouldn't alter my decision one bit. The story would still be killed."

"Kane will leak it." The argument seemed suspended in mid-air, lacking any potency.

"That's a very real possibility," Langston conceded. "But if he does so, I hope you'll impress upon him that he would be taking the action in his capacity as a private citizen of this great democracy, not as an employee of the National News Service."

O'Conner sighed. He knew now that he wasn't going to resign. He was trying to salvage a grain of self-respect. "Can't you even leave open the possibility of re-examining the story?"

Langston was feeling magnanimous. "Of course!" He waited a beat. "But not today."

O'Conner left the executive suite without a further word.

•

Shortly after eight in the morning, Washington time, a CIA official named George Tipton received a message in McLean. It had been sent from the U. S. Embassy in Tel Aviv through a backchannel communications system, so that it would not appear in the White House or State Department cable traffic. It was very simple: "Story to run as discussed."

At 9:30, Tipton was able to get through to his contact at the White House, Whit Traynor. "That will take care of a lot of things," Traynor said. "By the way, what are you going to do about the Israeli agent?"

"Better you shouldn't ask," Tipton said in one of his rare attempts at humor. Just before nine, he had set in motion a series of actions that would lead to the release of an American intelligence officer who was being held by one of the radical wings of the O.L.P.P. Kane's story, when it came out, would be one of the crucial parts of that series in convincing the O.L.P.P.

Tipton took no joy in eliminating a friendly foreign agent, but Ibrahim el-Haj was close to outliving his usefulness. Tipton firmly believed that the agency should extract every possible advantage from any given situation.

By three P.M., Washington time, the CIA agent had been freed. Ibrahim was already dead.

•

Darius sensed that something was wrong the moment he stepped off the plane at Andrews Air Force Base. There was nothing in the air of impending crisis, no electricity that usually precedes a big story, no restlessness among the reporters waiting behind steel barricades, no live-camera units, nothing. The usual line-up of State Department officials, wives and diplomats waited near the ramp of the giant Boeing. Several hundred Air Force men and their families waved paper American flags from behind a fence near the VIP lounge. The tower, with its rotating beacons, was white against the dark sky. The President's "doomsday" plane, a massive 747, was parked at the far end of the apron.

Darius descended the ramp, trying to contain his anxiety. He approached the bull pen, hoping for a barrage of questions from his colleagues. There were none. Several friends waved, a few others shouted hello. The A.P.'s Ken Dawson hung in mock fatigue over a steel barricade. "I see Felix has made the world safe for democracy again." Now Darius knew that something was wrong. He checked his watch. It was 7:45 P.M., Washington time. NNS should have released his story to the news agencies at least two hours before.

"There he comes!" one TV reporter bellowed over the whine of the dying engines. "Start rolling." Vandenberg walked happily down the ramp, waving in the general direction of the TV lights. He shook hands with a succession of diplomats and congratulations, enjoying the compliments and congratulations. He stopped to kiss Linda Bernardi. "Without his help," Vandenberg said, pointing to his Undersecretary, "we might have been able to finish this job a week earlier." Vandenberg grinned and continued his handshaking walk down the receiving line. When he had run out of hands, he paused and then slowly approached a cluster of microphones, positioned on his side of the barricade; he tried to look reluctant, as though, with each step, he were fighting the pull of an invisible magnet.

"Really, I have nothing to say." Vandenberg smiled at several familiar faces on the other side of the barricade.

"Could you move just a little closer to the microphones, Mr. Secretary?" It was a young reporter, who spoke with a proper mix of reverence and eagerness.

The Secretary turned serious. "I'm delighted, of course, to be back again in. . . ." Vandenberg turned, in a convincing imitation of confusion to Bernardi, who dutifully played his straight man.

"This is Washington, Mr. Secretary."

"I'm delighted to be back here in Washington. As most of you no doubt know by now, we've made considerable progress these past few days in averting another war in the Middle East. I understand that the President is holding a news conference in a little over an hour. So I hope you'll understand if I don't take any questions now. The President has asked that I return to the White House as soon as possible. Thank you all for coming out here."

Vandenberg turned toward a waiting helicopter before anyone could ask a question.

Darius grabbed Dawson by the sleeve. "Ken, what the hell is going on here?"

Dawson was puzzled. "You heard your friend. The President's holding a news conference. You didn't expect him to let Felix take all the credit, did you?"

Darius felt a wave of nausea sweep over him. "What about my story on the O.L.P.P.?"

Dawson was under deadline pressure. "I don't know what you're talking about. Why don't you get your bags while I file this junk and I'll drive you in to the White House."

