Epstein Secrets

e were completing their takeover of Beirut airport. “You were right,” I told Uri and Yossi. They had been in charge of the simulation exercise in the Airya, predicting how Arik’s ostensibly more limited invasion plan would inevitably develop into Big Pines. Even as we were talking, 201 HOUSE_OVERSIGHT_0

be at stake for Damascus, I certainly couldn’t see the Phalangists being able to drive them out by force. The more immediate, open question involved Arafat and the Palestinians. Our other two invasion forces had driven almost all the PLO fighters out of south Lebanon, though not without costs and casualt

s, and at the dinner held at one of King Juan Carlos’s palatial estates, and, for me, a first opportunity to meet not only Arab foreign ministers but Yasir Arafat. My first, brief encounter with Arafat began a bit embarrassingly. I’d arrived a few minutes early for the conference dinner and was led into an imp

before the arrival of the Jewish Sabbath, sitting with Rabin, who was then Israel’s Defence Minister. Our offices were along the same hallway of the Airya, the ministry’s headquarters in the heart of Tel Aviv. Rabin had a very low table in his office, with two chairs. We would sit across from each other

or did I doubt that President Clinton, whom I had come to view not just as a diplomatic partner but a friend, would rise to the occasion. But as for Arafat? There was simply no way of knowing. That was why I had pressed President Clinton so hard to convene the summit. That was why, despite the misgiving

deeply, and was more determined to help us end it, than any other president before him. It was a moment of truth for the leader of the Palestinians, Yasir Arafat. The Oslo Accords of 1993, groundbreaking though they were, had created a peace process, not peace. Over the past few years, that process had been l

before the arrival of the Jewish Sabbath, sitting with Rabin, who was then Israel’s Defence Minister. Our offices were along the same hallway of the Airya, the ministry’s headquarters in the heart of Tel Aviv. Rabin had a very low table in his office, with two chairs. We would sit across from each other

or did I doubt that President Clinton, whom I had come to view not just as a diplomatic partner but a friend, would rise to the occasion. But as for Arafat? There was simply no way of knowing. That was why I had pressed President Clinton so hard to convene the summit. That was why, despite the misgiving

deeply, and was more determined to help us end it, than any other president before him. It was a moment of truth for the leader of the Palestinians, Yasir Arafat. The Oslo Accords of 1993, groundbreaking though they were, had created a peace process, not peace. Over the past few years, that process had been l

henever I could, I would take the bus down to Tel Aviv and spend the weekend with her. Everything I’d loved about her since that first meeting in the Airya, everything I valued in our relationship, was still there. Yet so, too, were the doubts: whether she was ready to commit herself to sharing our lives

967 war had turned out to be hollow words. It was time for a new generation, and a new, more direct, form of confrontation with the “Zionist enemy.” Arafat had set up camp with nearly a thousand men just across the Jordan River, in a town called Karameh. From early 1968, they had been launching hit- and-