Gad Shimron (6:16)

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Raza Jaffrey (7:09)

From wondery I'm Raza Jaffrey and this is the Spy who In the last episode, Mossad reopened the Arus Diving Resort to use as cover for its operation to smuggle Jewish Ethiopians out of Sudan. But after the encounter with Sudanese soldiers almost compromised the operation, Mossad operative Danny Limour is heading to Tel Aviv in a last ditch attempt to save the mission from being shut down. This is episode three of the Spy who Ran Mossad's Fake hotel. The return March 1982 the day after Danny Lamore promised his team he would save their mission. Tel Aviv In Mossad headquarters, Limor sits across from Yitzhak Hofi. The Mossad chief's eyes are blazing with anger. What the hell are you thinking, Danny? You almost start a war with Sudan and then you disregard my direction, ordered to shut down and evacuate our team from the resort? Boss, wait. I didn't shut down the team because you don't have all the facts. I know those Navy boys got scared when they saw some soldiers with guns, but that's not the whole story. You hate to enlighten me, are you? Well, go on then. Come on, tell me. What's the whole story? Sure, there was a confrontation on the beach, but those soldiers never saw what we were doing. And the next morning I went straight to the head of the Sudanese navy to complain about his troops scaring the resort's guests. He bought it, and he's even given us a special permit to operate anywhere we need without military interference. The mission is actually in a much stronger place than it was three days ago. I didn't shut it down because I knew I had to tell you all this first. Offy leans back in his chair. Danny, when I sent you over there, you do you remember how I said I didn't want any of your usual shit? I'm putting a formal reprimand in your file for disobeying a direct order and an official commendation for doing the right thing and refusing to follow that order. Limon's face breaks into a smile. So Operation Brothers continues. Yes, but we can't risk maritime evacuations anymore, no matter what your friend from the Sudanese navy promises. Our air force wants to do its bit to help the Ethiopians. I need you to find somewhere remote in the desert where we can land a C130 Hercules. The air force will fly in under the radar and airlift the refugees out. Limo's eyes widen at the audacity of flying military transport planes in and out of Sudan. C130s are huge. We'll need an airstrip, but if we can do it, we could take hundreds out at a time. That's the idea. But Danny, you're also meant to be running a resort down there. It's been a year already. If you don't start printing brochures and bringing in more tourists, the Sudanese are going to get suspicious. Nemours nods, almost laughing inside at the near absurdity of this operation. On the one hand, he's being ordered to scout airstrips in the desert for secret airlifts, on the other to print glossy brochures for European scuba in enthusiasts. A few weeks later, deep in the Sudanese desert about 200 km south of Arus, Lemore forces his Toyota pickup truck up a rocky desert hill, the car fighting against the incline and the dirt track that passes for a road. In the passenger seat, Louis, another Mossad operative, struggles with a map and a compass. Where the hell are those bastards sending us? The Israeli air Force claims there is a disused airstrip far out in the desert that might be viable for airlifting refugees. Nimor and his companion have been driving for days trying to find the exact location. The car fights its way to the top of the hill and the more immediately sits bolt upright, slapping Lou's arm and pointing into the distance. There, look. That's it. Ahead of them, stretched out below the hill, is a grit Runway, clearly standing out against the desert sand. Lmore guns the Toyota forward. The two men hop out of the car and scan the horizon. Louis turns to Limour. What the hell is an airstrip doing all the way out here anyway? The British built it in the Second World War, back when they were fighting the Italians in East Africa. Limour drops to his knees, touching the Runway's surface before looking back up At Louis. And look, the surface is gravel, not cement. That's perfect for a big plane like a C130. Thank you, Britain. Around the same time, Zurich, Switzerland, a young, well dressed married couple sit at the desk of a travel agent and scan the spread of glossy pamphlets on the table in front of them. The man looks up at the travel agent. Well, thing is, we're looking for something less touristy, less like what other people do, you know, something more. More adventurous. The agent thinks for a moment. Yes, well, I see. Can I ask you, did you like the idea of scuba diving? The woman's face lights up. Oh yes. Yeah, we tried