"OK," he grunted. "I'll meet you in the VIP lounge. I have to make a call myself."

Darius found his suitcase and garment bag among the pile of luggage stacked near the plane's tail section. He carried his bags across the tarmac and into the VIP lounge. He dialed double nine for an outside line and when he heard the dial tone, he called the NNS Washington bureau. The operator seemed genuinely pleased to hear his voice. "Darius! Welcome back."

"Thanks, Mary. Do me a favor, please? Get me Bill O'Conner at home?"

"Sure. Hang on."

Somehow, the operator's warmth was reassuring. Perhaps, Darius told himself, he was just overreacting. Maybe the film hadn't reached New York or London in time. He could hear the phone ringing and then O'Conner's voice.

"Mr. O'Conner," Mary said, "I have Darius Kane on the line for you."

Darius was in no mood for preliminaries. "What happened, Bill?"

"What do you mean, 'What happened'?"

"You know what I mean. What happened to my piece?"

"I made the decision to hold it until we can get a double confirmation. Jackson's checking it out at the White House."

Darius felt dizzy. "You mean you got the film and you didn't use it?"

"Yes. We got the film. It looked fine. I screened it myself."

"Well, then, Bill, for Chrissake, why the hell didn't we use it?"

O'Conner was being uncharacteristically patient. "I told you. I think we need to check out some of the details."

It had suddenly become very clear to Darius. "How'd he get to you, Bill?"

"How did who get to me?" Now there was a note of irritation in O'Conner's voice.

Darius was beyond caring, though. "Who?" he flared. "Vandenberg, that's who! I had this goddamn story cold, and you know it. Don't give me this bullshit about checking out details."

"Look, Darius, you're tired. I can understand you're upset, but why don't we talk about it in the morning?"

Dawson had arrived and he was impatiently pointing at his watch. It was, Darius knew, pointless to continue the argument. The Evening News was already off the air.

"Yes," he agreed limply, "in the morning."

Dawson helped carry Darius' luggage to his car. They were on Suitland Parkway, heading toward Washington, before Dawson brought up the subject. "What did you start to tell me before about the O.L.P.P.?"

Darius felt torn. If he gave the story to Dawson, it would probably appear, in weakened form, on the Associated Press wire. If there was any chance, though, of still getting the story on NNS, it made little sense to leak it to the A.P. It would dilute the effect of the report and it would infuriate O'Conner.

"Forget it. I'll tell you about it later."

They parked near the Washington Monument and walked to the Executive Office Building. Uniformed guards examined their White House press cards at the southwest gate and then again as they entered the E.O.B.

The auditorium was already crowded. Television cameras blocked every aisle. Darius found a seat near the back row.

At exactly 30 seconds after nine P.M., President Abbott entered the auditorium, looking serene and dignified. Nothing became him more than a public ceremony. He walked, with a confident stride, toward the lectern, which had been decorated with the Presidential seal. Secretary Vandenberg and Harlan Stewart, the President's National Security Advisor, sat down on the only two chairs on the thickly carpeted stage. The President motioned the reporters to be seated.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he began, "I have a brief opening announcement, and then I'll take your questions"--Abbott paused, theatrically--"if you have any." The reporters laughed, despite themselves. The President smiled. He loved his prime-time performances.

"First, I would like to extend my sincerest congratulations to the Secretary of State." Vandenberg nodded deferentially in the President's direction.

"Were it not for his untiring efforts, we might find the world to be in a far different condition this evening, and it would certainly not have been possible for me to make the following announcement. I will be leaving Washington in early March for a six-day visit to the Middle East. Some of the specific dates have yet to be worked out, but I will be meeting with the leaders of Israel, Egypt, Syria, Jordan, Saudi Arabia"--here the President paused--"and it is also my intention to meet with the chairman of the Organization for the Liberation of the People of Palestine."

The senior A.P. correspondent had already jumped to his feet, but the President raised his hands. "I haven't quite finished." The reporter sat down. "Secretary Vandenberg will, of course, be accompanying me to the Middle East; and it is my plan that he will remain there, following my own discussions, for the purpose of establishing at least the framework of a solution to the festering problem of a Palestinian homeland. Now, Mr. Wilmington, I'll be happy to take your first question."

The A.P. reporter stood, glancing down at his notebook. "Mr. President, you've just announced your intention to meet with the chairman of the O.L.P.P. Would it be correct to assume that the United States has now granted official recognition to the O.L.P.P.?"

