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PROFITS OF WAR -- INSIDE THE SECRET U.S.-ISRAELI ARMS NETWORK

16.  Never Again

PRIME MINISTER YITZHAK SHAMIR marched swiftly through the corridors of his office complex, two aides hurrying to keep up. For a small, elderly man with a seemingly frail body, he was now bursting with angry energy as he made his way to the suite in which he had called his crisis conference. It was mid-August 1988, and Israel was at its most vulnerable.

Infuriated by the chemical weapons, missiles, and nuclear technology going to Iraq from the West, Shamir decided to appoint a task force of intelligence officers to bring a halt to this supply. Shamir's chief adviser, Avi Pazner, headed the task force, which included two people from Military Intelligence research to provide background, two from Mossad operations to give operational support, and me, representing the Prime Minister's Office. Shamir wanted the matter handled directly out of his office because it involved Chile and the U.S., both friendly countries, and was therefore quite sensitive. I was to carry out whatever plan was decided upon. Shamir and Pazner were present for only parts of this August 1988 meeting. The rest of us were there the entire time.

The big worry was Iraq. The U.S. was not only refusing to listen to our concern, but was actually helping Saddam Hussein build his arsenal of unconventional weapons. Chemicals and the artillery cups to contain them were pouring in from Chile and South Africa, and Israel felt helpless to stop the flow. But it was clear that something had to be done.

On all our minds was Cardoen Industries, an arms production company with its main offices in Santiago, Chile. The owner, with 99 percent of the shares, was Carlos Cardoen. He had relinquished the other one percent to his new (and second) wife.

As we sat around a conference table in the prime minister's suite of offices, we were briefed on Cardoen's background. He came from an upper-class Chilean family of Italian descent. In his early 20s, after attending university in the U.S. -- where he received a degree as a mining engineer -- he returned to Santiago immediately after General Augusto Pinochet's 1973 coup d'etat to work for the government-owned Chilean Mining Corporation. As part of his job, he had to procure explosives for mining purposes, which turned out to be a lucrative business for him personally. Israeli intelligence officers established that various companies approached Cardoen to sell him their dynamite, and offered him commissions if he would buy it. So at a very early age, Cardoen found out what it meant to receive kickbacks.

He struck up a friendship with the mining corporation's chief engineer and turned it to his advantage. He resigned and started working as a private contractor after receiving assurances that all blasting equipment used by the Chilean Mining Corporation would be bought through him. His success as a dynamite broker set him thinking on a grander scale, and he decided to try brokering small arms. This time it wasn't such smooth sailing.

In 1979 Carlos Cardoen traveled to Israel and applied for a license to sell Israeli arms in South America. He made his approach to SIBAT, the Foreign Defense Sales Office of the Israeli Ministry of Defense. In theory, anyone exporting Israeli arms had to be issued a special license through this office.

SIBAT published a slick English-language brochure with color photographs on glossy paper detailing all Israel's weaponry that was for sale, whether it be a handgun or a tank. Having made a selection, a foreign country's agent would apply to SIBAT for an export license. The applicant would fill out a form and attach to it an end-user certificate from the buyer.

SIBAT's head, the deputy director general of the Ministry of Defense, in charge of foreign sales, would prepare a file on every application received, and his staff would then investigate if this material was available for sale, whether it was politically acceptable to sell, if the end-user certificate was for real, and if the broker was honest and trustworthy. This file would then be handed to the director general of the Ministry of Defense, who, in turn, would present it for final approval to a ministerial committee that would sit once a week, comprising the prime minister, foreign minister, defense minister, and finance minister. If they approved the application, it would go back to SIBAT, and the export license would be issued. Sometimes conditions would be imposed. This, then, was the official, formal way of buying arms from Israel.

SIBAT was also responsible for issuing broker licenses to former Israeli military personnel or others who wished to open arms-dealing companies in Israel with foreign branches. It could also issue licenses to foreign arms brokers, certifying that Israel recognized the licensee as a legitimate arms broker who could apply to Israel for weapons on someone else's behalf. It was this last type of license that Cardoen asked for when he showed up in Israel in 1979. As a reference, he presented a license issued to him by the Chilean Ministry of Defense.

In 1979, at the time of Cardoen's visit to Israel, ERD -- in charge of relations between Israeli Military Intelligence and foreign services -- was asked by SIBAT to check out Cardoen with the Chilean military attache in Israel. I had met Cardoen on that occasion. He struck me as an ambitious person who had had some education. But he didn't seem to be worried about scruples or to care particularly about the politics involved. A mercenary type, he wanted to become rich at a very young age -- and he was certainly on the way with a big office in Santiago and confidence to match.

This time, though, his confidence was temporarily shattered. Israel turned down his request. He was an unknown factor who couldn't show any experience, except that he had bought dynamite.