that in Greece. Loved it. The agent rummages through a stack of papers, then slides a new glossy brochure in front of them. Then how about this? At a brand new diving resort on the Red Sea in Sudan. Totally untouched coral reefs, way off the beaten track. The couple look at the brochure. It's filled with photographs of exotic fish, stunning beaches and a beautiful blonde woman with a scuba cylinder on her back. The title reads Arus A Wonderful world Apart. The travel agent knows the look of an interested pair of customers when he sees it and gives the couple a smile. It's brand new. I guarantee none of your friends would have been anywhere like this. The man looks over at his wife. What do you think, sweetheart? Scuba diving in Sudan does sound like an adventure. The woman smiles back, her eyes shining. Oh, darling. Looks like paradise. About two weeks later, May 1982. Nemour strains his eyes into the pitch black night. He and his team are at the abandoned British airstrip in the Sudanese desert. With them are 184 refugees they've picked up from the camps. Tonight the Israeli Air Force will try to land a C130 Hercules and airlift the refugees straight to Israel. To minimize the risk of detection, they're carrying out the airlift when there's a new moon and the night is at its darkest and the plane will have to land. Guided only by a few flares Limo's team has placed along the Runway. In the glow of the flares, Limor can just see groups of terrified refugees huddled together. To calm them, the team has handed out cans of Lipton iced tea. Many of the refugees have never tasted canned drinks before and now clutch the empty cans as if they are precious treasure. Suddenly, Lemoy hears the rumble of aircraft engines. He strains his eyes into the night sky but can see nothing. The plane must be flying with its lights off to avoid being spotted. The team exchanged glances as the rumble of the Engines gets steadily closer. Limour notices refugee families pulling each other close in fear. Then, out of nowhere, a huge gray metal frame of the C130 roars overhead, so close it seems to be just above their heads. The blast of the engines is deafening and Limor feels the air being sucked out of his lungs. The refugees throw themselves to the ground in pure terror. The plane skids to a halt, sending huge plumes of dust into the air. The plane's ramp flies open and Israeli soldiers run out, silhouetted by the plane's interior lights. With knife edge precision, the soldiers begin marshalling refugees onto the plane, guided by Limour and the Mossad team. Meanwhile, another group of soldiers wheels out equipment for the resort brought over especially from Israel. Even in the midst of this whirlwind of activity, Nemours can't help but grin at the absurdity of these soldiers dropping off windsurfing gear and air conditioning units while ushering aboard desperate refugees who have never even been on a plane before. Within 15 minutes, once all the refugees are on board and the supplies delivered, then the plane turns and roars back into the night sky. Back on the ground, the entire Mossad team breaks into ecstatic whoops and high fives. They have just pulled off an almost impossible mission and have saved 184of their people in one flight, all without being detected. It feels like a huge moment of victory. The next day, a lean and weathered Bedouin man tries to keep himself from bouncing out of his seat as a road worn Sudanese army truck hurtles along the desert roads. He turns to the secret police officer sitting next to him. Here. Here. This is where it is. This is where the plane landed. The secret police officer looks around the airstrip, his eyes covered in reflective aviator sunglasses. He notes the tracks of several vehicles crisscrossing the desert and turns to the Bedouin. You say this happened last night? How big was this plate? The Bedouin runs from one spot to another to try and demonstrate the plane's wingspan. It was huge like this, much bigger than a normal plane. It had four propellers. It landed, stopped only for some minutes, then it took off again. I saw it all from that hill up there. Sir. Sir, look at this. The officer sees one of his men stoop down to pick something up off the ground and come running towards him. What is it? What have you found here? I found it on the ground. There are many more. The soldier hands him an empty can of Lipton iced tea. Looking up, the officer now sees several more littered over the ground. He studies the aluminium can in his hands. This is not a Sudanese drink. At first he thought the Bedouin had spotted some smugglers. But between this can and the description of the military sized plane, he now suspects something much more serious must be going on here. And he's going to keep this airstrip under surveillance until he finds out what it is.