President Abbott stole a quick glance at the "guidance material" that had been drafted under Vandenberg's direction only minutes earlier. "Within certain limits, Mr. Wilmington, yes, that would be correct. As you know, the United States has withheld any recognition of the O.L.P.P. for as long as that organization refused to acknowledge the existence of the state of Israel. We consider Chairman Safat's acceptance, earlier today, of the appropriate UN resolutions to be a reversal of that policy; and therefore, within the same terms enunciated by the Israeli government itself today, we are prepared to recognize the O.L.P.P."

Darius knew that his own story was being masterfully and deliberately smothered, that if he failed to raise it now, it would be so overtaken by events that it could never be revived. He jumped to his feet. "Mr. President!" In his sense of mounting frenzy, Darius had overlooked the traditional sequence of Presidential news conferences. President Abbott was pointing at the woman from U.P.I. Darius fought to restrain his impatience during the string of questions that followed from the respective White House correspondents from ABC, NBC and CBS.

The news conference was more than 15 minutes old before President Abbott began recognizing outstretched hands beyond the first row. The President's eyes never seemed to stray in Darius' direction.

It is not easy, at a White House news conference, for a reporter to gain recognition, especially when the President chooses to ignore him. It is not, however, impossible. The technique has been perfected, over the years, by such insistent White House gadflies as Clark Mollenhoff and Sarah McClendon. It calls for a carefully timed combination of volume, breath control and a steely determination to complete a question, no matter what interruptions threaten to cut it short.

Darius got to his feet just as the President was coming to the end of his answer to a previous question. "Mr.President-you've-avoided-all-reference-here-this-evening"--Darius strung his words together in a continuing stream, until he was sure that his voice had overridden all challengers--"to-the-events-that-led-the-Middle-East-to-the-brink-of-war." A number of heads had turned in his direction and Darius was now confident that he would be able to complete his question in a more normal cadence. "There is indisputable evidence that both the Soviet Union and Israel succeeded in planting intelligence agents at the highest level of the O.L.P.P." Almost every head in the auditorium had now swiveled toward Darius. "Furthermore, there is evidence that the Soviets, in particular, knew about, may have initiated and certainly tried to exploit the kidnaping of Secretary Vandenberg's wife to lead the Middle East toward another war; and that the principal reason that war did not break out was the secret raid, by an Israeli commando unit, in the heart of Damascus some 48 hours ago. My question, sir, is this: Was your sudden announcement here this evening--that you are going to the Middle East--prompted by a desire to keep those Facts from becoming public?"

President Abbott's expression turned grim; he gripped the lectern with both hands. "Mr. Kane," he pronounced, evenly, "I must say that I find both the tone and the substance of your question offensive. I understand that, where the Middle East in particular is concerned, any President must expect that not only his actions but even his motivations will be subjected to intense scrutiny. And it's perfectly proper that this should be so; but to suggest, as you've just done, that the President of the United States would travel to the Middle East for the express purpose of saving the Soviet Union from embarrassment is, to put it very bluntly, absurd." The President turned, very deliberately, away from Darius, inviting another question; but Darius had remained standing. "Mr. President, a follow-up question, if I may: First of all, sir, without intending any disrespect, you've ignored the substance of my question; that is, both the Israeli raid and the dual penetration of the O.L.P.P. Secondly, isn't it a fact that the decision to hold this news conference within an hour after Secretary Vandenberg's return--before you could even discuss the implications of his trip--that that decision was made at Mr. Vandenberg's suggestion for the specific purpose of overshadowing the other events I've referred to?"

"Mr. Kane. You seem to be laboring under the misapprehension that the only time the President can talk to his Secretary of State is when the two of them are in the same room at the same time. We have been in constant touch by both telex and telephone; and the decision to hold this news conference was made a number of hours ago. Now, as to all of your other allegations, I hardly know where to begin. In fact, it might be best if Secretary Vandenberg himself addressed these incredible charges. Come on up here, Felix."

Vandenberg cleared his throat nervously as he approached the lectern. His right hand chopped at the air, giving his words additional emphasis. "As the President has just told you, the decision that he would visit the Middle East and that the announcement would be made at this news conference was reached several hours ago. But that is only a circumstantial denial of all the points that Mr. Kane has raised. I am not aware that any foreign government has succeeded in penetrating the O.L.P.P. I am not aware that the Israeli government launched a commando raid in Damascus; nor, I might add, is it clear to me how such a raid could have been instrumental in preventing a war." Vandenberg's eyes moved slowly up the rows of seats until they settled on Darius. "I have always regarded Mr. Kane as a serious and responsible journalist. I can only assume that he has fallen victim to a condition that, at one time or another, plagues the most careful and well-intentioned among us--bad information."