At the time he did not have any established political connections in Chile to our knowledge. If he'd had such connections, he would certainly have had a better chance. We later learned he had been walking around with one of SIBAT's catalogs in Chile, promising people he could get them anything that was illustrated. But Israel dealt only with professionals, with applications from known former generals, for example, who had connections with politicians. There was no way this young, unknown Chilean was going to get a license -- particularly as there was a suspicion that brokers like him had connections with Israel's enemies.

After being rejected, Cardoen flew directly from Israel to South Africa. There he obtained a brokering license from the government weapons manufacturer, South African Arms Corporation (ARMSCOR) -- but only after he sought help from the Chilean ambassador to South Africa, an acquaintance of his father's. He returned to Chile with this license, and with the aid of more of his father's connections, he obtained loans from Chilean banks. He then started work as an arms producer and broker. But how this part of his life generally worked was very hazy to us.

At our August 1988 meeting, Prime Minister Shamir listened carefully. "Confidence this Cardoen certainly has," remarked the prime minister, "but subtlety he lacks."

The rest of the briefing, which Shamir and Pazner only caught parts of, covered how Cardoen got involved in selling arms to Iraq and bringing us up-to-date on present developments. Sometime in 1982, according to Israeli intelligence, Cardoen was introduced through a person in ARMSCOR to the Iraqi deputy chief of the General Staff for Procurement in Baghdad. By early 1985 Cardoen was selling arms to Iraq.

He was doing this with the help of ARMSCOR and with the support of certain people connected with the US. government. One of them was Alan Sanders, who had links to the CIA. Sanders's cover was ITICO -- Integrated Technologies International Co. Cardoen, whose primary, and probably only, customer was Iraq, had been receiving the technology for cluster bombs from Sanders in the form of blueprints. In spite of a U.N. arms embargo against Chile, Cardoen, together with Chilean Military Industries, was producing these clusterbombs with a covert U.S. license. Israel wanted to get its hands on those bombs.

In late 1985, I had traveled to the United States on assignment and approached Alan Sanders. I told him I wanted to buy cluster bombs for Israel. Although we had been receiving them from South Africa, Israel wanted an additional arsenal of cluster bombs, especially the Chilean ones that were made with the latest U.S. technology. But we also wanted to establish if it was even possible for us to obtain them. I was well aware that at the time the sale of cluster bombs to Israel was prohibited by the U.S. -- a fact Sanders made clear to me. However, he drove me to the Virginia office of arms dealer Richard Babayan, an Armenian-Iranian CIA contract agent who had close contacts with Cardoen. Babayan, coincidentally, had also been a schoolmate of mine at the American Community School in Tehran 20 years before. Babayan explained to me that Cardoen would sell the cluster bombs to Israel, which told me everything I wanted to know.

"Cardoen," said Sanders, "will sell the bombs to anyone who pays him."

A few weeks later, an Israeli diplomatic crate was sent to New York from Santiago, and then loaded onto one of our regular military Boeing 707 flights to Tel Aviv. If we could get cluster bombs that easily, God knows what Iraq was getting from Cardoen.

During that year of enlightenment, 1985, Robert Gates, the CIA's deputy director for intelligence, was approached by Nachum Admoni, director of Mossad, regarding U.S. support for Cardoen. Admoni pointed out to Gates that the Israelis were very concerned about the support of Iraq, especially through Chile and South Africa. Cardoen by this time owned two plants for the manufacture of chemical weapons in Santiago. He operated a cluster bomb factory in cooperation with Chile's military and had a third chemical weapons plant in Paraguay. In addition, he was building a chemical weapons plant outside Baghdad.

The artillery cups, or shells, for Cardoen's Santiago-produced chemical weapons came from West Germany, procured for him by an Egyptian living in the U.S., Ihsan Barbouti. Barbouti had earlier provided equipment for chemical weapons to Libya and was known to the Israelis for arranging for former Nazi scientists to work on missile technology in Egypt in the 1950s. By the late 1950s, all these scientists had been eliminated by Mossad. But Barbouti escaped with his life by faking his death. In the early 1980s he resurfaced in the U.S. Some time after his involvement in providing chemicals to Libya, according to Israeli intelligence, he cut a deal with the CIA and started working on its behalf with Arab countries, basing himself in Texas and Florida.

During the August 1988 meeting we were reminded of how Cardoen would send the chemicals manufactured in Santiago and Paraguay, along with the German-made cups imported through Barbouti, to Baghdad by Iraqi Airways 747 cargo planes. The crates containing the chemicals and cups were openly visible on the tarmac at Santiago airport, with labels making it quite clear that they were for shipment to Iraq. Cardoen was using U.S. banks such as the Valley National Bank in Arizona to help finance his sales. He was also using a factory in Boca Raton, Florida, to get some raw materials for his chemical manufacturing. We also knew that while Alan Sanders had provided blueprints for cluster bombs to Cardoen, the Gamma Corporation in the U.S., a CIA cut-out, had sold the fuses for the cluster bombs to Cardoen.

