He was tired. The years of leading the fight had taken their toll and Goldberg's energy was beginning to wane. At the rate things were going there was a good chance he wouldn't survive the week without being subjected to a vote of no confidence. To start with, the UN and a healthy number of his cabinet members were up in arms over the events in Hebron, and now someone had assassinated the Palestinian Ambassador in New York City.

One of Goldberg's aides had briefed him on the assassination during breakfast, and his private reaction to the news had been one of desperate fear. The very first person who came to mind was his old friend, and the director general of Mossad, Ben Freidman. Goldberg had been asking himself all day if Freidman was capable of launching such a disastrous operation on his own. The answer was a startling yes, which made him all the more uncomfortable with the meeting that was" about to take place. The prime minister would have preferred to let the problem fade away. There was enough bloodshed in the Palestinian-Israeli conflict that the Ambassador's death would fade to the background sooner than one would think, but unfortunately, for the next month or two, things were sure to get worse. It was still early in America, but Goldberg had no doubt that as the day progressed President Hayes, or more likely Secretary of State Berg, would be on the phone demanding assurances that Israel had had no hand in the brutal act.

Goldberg was tempted to bury his head in the sand, but that would be foolish and contrary to his character. He needed the truth from Freidman and then after that he could decide what to say to the Americans.

He ran a frustrated hand through his thin white hair and looked at his wall clock. It was approaching 2:30 in the afternoon. Freidman was late, which was not a surprise. The head of Mossad came and went as he wished.

It WAS A FEW MINUTES LATER that Freidman finally arrived to find a nervous prime minister sitting behind his desk. Freidman knew what this was about. He was the prime suspect in the assassination of Ambassador Ali. In contrast to the prime minister's suit, Freidman was dressed casually in slacks and a loose-fitting, short-sleeved dress shirt.

As always, the shirt was untucked to conceal the. 38-caliber revolver he carried in a belt holster at the small of his back. Freidman never went anywhere without it.

Slowly, he lowered himself into one of the two armchairs opposite Goldberg's desk. The beleaguered expression on his friend's face did not go unnoticed.

"David, you do not look good."

Goldberg had the type of face that had surrendered to gravity almost completely. It was hard to believe that this roly-poly man had served in combat. He shook his head, heavy jowls sagging.

"I am in the fight of my life."

Freidman interpreted this comment as the exaggeration of a politician who had lost perspective. In a voice void of any compassion or sympathy, Freidman said, "This is nothing."

Looking up under hooded eyes, Goldberg studied the supremely confident head of Mossad and felt a bit of anger spark from within.

"Maybe you haven't noticed lately, Ben, but my cabinet is about to fall apart. The UN is screaming for inspectors to be sent into Hebron and after what happened in New York last night, it's a foregone conclusion that they will pass a resolution."

"And you can tell them to stick their resolution-" Goldberg slammed his fist down on his desk, cutting Freidman off.

"I will be able to tell them no such thing," he yelled, "because I will no longer be prime minister! Thanks to you I will be long gone before the first inspector arrives."

"You're exaggerating," responded Freidman with a disgusted shake of his head.

"Exaggerating," snapped Goldberg.

"I'm doing no such thing. You have gotten me into this mess due to your overzealous actions in Hebron!"

"Don't criticize me for being overzealous. The whole reason you were elected was because the Israeli people wanted someone who would be overzealous."

"You didn't need to level the whole damn neighborhood," Goldberg shot back.

"Yes I did!" screamed Freidman.

"Remember Falid Al-Din? We sent a missile right into his car, and he walked away. I wasn't going to make that mistake again."

"So you destroyed an entire neighborhood!"

"You're damn right I did! This is a war!"

Goldberg let out a frustrated sigh and through gritted teeth said, "I know it's a war, but there are other issues to consider."

"Like what?"

"Like our allies."

"You mean our allies who fire bombed Dresden and Tokyo and then dropped atomic bombs on Hiroshima and Nagasaki?" Freidman stared back at the prime minister with righteous conviction. They'd had this discussion many times before and their views were identical.

"War is ugly, and sometimes you save more lives in the long run by being more brutal than your enemy. We should expel every Palestinian from the occupied territories and not allow them back until every major Arab state signs a peace treaty with us… and damn the international community."

The prime minister shook his head.

"You know better than that.

The political will to launch such an operation isn't there."

"Why don't we find out?"

Goldberg was angry at himself for getting so far off track. Freidman had once again shown that he was willing to go to great lengths to get what he wanted. Maybe, Goldberg thought, he would even be so devious as to put me in a position where I had no choice but to lash out. He looked hard at the director general of Mossad and wondered just how far he'd go to get what he wanted. The answer, he knew, was that he would go very far indeed.

"Look me in the eye and tell me what role you had in the death of the Palestinian Ambassador."

It was easy to offend some people, but not Ben Freidman. Goldberg might as well have asked him what he'd had for lunch.

"I had absolutely nothing to do with All's murder."

Goldberg searched for some hint that his old friend was lying to him. After only a second or two he knew it was a worthless exercise.

He'd seen the man on too many occasions lie with the same impunity as he told the truth.

"Did Mossad have anything to do with the Ambassador's death?"

Freidman shook his head.

"I might be crazy, David, but I am not stupid. Why would I be so dumb as to kill the Palestinian Ambassador to the UN while he is in America?" He frowned dismissively.

"I do not mourn Ali's death. He was a two-bit thug dressed up as a diplomat.

He's in Ramallah almost every month. If I wanted him dead there would be easier ways to do it, with far fewer repercussions."

These words had the opposite effect on Goldberg than he had intended.

Through Freidman's defense the prime minister glimpsed the very reason why he might have thought he could get away with killing the Ambassador. Sound-minded people would eventually decide that the director general of Mossad would never risk offending the Americans when he could simply kill the Ambassador when he was visiting the West Bank. Now Goldberg was truly worried. What if one of his closest advisors was working behind the scenes to provoke an all-out war?

Freidman could tell that Goldberg was not buying his denial. In a more ingratiating tone, he said, "I promise you, David, I had nothing to do with this. I have already spoken to Director Kennedy and she believes Ali's assassination may have something to do with a business deal gone bad." Freidman was stretching the truth a bit, but felt it was needed.

Goldberg gave him a skeptical look.

"What kind of business deal?"

"Ali has been known to deal in arms from time to time."

"Weapons?"

"Yes." Freidman was happy to see this seemed to give the prime minister some hope.

"And you say the Americans knew about these activities?"