Secretary Vandenberg started to return to his seat, but Darius exploded with one more question. "Mr. Secretary, are you flatly denying the raid and the penetration by Soviet and Israeli agents of the O.L.P.P.?"

Vandenberg returned to the lectern. His voice and his eyes were cold. "Mr. Kane. I just have."

Darius sank into his chair, overcome by waves of shock, disbelief, frustration and finally fatigue. He was vaguely aware of another reporter's question about what kind of Congressional reaction the President expected.

Abbott's voice seemed to be coming from another planet. "It is the requirements of global peace that dictate our trip, not politics. I am confident that all members of Congress, Republican and Democratic, will recognize that it is in the national interest of the United States that I undertake this effort. The Congress will respond accordingly."

At 9:30, almost to the second, the A.P. correspondent rose to deliver the traditional "Thank you, Mr. President," ending the news conference. Across the noisy auditorium, filled with rising or departing reporters, Vandenberg caught Darius' eye and held it for a moment before falling into Abbott's wake.

•

Secretary Vandenberg was in the private office of the President's National Security Advisor. Most of the White House staff, including Stewart, had gone home shortly after the news conference. President Abbott had retired to the family quarters.

Vandenberg had accepted an incoming call from the Israeli prime minister; he would have preferred delaying this confrontation, but he decided to get it out of the way.

"Ya'acov. Why aren't you asleep?"

Ben Dor's voice registered a chilly monotone. "You'll forgive me, Mr. Secretary, if I dispense with our usual pleasantries."

Vandenberg sounded resigned, "Of course, Mr. Prime Minister."

"Don't you think it would have been courteous, to say the least, if the Government of the United States had seen fit to inform the government of Israel that the President was planning to meet with the chairman of the O.L.P.P.?"

Vandenberg looked out at the front lawn of the White House and sighed. "Mr. Prime Minister. Sometimes the exigencies of a situation leave little room for courtesy or even formalities. My principal concern, as you should know, was to override Kane's story before it destroyed everything that you and I had worked toward these past few days. Believe me, that announcement was, quite literally, a last-minute decision."

"And the sacrifice of an Israeli agent--was that a last-minute decision also?"

"I'm sorry, Ya'acov. Now I really don't know what you're talking about."

The Israeli prime minister hesitated for an instant. "Very well," he snarled, finally. "I assume you've taken whatever steps are necessary to avoid any personal implication or embarrassment. But believe me, Mr. Secretary, I wasn't born yesterday. An American agent was released by the O.L.P.P. in Beirut this afternoon, only an hour or two before our own man was killed. I'm not so naïve as to believe that we could ever find proof of your complicity in this affair; but you believe me, Mr. Secretary, I won't forget it." The line went dead.

Vandenberg stared at the phone in helpless rage. Then he picked up an ashtray and hurled it across the room. "Goddamn this fucking job!"

A second later, a secretary knocked tentatively at the opening door. "Is anything wrong, Mr. Secretary?"

Vandenberg stared at her for a few seconds and shook his head slowly. "No," he muttered, "not a thing."

•

Darius Kane was sitting in his cubicle in the Washington bureau of NNS. Several editors and technicians were still on duty, but when Darius entered the newsroom, they all seemed preoccupied. Not a word was exchanged, though the night editor, an old friend, nodded. Darius knew of no formal communication from New York, but the grapevine had carried the message of executive displeasure. It was enough. Darius' story was submerged but not ignored in the wire-service reports on the Presidential news conference, and he had little doubt that it would become the source of heated debate in Congress within a day or two. He also had little doubt that, as the debate intensified, it would embarrass NNS.

If the story was accurate, why had NNS ignored its own correspondent? A reporter's error was forgivable. The reporter who underscored the error of his network was not. Within the National News Service, Darius Kane was already a pariah.

Darius tugged open a drawer of his desk; he took out a blank interoffice memorandum. He rolled the sheet of paper into his typewriter. "From: Darius Kane. To: Bill O'Conner. Subject: Kane's status." Darius advanced the paper four spaces. Then he typed out a terse note of resignation. "In the immortal words of Ernest Hemingway: 'Up-shove job assward!' "

He slipped the note into an interoffice envelope and dropped it into his secretary's Out basket.

"The advantage of the weapon was twofold: It was almost noiseless and was invariably fatal."

"He poked a Colt into Hassan's back. 'If you wish to stay alive, I advise you to say and do nothing."'

"He was engaged, almost singlehandedly, in nudging the Middle East back from the brink of war."