By late 1986 Israel was expressing great concern about the arms shipments to Iraq, with Prime Minister Shamir threatening to go to Congress. So Robert Gates, now deputy director of the CIA, called a meeting in Santiago, the sole aim of which was to calm the Israelis. I described the gathering, which took place in my room at the Carrera Hotel, to the others at our August 1988 briefing at the Prime Minister's Office.

The participants at the secret meeting in Santiago were: Carlos Cardoen; Robert Gates; Sen. John Tower; Gen. Pieter Van Der Westhuizen, who had been chief of South African Military Intelligence, along with a representative of ARMSCOR; Gen. Rodolfo Stange, chief of the Chilean Carabineros (paramilitary police); and me. The representatives of Chile and South Africa produced a printed sheet identifying those weapons and other equipment that they admitted they had sold to Iraq. The list included artillery pieces, armored cars, tires, spare parts for military aircraft, and munitions, rockets, hand grenades, and firearms -- but nothing unconventional.

At the gathering Gates was quite clear. The United States, he said, wanted to maintain the channel of arms to Iraq. It had to try to pull Iraq into its sphere of influence through the sale of conventional but not sophisticated weaponry. Israel was being paranoid, he said, and he gave his assurance that Israel would not be hurt. It was also understood that the Israelis would continue to supply the Iranians, and the South Africans would supply the Iraqis, to Israel's dismay.

It was quite obvious to me that this meeting had been called basically to pull the wool over Israel's eyes. As was expected, Cardoen continued to supply the wherewithal for chemical weapons and the cluster bombs to Iraq. It was a continuing source of concern for Israel, and it led to frustration with the U.S. for not putting a stop to it. During 1987 Israel repeatedly asked the Chilean government to step in and halt the sales. Our pleas to President Pinochet went unheeded, as did several to the U.S.

All this added up to a frightening situation for Israel. Our most powerful enemy, Iraq, was being systematically built up with weapons of mass destruction by our so-called friends. And we were supposed to go along simply because Robert Gates had given us his word that it would be okay.

Yitzhak Shamir was not about to sacrifice the security of Israel on anyone's word, let alone that of an American CIA official. And so, the conclusion of our August 1988 meeting was that Israel had to take the matter into its own hands. I was instructed to go to Chile, contact Carlos Cardoen directly, and offer him a carrot. If he didn't go for that, I would make it clear what came next.

***

I arrived in Chile in September 1988. Soaring office buildings towered over old church spires as the airport taxi took me to the apartment that Barbara, who had obtained a transfer from her newspaper, had rented.

The contrast between the haves and the have-nots was extreme. There were middle-class neighborhoods with their well- appointed homes in the northern suburbs, and then there were the slums, well hidden behind trees and walls, so that visitors traveling from the airport to the northern suburbs wouldn't notice them and would gain a completely wrong impression. A visiting journalist once described Chile as floating away from South America and taking on a European feeling -- he was one of the many who have been fooled.

I remembered Chile well enough from my 1986 trip to meet with Gates and the others to know that you could sit in an open-air restaurant in the northern suburbs and watch kids going through the trash cans of the wealthy. I also remembered that there weren't too many Native Americans. The European settlers had solved the "Indian problem" by killing them; later Chile became one of the first "democracies" in South America. That "kill-off-the-opposition-and-then-we-can-have-a-democracy" theory applies even today.

In this atmosphere of paradox, I had arrived to try to stop one of the most feared regimes in South America from continuing its deadly chemical trade with Iraq. Thousands had died mysteriously in Chile because they had stepped out of line. My only weapons were words. I knew they had to be used carefully.

My first appointment was with Gen. Rodolfo Stange, the head of President Pinochet's Carabineros.

The police headquarters was a well-protected cement office block with barred windows. I was taken to the top floor and stepped out of the elevator to face a glass door, above which a security camera peered down at me. After walking along a red-carpeted hall and being led through several offices, I was shown into an enormous wood-paneled room with Persian carpets and windows that looked out over the city. An imposing figure stepped forward to greet me. Middle-aged, balding, and dressed in a green uniform with bars that signified his various roles in the junta, Gen. Stange had not changed since I'd last met him in the Carrera Hotel two years earlier. All that had changed was the increased number of disappearances and deaths linked to his name.

"Welcome back to Chile, Mr. Ben-Menashe," he said in good English. "I hope you have a wonderful stay here. Are you booked into the Carrera Hotel?"

"No, I've rented an apartment. I'll be around for a while."

There was a moment of stunned silence. His face reflected deep concern. He tried to cover it up.

"Aha -- so you will be our guest for a while. Of course, you are welcome. The weather is warming up, and I hope you enjoy Chile very much. I trust we will be able to see each other. Regard this as your second home."