Gad Shimron (19:13)

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Raza Jaffrey (19:52)

Why are there ridges on Reese's peanut butter cups? Probably so they never slip from her hands. Could you imagine? I'd lose it. Luckily, Reese has thought about that. Wonder what else they think about. Probably chocolate and peanut butter. Two weeks later late May 1982 the Arus holiday Village, Sudan Danny Limour strides down a short corridor in the resort's main building. He throws open the door of the storeroom. Inside, the rest of Mossad's undercover team are waiting with expectant faces. Tonight, another airlift of refugees from the airstrip is due to take place. But it's instead of their final pre operation briefing, Namor has dark news. The mission Tonight. It's off. We just got a message from headquarters. They've intercepted communications from the Sudanese secret police discussing plans to ambush us. The airstrip is compromised. It's under surveillance. One of the team pipes up from the back of the room. Is that it? Is the whole operation fished? The more spiritual spins round, a look of determination in his eyes. No, we're not done. It's only the airstrip that's compromised. Until we find a new route or airstrip, we'll have to make do with the original fake passport route. But the most important thing is to keep our heads down and live our cover stories. Keep running the resort and do nothing to arouse suspicion. Le More looks around at his team. He shares their disappointment. But this is what he trained for. To adapt and overcome. Seven months later early 1983 Israeli Air Force Headquarters, Tel Aviv Lemour sits across a desk from Major Ikar Brant, the commander of the Air Force's Hercules squadron. It's been a tumultuous few months for Limours and the team in Arous. First, their airstrip was compromised by the Sudanese secret police. Then war broke out between Israel and Lebanon, causing all of Mossad's major operations to be paused. But now the war in Lebanon is over, and Lemur's out to get Operation Brothers back on track. Major, obviously I can't fully disclose the nature of our mission, but what we need is a Hercules. It needs to fly about 500 km into Sudan airspace at night without being detected. Major Brandt gives a nonchalant shrug. Sure, that's no problem. And we need it to land in the desert with no airstrips. Okay, so you want us to fly one of the biggest military transport planes in the world, undetected into enemy airspace, then land and take off again on weak soil? Nemour feels his heart sink as he realizes the scale of what he's asking. So it can't be done? Major Brandt frowns in annoyance. I didn't say that. With the Israeli Air Force, there's nothing that can't be done. If that is the mission, we'll find a way to make it work. Lemour half suspects that Major Brandt has no idea how to pull off this complex operation. But if there's a sliver of a chance that this might work and offer a way to save the thousands of Ethiopian Jews stuck in the refugee camps, then there's no way Limour is going to pass it up. One month later Sudan Limour walks through the main restaurant of the Arous resort. The holiday village has been officially open for almost a year now and is starting to attract guests from Europe and even North America. As Limor passes, he hears a group of tourists excitedly chatting about the shipwreck dive they've just returned from. But then one of the Mossad officers who work as the resort's scuba instructors strides up and grasps his arm. I need to talk to you. Now. Namor simply nods. The two walk quickly together to the storeroom. Once inside, with the door closed, the officer turns to Limor. I screwed up my covers burnt. Limor feels his chest tighten but maintains his calm. Slow down. Tell me exactly what happened. Step by step, the officer takes a breath, steadying himself before replying. I was taking the group out for the dive. Everything was going okay, but then I was alone with one of the guests. The guy from Chalet 12. The Swiss guy. I guess he must be Jewish. He must have figured something out because he asked me a question in Hebrew. And I automatically replied it was only one word. Then I caught myself. But then the guest says, look, I know there are Israelis here. Don't worry, I'm not going to say anything. Why the hell does every asshole always have to prove how clever they are? I'm sorry. What would we do? Okay, say nothing for now. Let me deal with this. Five minutes later, Namour strides up to the door of Chalet 12. The door of the villa swings open, revealing a tall, sunburned tourist in brightly colored Bermuda shorts. Neymar gives the man a smile. I understand you may have some questions. The man smiles back, obviously pleased with himself for having identified the resort workers as Israeli. Well, I've worked out where you guys are from. But really, don't worry, won't say a thing. Without warning, them all springs forward so his face is centimeters from the other man's, his eyes flashing with rage. No, no, you won't. Because if you do, we'll take you on a night dive to a special reef where the sharks love kosher meat. The man's face turns pale. Lamar holds his gaze for another moment, just to make sure he's got the message, then turns and strides away. Sudan, June 1983 Thirteen months since the last airlift Limor crouches in the