By October 1980, the debate preoccupied every cabinet meeting Menachem Begin chaired. Familiar arguments were revisited. Increasingly, Hofi became a lone voice against the attack. Nevertheless he struggled on, producing well-written position papers, knowing he was writing his own professional obituary.
Admoni increasingly made no secret of his contempt for Hofi’s position. The two men, who had been close friends, became cold colleagues. Nevertheless, it took a further six months of bitter conflict between the embattled Mossad chief and his senior staff before the general staff approved the attack on March 15, 1981.
The attack was a tactical masterpiece. Eight F-16 fighter-bombers, escorted by six F-15 fighter-interceptors, flew at sand-dune level across Jordan before streaking toward Iraq. They reached the target at the planned moment, 5:34 P.M. local time, minutes after the French construction staff had left. The death toll was nine. The nuclear plant was reduced to rubble. The aircraft returned unharmed. Hofi’s career in Mossad was over. Admoni replaced him.
Now, on that April morning in 1988, the arms dealers in the lobby who, seven years before, had commiserated with their shocked hosts on the Israeli attack—before selling Iraq improved radar systems—would have been stunned to know that in the hotel a Mossad agent was quietly noting their names and what they were selling.
Earlier that Friday, business in the lobby had been briefly interrupted by the arrival of Sabba’a Al-Tikriti, the head of Iraqi secret police, accompanied by his own Praetorian phalanx of bodyguards. Saddam Hussein’s half brother strode to the elevator, on his way to a rooftop suite. Waiting there was the tall, buxom prostitute specially flown in from Paris for his pleasure. It was highly paid, high-risk work. Some of the previous whores had simply disappeared after Sabba’a had finished with them.
The security chief left in midafternoon. Shortly afterward, from a suite adjoining the prostitute’s, emerged a tall young man dressed in a blue cotton jacket and chinos. He was good-looking in a slightly effete way, with a nervous habit of stroking his mustache or rubbing his face that somehow increased his vulnerability.
His name was Farzad Bazoft. In the details on the hotel registration form—a copy of which had been routinely sent to Sabba’a’s ministry—Bazoft had described himself as the “chief foreign correspondent” for
Unknown to his newspaper colleagues, there was an altogether darker side to Bazoft’s personality, one that could possibly jeopardize them if they were ever suspected of being involved in the real reason he was in Baghdad. Bazoft was a Mossad spy.
He had been recruited after he had arrived in London three years before from Tehran, where his increasingly outspoken views on the Khomeini regime had put his life in danger. Like many before him, Bazoft found London alien and English people reserved. He had tried to find a role for himself in the Iranian community in exile, and for a while his considerable knowledge of the current political structure in Tehran made him a welcome guest at their dinner tables. But the sight of the same familiar faces soon palled for the ambitious and restless young man.
Bazoft began to look around for more excitement than dissecting a piece of news from Tehran. He began to establish contacts with Iran’s enemy, Iraq. In the mid-1980s there were a large number of Iraqis in London, welcome visitors because Britain saw Iraq not only as a substantial importer of its goods, but also as a nation which, under Saddam Hussein, would subdue the threatening Islamic fundamentalism of the Khomeini regime.
Bazoft found himself “singing for my supper” at Iraqi parties. His new hosts were more relaxed and ready “to let down their hair” than Iranians. In turn they were captivated by his gentle manners and endless witticisms about the ayatollahs of Tehran.