He said how much he had enjoyed a visit to Israel, recalling in particular Jerusalem and Bethlehem.

"I'm sure the Israeli Embassy and your ambassador are aware of your being here?"

"General, I'm here on a confidential basis, directly empowered by the prime minister of Israel to inform you of his views about certain issues."

He frowned. "I can understand now why you are here. Do you have diplomatic accreditation to Chile?"

"No, sir, I carry my private passport as well as a diplomatic passport describing me as a roving ambassador for the Prime Minister's Office."

"It doesn't matter. Please don't regard what I asked as an impolite question. I was merely wondering about the status of your stay. I wondered whether you would be temporarily taking your current ambassador's place."

"Sir, are there any objections to my status here?"

"No, no, do not misunderstand me. You are most welcome. Everything you need will be made available to you by my office -- security, protection, transportation, you only have to name it. And of course you are welcome to stay for as long as you like. This is your home. It's not Jerusalem, but I hope it will be a good substitute."

He told me he understood I was tired and ushered me into an adjoining private reception lounge. He offered me food, and when I told him I was a vegetarian, he said, "Yes, of course, I remember."

Joined by the general's chief of staff, we were attended by uniformed, black-tie waiters. I started out by telling him what he already knew, reminding him of the meeting we had had in 1986 and emphasizing the danger that the sale of unconventional weaponry to Iraq posed to Israel. I also made it clear that we were perfectly aware that the United States government was backing the Chilean effort.

As I talked, going over in detail everything that he already knew about U.S. policy and why Iraq would be a watershed from the Israeli point of view, a secretary took stenographic notes. I told him that I had brought with me a letter from Prime Minister Shamir, addressed to President Pinochet, containing a personal plea to stop the trade with Iraq. Stange politely told me that "El Presidente" had a lot of problems and was extremely busy. A meeting arranged for me at 10 A.M. the following day, when the letter was to be handed over, had been canceled. But it was always possible to call his chief of staff, said Stange, and then the letter would be passed on.

I stifled my disappointment. There was nothing I could do. However, there were some pertinent questions I wanted to ask about the forthcoming plebiscite in which Pinochet hoped to gain support to remain president until 1997.

"General," I asked, "what are your feelings about the plebiscite? According to the constitution, if President Pinochet loses, there'll be elections. Do you think he'll run again?"

"Of course, we'll all be pleased if he does run. But at the same time we think it's time for a fresh candidate."

"General, are you a candidate?"

He looked at me for a moment, then smiled. "If Chile needs me as a candidate, I will stand. I will do anything for the motherland. I want to prevent unwanted political forces from taking over."

Seeing him in his uniform, and hearing of his ambitions, I was reminded of the films about Nazi generals I used to see as a kid. I explained that Israeli intelligence had tracked anthrax, mustard gas, and chemical weapons being shipped from Chile to Iraq. I even pointed out that as my plane was landing at the airport just a few hours earlier, I had noticed two Iraqi 747s sitting on the tarmac.

"But of course," he said. "We do have trade with the Arab world."

"You know and I know what is happening. It has to be stopped at any price. If it means Israel going to the U.S. Congress to stop it, if it means using our intelligence services to stop it, believe me, we will."

His jaw dropped. The most feared man in the country was not used to being threatened.

"I cannot control Cardoen and the Americans," he said. "He is a private person and the Americans are ... the Americans."

"General, you have to put a stop to this trade from your country. I'm sure you do not want to take responsibility for any Jewish children being gassed by your equipment."

He was really taken aback. He drew heavily on the fat cigar he had lit and took a drink. In the middle of our discussion, there was a phone call, picked up by his chief of staff.

"General," he said, "the president's chief secretary is here to pick up the letter."

I asked at that time if I could call my apartment to explain I would be late. Stange nodded toward the phone. I called Barbara and, making sure the general heard what I said, told her that despite his very busy schedule, Gen. Stange had been gracious enough to spare me his time.

When I hung up, he asked in a friendly tone, "You are here with a friend, or your wife?"

I told him she was the British Financial Times correspondent in Chile. I was with a journalist representing a very important newspaper which was not American. This of course was another veiled threat. He looked like I was sticking pins into him slowly. He took another sip of whiskey.

Pinochet's chief secretary entered the room, wearing a light brown tweed jacket with a white shirt, a dark brown tie, and dark brown trousers. With his dark brown shoes and dark brown belt thrown in, he definitely lacked color.

Looking at my options, I really had no choice but to hand over the letter. It was in a large white envelope embossed in the left-hand corner with the emblem of the State of Israel, the Menorah. Under the emblem in blue were the words: Prime Minister's Office. I opened my briefcase and handed it over. The secretary assured me it would be on the president's desk almost immediately. I told him that any response must not be made through the embassy, but through me. If I was not available, I said, the person to contact was Avi Pazner in Israel, who was aware of the situation.

