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PUTS FICTION TO SHAME* “Dramatizes a true life spy story that puts fiction to shame” —ALLENTOWN CALL, PENNSYLVANIA “Compelling reading” —BUFFALO COURIER EXPRESS “Elie Cohn made the spies of fiction look like amateurs” —NATIONAL JEWISH MONTHLY “Recommended” —LIBRARY JOURNAL OUR MAN IN DAMASCUS ELIE COHN by Eli Ban-Hanan STEIMATZKY, CITRUS HOUSE, TEL-AVIV This book is dedicated to the memory of a man of great accomplishment, no longer with us, and to his wife (may she live long and happily) whose personality contributed so much to his extraordinary accomplishments. All Rights Reserved PRINTED IN ISRAEL Foreword This book is based on facts and events which took place on the dates and in the places indicated. The dialogs and some of the names have been changed in order to complete the picture, and so as not to prejudice persons still living among us. I have no doubt that all this book reveals about the personality and deeds of Elie Cohn, Our Man in Damascus, is merely a drop in the ocean of his outstanding achievements; the rest we will learn only years from now, if at all. —ELI BEN-HANAN PREFACE I knew, something inside of me whispered, that the day my husband would become a public personality was rapidly approaching. I said good-bye to him in the last days of November, 1964, with a clear feeling that this would be our last meeting. When they informed me two months later that he had been caught —my heart ached, but I was not surprised. “Your husband was a hero,” they said in May. “His exploits will go down in history.” When the Six-Day War ended I knew that indeed that’s what he was, and now I see that history will also remember him. To you, the writers of history—my thanks. —NADIA COHN Contents 01 The End and the Beginning 02 Agent 888 03 Training Missions 04 The First Mission 05 Important Contacts in Argentina 06 Into the Lions’ Den 07 Nazi-Hunting in Damascus 08 Entertaining the Syrian Top Brass 09 Elie’s Friend Becomes President of Syria 10 Caught! 11 The Interrogations 12 The Trial—First Phase 13 The Trial—Second Phase 14 The Trial—Conclusion 15 Appeals, Appeals 16 The Execution of Elie Cohn “Against the Arab you mustn't defend yourself. You have to attack ...” —ELIE COHN 1 The End and the Beginning Powerful arras grasped him by the elbows and dragged him off to his cell. His senses were numb and when they tossed him inside his head struck the concrete floor and a stream of blood streamed from his forehead. Elie Cohn gave a feeble groan and passed out. “The swine,” grumbled one of the guards. “Nothing works. He’ll never open his mouth.” “Don’t worry, Lieutenant,” said the other guard. “A few electric treatments and a couple of swings in the cradle and he’ll be singing like a bird.” The lieutenant went up to the prisoner, pulled him over on his back, and wiped the blood from his face with a rag soaked in alcohol. “Tie him up good, Hatif, and don’t let him get any rest tonight Let him sleep on the cold floor, without mattress and blankets; in the morning you’ll see how he’s going to talk.” “Leave him to me. He’ll talk.” The lieutenant got up and started to leave the bleak cell. When he reached the door he stopped for a moment and looked back. “Hatif,” he said. “I’m relying on you. But don’t get overenthusiastic. The brass want him in good shape for the trial.” Hatif smiled. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll handle him with kid gloves.” Then the two of them went out and Hatif slammed the door brusquely. Elie Cohn lay twisted on the floor, groaning quietly. The blow to his head had not increased the pain. On the contrary, it had shaken him out of his enforced apathy, that apathy for defense purposes that he had been taught in Tel Aviv. When he opened his eyes a pain shot, like a dazzling light, into his brain. But after a few moments he got used to it and lay quiet. His legs felt like two sticks of ice and his nostrils filled with the sour, fetid smell of dry rot mixed with urine. He wanted to finger the bruise he received when he fell, but his hands were tied behind his back and linked to his legs by a chain. His circulation had stopped, which explained why he felt so cold. He tried to raise his head to examine his situation, but the slightest movement tightened the steel chain and pulled back his shoulders. The pain was excruciating. For a moment he decided to forego all effort and stay where he was, perhaps even to go to sleep for an hour or two. But the cold made sleep impossible. “No,” he stammered to himself. "I cannot do it.” He fixed his eyes on the peeling wall in front of him and his thoughts darted rapidly. When his head cleared he suddenly noticed that his chest was rising and falling convulsively. Each time he inhaled he got a stabbing pain in his right side. A few minutes later he discovered he could dispel the pain, or at least weaken it, by breathing carefully and filling his lungs only halfway full. “Remember!” Yitzhak’s voice suddenly rang in his ears. “Everything you learn here may come in handy someday. Take it seriously.” Yitzhak’s face had grown grim for a moment. Then he added, “Let’s hope you never have occasion to see that I’m right.” Elie Cohn knew the boss had been right. Now more than ever before. There was no sense denying the fact that he was an Israeli agent. He smiled when he remembered the moments that had led him to the fateful decision. As he lay there—bound and paining and cold—everything came back to him like a stark detective movie. It all began casually on a spring morning in I960, when he was working as an accountant in the Supply Department of Central Distributors. That morning someone had knocked on the door of his office and asked if he could come in. “Please do. Have a seat,” Elie said, motioning to a chair beside his desk. The man nodded agreeably. Then he put out his hand. “My name is Zalman. The second name is not important.” He smiled at Elie’s look of amazement. “I don’t know if I can speak here,” he whispered, leaning forward. “I work for the Ministry of Defense. I am an Intelligence officer.” “Intelligence officer?” The man nodded. “It’s a rather unusual job, which involves a lot of traveling. I’d say it’s rather interesting.” “What do you want from me?” Elie asked. “I’ve been asked to offer you a position in our service,” the man said placidly. “What kind of position?” “Interesting work, which includes trips to Europe. Most likely you’ll get to visit Arab countries as well.” Elie was silent for a moment. “I’m afraid I won’t be able to accept your offer,” he said. “You probably know that I recently got married. I want to stay with my wife. Besides, I’ve had enough wandering to last me three lifetimes.” “Even if we double your present salary?” Elie shook his head. “It won’t help. I get along with what I have.” The man got up and shook hands politely. At the door he turned and said, “Thank you for giving me a few minutes of your time. I don’t want to force anything on you. In any case, try to forget me and don’t tell anyone of my visit. Not even your wife, Nadia.” Elie nodded. “I understand. You can trust me.” After the man left, Elie spent a long time in thought. No doubt his visitor knew a good deal about him. The fact that he had mentioned his wife’s name said a lot. Later he tried to forget the whole affair. When he came home that evening he did not mention the meeting to anyone. Elie Cohn’s life went on as usual. Three, four weeks passed after that curious conversation in Elie’s office. On the tenth of the month, as usual, he got his paycheck; with it, though, was an envelope. He quickly ripped it open and found this notice: As a result of cutbacks in the departments of Central Distributors, the management is compelled to dismiss you along with five other experienced employees. Thank you for your devoted service. We hope that the day we again expand our staff, we will see you in our ranks once again. Elie blinked, and a strange gleam came into his eyes. Once again within a short period he was jobless. The burden of supporting the family would again fall on Nadia. He went down the stairs and out into the noisy street. True, he had been given a ten-day extension, but as far as he was concerned it was the end. From that day on Elie was not the same man. He became immersed in himself—abstracted, brooding about the host of practical problems he faced. Nadia tried not to trouble him with unnecessary questions. She knew what was bothering him. Two days later, he was leaning over his electric calculating machine, when Zalman appeared in the doorway again. “Good morning, Mr. Cohn,” he said. “May I sit down?” Elie extended his hands in invitation.