As I prepared to leave, Gen. Stange invited me to his house for dinner the next day. But his chief of staff pointed out he had another appointment. "Cancel it!" he ordered.

Turning to me, he said, "I'll send a car to pick you up. And please relay my apologies to the prime minister of Israel on behalf of President Pinochet that he was too busy to see you, but I'm sure I'll be able to make it up." He added, "If there's anything you need, just say it, and it will be yours."

He offered me a lift home. I climbed into the back of a green military car with an official driver and the general's chief of staff -- both in uniform -- and I was taken back to the apartment on Calle Luz in the affluent suburb called Las Condes.

Barbara had bought a VCR. There was also a housekeeper who came with the apartment, with her own living quarters beyond the kitchen. I stayed up late that night watching a movie. In the middle of the night, when I had just fallen asleep, I received a phone call from Israel. It was 9:00 A.M. in Jerusalem. Avi Pazner wanted to know how things had gone.

I told him I had made progress, but the meeting with the president had been canceled. He told me to go to the embassy in the morning to talk on a secure phone. Arrangements would be made.

I overslept, and the second secretary at the embassy, who is also the Mossad representative in Santiago, called to say the safe phone system was at my disposal. I strolled to the embassy, which was close by. On reaching Pazner, I told him I had been invited to dinner at Stange's house. I pointed out I had not yet made my presence known to Cardoen.

"Be careful," said Pazner. "I don't have to remind you that you're on thin ice. But remember this is one of the most important missions you've ever had -- far more important than Peru."

I told him I would wait for some of the dust to settle before I called Cardoen. We were both sure that the arms broker would already have heard I was in town.

People have the impression that the life of a spy or any kind of government undercover agent is filled with glamour. I was playing diplomat on a confidential mission, but I'd certainly seen no glamour here. In fact, I couldn't help thinking about what I was doing in Santiago at all. I'd left my wife and newborn child behind, I was living with another woman, and I had a number of difficult confrontations ahead of me. Peru had been interesting; Santiago was oppressive. I called Ora and heard her say how much she missed me. And she wanted to know if I was still with "that woman" -- she wasn't sure about the relationship. And if truth be told, neither was I.

Stange sent a car for me at 5:45 that evening. On the way to the general's house, accompanied by his chief of staff, I noticed something interesting -- an Israeli Uzi beside the driver. We reached a street blocked by the Carabineros, but they waved us on. At the end of the road a huge house could be seen beyond its spike-topped metal gates. The guards let us through, and there was Gen. Stange waiting at the door, dressed in blue trousers and an open white shirt with rolled-up sleeves. I felt overdressed in my blue suit and maroon tie. My host was hardly dressed for formal dinner.

He introduced me to his wife, an attractive woman with a pleasant smile. Servants scurried around as he led me into the elegant sitting room. A large painting of the general and his wife, their faces close together, dominated one wall. "By the way, Mr. Ben-Menashe," said Stange, "I have three guests I'd like you to meet."

Into the room walked a good-looking, dark-haired man in his late 30s dressed in a blue suit, white shirt, and striped tie. His wife was simply beautiful, tall and slim, with black hair and green eyes, and elegantly dressed in a light grey skirt which came to just below her knees with a slit in the side. I recognized him immediately and guessed who the woman was: Mr. and Mrs. Carlos Cardoen.

We exchanged greetings, and then the third guest stepped forward. A touch on the plump side, she was nevertheless very attractive, with short dark hair and big eyes. She was introduced to me as Mrs. Isabel Bianchi, the wife of an air force colonel who had formerly been the chief of the Chilean U.N. contingent in the Golan Heights between Israel and Syria, and she spoke Hebrew. Her husband, it was pointed out, was now commander of Chile's air force base in Antarctica. A long way away.

It seemed that an interesting night lay ahead of me. We chatted about the coming plebiscite, and my hosts and fellow guests discussed how Pinochet wanted to stay in power for the rest of his life. But throughout the conversation I kept glancing at Cardoen. He had a smug look on his face. The unwritten message from Stange was quite clear. By inviting Cardoen to his house, the general was telling Israel: "I know this guy. He's my friend. See, he even comes to have dinner with me."

It was obvious the whole thing had been staged, but there were other aspects of the conversation over dinner that revealed their true feelings about Pinochet. They referred to him not as El Presidente, but as "the old man." Stange repeated several times that Pinochet was trying to work out ways he could remain president. I had no doubt that Stange would be happy to step into his shoes.

Once in a while a woman dressed in a business suit came into the dining room and called Stange away to take a phone call. One other person was getting a lot of attention from a woman, too. It was obvious that Isabel had been brought along as a match for me, and she was putting on a good show with her eyes and her smile.

Cardoen said, "Ari, I understand you are here as our guest for a while."

"Yes -- I have no immediate plans to leave."

He laughed. "Of course. Are you free tomorrow morning? Come to my office at 10:00 A.M. I'm sure you know where it is."

At 9:00 P.M., the general stood, apologized, and said he had to go to a very urgent meeting with the president over the security situation. "The president likes to have such meetings at night," he said.

Cardoen offered to drive me back, because the chief of staff had to stay with the general. It was all being played very smoothly. I sat in the back of his Mercedes 230E with Isabel. On the way back into town, Cardoen asked, "Do you know Santiago?"

"Sure, I've been here before. You remember we met in my hotel room at the Carrera."

"Yes, of course, but ... "

Isabel interrupted, "Would you like me to show you around town?"

"Why not?" I said.

"We can do it this evening."

She asked Cardoen to take her back to her place, but I said I had a rental car and I would drive. So they drove me back to the apartment parking lot. At the car, after bidding goodnight to Cardoen and his wife, I took off my tie and jacket and rolled up my sleeves in the style of Gen. Stange and asked Isabel where we were going.

"Vina del Mar, it's only two hours' drive away."

It was now 9:30. "Sure," I said, "let's go."

We took the highway heading west, chatting about the political scene and places she had visited in Israel. As we entered a long tunnel, illuminated with orange lighting, I suddenly felt a hand on my knee.

"I like you Ari," she said. Then she added in Hebrew: "Bo na'aseh ahava -- Come, let's make love. I've always admired Israeli men."

I drove on toward Vina del Mar, the playground of the rich. As we descended into the town the locals call the "pearl of the Pacific," I asked, "What about your husband?"

"If he catches you, he'll kill you. Then me. But don't forget, he's in Antarctica right now."

We pulled up at a hotel and went into the lobby for ice cream. Then we took a slow drive along the shore. It was a beautiful place. Little wonder President Pinochet's summer palace was located here. Shortly after midnight I suggested we return. I was playing it straight down the line. Isabel had other thoughts.

"Look," she said, "my husband isn't here, my two daughters are with my parents. Why don't we stay here for the night in a hotel?"

But I insisted. I could not afford to be sidetracked. She wasn't smiling as I turned the car around and took the Santiago road.

''Ari,'' she said, "I really like you. But I must say something. I don't believe you're safe. You're playing a dangerous game here. The ones who get hurt are the soldiers, not the generals. You're a soldier for 'General' Shamir. You really think you are going to stop these guys? How do you think you're going to do it?"

I knew that what I said was going to go straight back to Cardoen and Stange. I pulled no punches.

"If we have to kill every single one of them, we will. My life is not important. The State of Israel and its survival are."

"What about the Americans?" she asked. "They are supporting this business, you know."

"That's for my superiors."

It was two in the morning when we arrived at her house. I asked her how to get back to my place. She said she would drive her car and I could follow her.

"But first I want to change my clothes." We went into her home, and she brought out a tray of baklava. "There's a Palestinian here who makes it," she said with a grin. "I'm sure you don't mind who the cook is."

"No," I said, "I don't mind."

Isabel changed into jeans and a T-shirt. It was obvious she wasn't wearing a bra. Printed on the T-shirt was: "My parents went to Jerusalem, and all I got was this lousy T-shirt."

She came over to me and put her arms around me. I was physically attracted to her, but by now jet lag had caught up with me, and I was desperately tired. I extricated myself.

"You're a very attractive woman," I said, "but I have to go to bed -- alone!"

I followed her Mercedes back to the apartment, where I put my head through her window and kissed her goodnight. She handed me a business card. It read: Isabel Bianchi, analyst, Cardoen Industries.

***

The headquarters of Cardoen Industries were in a tall building adjacent to the Sheraton San Cristobal Hotel in a pleasant residential district on Avenida Santa Maria. Private security guards in the lobby checked my identity before I took the elevator up to another reception area.

A secretary led me to Cardoen's office, and the first things that struck me, more than the suave owner who greeted me, were the two large framed photos above his head -- one of President Pinochet, the other of Saddam Hussein. Cardoen showed me a seat and offered me tea and cakes.

Dressed in a conservative suit and tie, he appeared nervous, unlike the confident man I had met the night before. He got down to business immediately.

"I understand you Israelis have a contract out against me."

No wonder he was nervous. "No, that's not true. At least not at the moment. On the other hand, we do have a contract for you."

Before he could say anything, I added, "You have violated prior agreements with us. May I remind you of our 1986 meeting, when I was assured that there would be nothing for Israel to worry about. Since then, right up to now, you've been playing with fire. Not only do we know that you are supplying chemical weapons to Iraq, we are also aware you are providing a financial umbrella for various people to deal with Iraq."

Cardoen was well aware that I was talking about scientists working with Ihsan Barbouti, who were providing technology for nuclear devices to Iraq, and Gerald Bull, a Canadian scientist and aeronautical engineer who was working on a "super gun" for Iraq, artillery that could shoot payloads as far as you wanted with no need for missiles.

Cardoen stared at me, flabbergasted that I was hitting him so hard. His fists were tight. I repeated: "The Israeli state will not stand by while Jewish children are gassed."

The Chilean breathed deeply, then stood up and paced the room. "First of all," he said, "your information is not accurate. Second, Saddam Hussein wants peace in the Middle East. Third, you are the guys that have nuclear weapons in the Middle East; nobody else does. And I'm certain that Israel will use them first if war comes."

"You can bet your ass Israel will use them if any of your gas hits us. Iraq will be wiped out. And, Mr. Cardoen, so will you."

He turned on me angrily. "If you're threatening me like this, I don't want to talk to you."

"If you want to cut the conversation short, fine. But you may be interested in what else I have to say."

He shrugged. "Go ahead. But let's talk sense. You must remember that I'm executing U.S. policy. You know that. In fact, you must know that I have the backing of many Western governments."

I asked him for proof. To name a few names.

He was thoughtful for a few moments. Then he said, "Look, you must understand we are working for peace in the Middle East." Suddenly he started talking as a peace-loving soul who was arming the Iraqis and serving the Iraqi people against the evil Israelis who were out to get them.

"Cut the shit," I said and tossed a handful of pages to him. "Read this."

There were no letterheads, no signatures, nothing to identify who had written it.

He sat back and took a few minutes to study it. The carrot was dangling there before his eyes. While he read the papers, I asked him, "Where's the john?" I had absolutely no respect for this man.

When I stood to go to the toilet, I made sure I left my custom-made armored briefcase open on his desk. Inside, clear for him to see, was a map of Paraguay with a large arrow pointing to a big red dot where Cardoen had his main chemical plant. When I returned, he said nothing.

I explained that the papers I had handed him described a contract under which he could open a factory in Chile and produce Uzis, Galil assault rifles, artillery shells, and 51mm mortars under license from Israel Military Industries, and he would be licensed to sell those materials exclusively all through South America. We would even help finance the operation to help him set up the factories. He would also be a broker for all Israeli military equipment in South America. We were offering him millions of dollars on a plate, just to change his style of business.

"How times change," he said. "Remember how I once came to Israel begging for a license. And now this!"

I stared hard at him. "Don't push your luck too far, Mr. Cardoen."

"You realize," he said, "that I need a permit from the Chilean government -- but I also think this is a set-up because you guys are not going to abide by an agreement like this."

"Get your permit, do whatever you like. But I'm warning you that you have two weeks to think about it. You can tell your bosses in Washington, in Baghdad, and everywhere else that we're not just going to sit around and twiddle our thumbs on this business while Saddam Hussein does what he wants. You can also remind your bosses in the U.S. that we know the first thing he's going to do is turn on Saudi Arabia and the Emirates."

It wasn't the first time that this warning had been given -- Col. Jalali, the Iranian defense minister, had made it clear to Gates in Kansas City in July 1987 that these were Saddam Hussein's plans.

Our conversation was over. Before I left I broke the ice by asking, "By the way, where is Isabel?"

He laughed. "I'll tell your wife. But sure, she's around. I'll give her as many days off as possible if it will make your stay in Chile happier -- for her too. She's a nice girl, but she's having problems with her husband."

He called her in. She was all smiles and seemed unperturbed that I had turned down her advances the night before. "Lunch," I said, "is served at the Sheraton at 12 o'clock."

She laughed and said, "I'll come down with you now."

Cardoen showed us to the door: "You two love birds run along. I have to make a living." Despite his jocularity, I read the underlying concern on his face. You don't dismiss a clear warning from Israeli intelligence.

***

Over lunch of Greek salad and pasta at poolside, I held her hand and told her, "If only to teach people a lesson, if he doesn't stop his trade within two weeks and accept our proposal, we're going to kill him."

We were sitting under a sun umbrella. Tourists were lying on their recliners sipping pina coladas. They were part of another world.

Her eyes were filled with alarm. "Ari," she said, "are you guys fucking crazy?"

"No. We mean everything we say. How do you want us to play things? You want me to do nothing more than put a sticker on my briefcase saying 'Never Again'?"

"They'll kill you, Ari. These guys are dangerous. Very, very dangerous. If I were you, I'd leave Chile while you can. On the next flight. They're all killers even when people are nice to them. And you haven't been very nice at all."

I had not arrived in Chile with any weapons. I wasn't a Mossad hit-man. My only safeguard was the knowledge that it wasn't going to be easy for them to make me "disappear." I was there on official business. Were I to vanish, all hell would break loose. But of course "accidents" could happen.

I smiled at her and finished my lunch.

***

That afternoon I called Lufthansa and asked if there was a flight to Europe the next day. I told Barbara I was leaving for a while, but gave no explanations. When that plane left the next day, I wasn't on it. Instead, I got on a LAN-Chile flight to Madrid, then took an El Al plane to Israel.

I spent the weekend in Jerusalem. There was a flurry of activity. Israeli intelligence contacted a very well-connected Israeli arms dealer who lived in the same Brussels apartment building as Gerald Bull and asked him if he could help arrange a meeting between a representative of the Israeli Prime Minister's Office and Bull. The message quickly came back. Bull was excited about the proposed meeting. He obviously did not know what was in store for him. All stops were out. Israel was determined to end the trade to Iraq at all costs.

I flew to Brussels from Tel Aviv and was met at the airport by heavy Israeli security -- four armed men. That was very heavy. But then, Europe was a killing ground. In Chile they couldn't afford to do anything to me. It was different here. There could be any number of suspects.

That evening I called Bull from the hotel and told him I was the government official who had come to meet him. I had a guest staying with me -- one of the security men. The three others remained in the car outside. It was arranged that Bull should come over right away and talk with me.

Bull, I knew from my briefing, was a scientist who wanted to prove his theory that with the use of a "supergun," artillery could shoot payloads remarkable distances, depending on a number of variables. The more fuel you put in, the farther the shell went. With the correct calculations, you could fire the shell anywhere and get it to land on target.

In 1981, Bull had gone to Israel hoping to sell his project. He approached Israel Military Industries, where technicians listened to his theory and concluded that it would work. But they were interested in missile technology, not artillery.

In 1983, Mark Thatcher, the son of British Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher, introduced Bull to Gene Pieter Van Der Westhuizen, chief of South African Military Intelligence, who in turn took him to ARMSCOR. ARMSCOR actually contracted this artillery project out with him. But on one of his trips back to where he was residing in the United States, Bull was arrested by the US. attorney for the Southern District of New York and the U.S. Customs Service for violating the Munitions Export Act. The charge: the export of military technology to an embargoed country -- South Africa. This, at a time when the U.S. was secretly shipping arms to South Africa.

After plea bargaining, Bull spent about six months in a federal jail before he was released as a convicted felon. He left the United States a disgruntled man and set up shop in Brussels. He also intended to maintain his relationship with South Africa, but when he returned on a visit, he found the reception cooler because of his arrest. What the South Africans did for him, though, was introduce him to the Iraqi deputy chief of the General Staff for Procurement -- the man who buys weapons. Bull was commissioned to develop his supergun for Iraq, but was paid through Carlos Cardoen's financial network. Which is why I was now in a Brussels hotel room facing Bull.

An informal, burly, middle-aged man with sandy hair, Bull made himself comfortable in an armchair and started talking about his supergun project. Despite his determination to trade with Iraq, I honestly liked this man. He wasn't in it for money or personal ambition or ideology. He simply wanted to prove to himself that his gun would work. "And it will work," he insisted.

"Mr. Bull," I said, "it probably will work, but what about the people who will die?"

"People have been dying for centuries for one reason or another. But this gun will be for Iraq's defense. With it, nobody would dare attack them. And that surely is a step toward peace."

"Mr. Bull, are you sure that the Iraqis only want to defend themselves? Can you tell me who is going to attack them?"

"Of course. The Americans. And you Israelis have already attacked them. You hit Baghdad in the 1967 war, and you hit Iraqi facilities in 1981."

"We blew up their nuclear plant."

"Yes, you blew up their facility, while at the time you had your own atomic bombs. You have delivery systems. If I can strike a balance of terror, there will be peace in the Middle East. And it will work."

Despite his opposing stance, I felt he wasn't really on anybody's side. "Mr. Bull, please stop," I said. "We will pay you for any breach of contract that will arise with the Iraqis."

"What do you mean?"

"We know you have reached a special deal with the Iraqis." I opened my briefcase and showed him a map. "Here is the plot of land they gave you in western Iraq to experiment."

He was aghast. "You sons of bitches have been following me."

I asked him if I could invite him to dinner in the room. He looked at the security man. "Not with this bozo around."

We dined alone. I again emphasized that if he let go, Israel would reimburse him for his financial losses.

"Will I be allowed to develop my gun somewhere else?"

"No. Absolutely not."

He drank his white wine. I asked how he had become connected with Iraq and Carlos Cardoen.

"Through my visits to South Africa. By the way, the South Africans, the Chileans, and I have a mutual friend in Mark Thatcher. I'd suggest that you guys don't muck around with me, or the British prime minister is going to get upset."

"Fine," I said. "But you still haven't told me who introduced you to Cardoen."

"I thought I had," he said. "I'm telling you it was Mark Thatcher."

We ate in silence. But I wasn't going to let up. "You know," I said, "the Israelis have a terrible reputation. They don't take too kindly to people who want to gas their population."

"Oh," he remarked, "you're pulling one of those on me. I had that in the States. You Jews are trying to guilt-trip everybody."

At that point, I said: "Mr. Bull, your time is up. Thank you for coming."

He had had his warning.

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