desert sand, a flashlight clenched between his teeth, staring at a map. Next to him is another Mossad officer, and in the distance, the rest of the team wait with more than 100 refugees. Tonight they will attempt their first airlift since the airstrip got compromised. But this time the Israeli Air Force must land their C130 Hercules in the desert without a landing strip. It's the most dangerous evacuation they've tried yet, and the plans have been checked meticulously. But to Limor, something still doesn't feel right. Then it hits him. Limour grabs the shoulder of the moss that officer next to him, and points at the map. We're in the wrong place. What do you mean? Look at the map. You see these coordinates? It's 100 meters that way. The officer's eyes widened in shock. The flares are already laid out. We only have five minutes until the plane gets here. There's no time to mark out an alternate Runway. L' Amour thinks fast. Okay, get in one of those jeeps and follow me. Limour and the officer sprint over to two them of of the team's jeeps. Lamour guns his to life and speeds over to where the exact coordinates dictate the plane is about to land. In a landing like this, a mistake of only a few meters could cause the plane to crash. A catastrophe Nemour cannot even contemplate. He stops his car, flips on his lights to full beam, then runs over to the officer who's followed him in the second car. Drive 20 meters over there and switch your lights to fall. We'll mark out the Runway with our headlights. More you can already hear the plane in the distance. He watches the car speed into position, then spin round so that the narrow pathway for landing is now lit by their headlights. The More says a silent prayer that this will be enough for the pilot to find their way. Then, tearing out of the night sky, the huge metal hulk of the plane roars overhead. Only a few dozen meters above, the turbulence from the engines shakes the heavy duty jeep like leaves in the wind. Somehow the pilot skids the plane to a halt directly beyond the two cars. Limour exhales in relief as the ramp begins to open. In the distance, he can hear the rest of the team leading the refugees towards the plane. In less than 20 minutes, they will be on their way to Israel. It was almost a disaster, but they managed to pull off a desert airlift. It feels like now nothing can stop operation Brothers late 1983 about seven months after the first desert airlift in Sudan Mossad Headquarters, Tel Aviv Dani Limor once again sits opposite Mossad director Yitzhak Hoffy. But this time he's not here to fight for the mission's survival. Hoffy leans forward in his old leather chair and smiles at Limor. Danny, you've done incredible work in Sudan, but I need you back here. It's time to come home. For a moment, Namor feels a surge of resistance. Operation Brothers is his mission. He set it up and guided it through every challenge so far. But deep in his heart, he knows Hoffy is right. He gives a wry smile. I'll miss it, you know? Hoffy smiles back. I know. But I'm sure your children miss you, Danny. You're a great setup, man. But now the resort is running well. The airlifts are working. I need you on the next mission. Let someone else run things day to day. But I want you to know that your work there has saved thousands of lives. I honestly don't think any other intelligence agency has ever tried anything remotely like this. At these words, Imour suddenly thinks back to his first days in Sudan, hunting the streets of Khartoum for Faredi Aklom, and feels a swirl of quiet pride at all he and his team have achieved. A few weeks later, Khartoum Le Moore stands amidst a large crowd in the luxurious house of Colonel Mohammed Makgub, the Sudanese tourism minister with whom he first negotiated leasing the resort at Arus. Over the years, Limour and Maqub have become good friends. Limour even covertly used his Mossad contacts to arrange fertility treatment for Maqgub and his wife in London. So when Limour announced he was leaving Sudan, Maqub insisted on throwing the party in his honor. Lamour now sees Makub walking towards him, obviously a little tipsy, carrying a glass of whiskey in one hand and a book in the other. My friend, I can't believe you are really leaving. L' Amour smiles. He genuinely likes Makub. I know, I'm sad too. But my boss says I'm better at setting things up than running them day to day. So I'm off to a new adventure. But in the meantime, please let me introduce the man who will be leading the resort from now on. L' Amour motions forward his fellow Mossad officer, Yariv. He knows that for Yariv to succeed at Arus, he will also have to develop a personal relationship with Maqub. The two men shake hands. Then Ma' Gob turns back to Limour. Here. This is a gift for you. To remember us all. Here. Makoub holds out the book he's carrying. Limor takes it and reads out the title, the Blue Nile. Maqb slaps him on the shoulder. It is said that whoever drinks from the Nile once comes back to it again and again. So we look forward to seeing you return before too long. Magoo. Robert raises his drink and all three men clink their glasses together for the last time. Limor is struck by the surreal situation of how Arus brought a Mossad officer and a Sudanese cabinet minister together. Two years later, the spring of 1985. Yariv sits on one of the refrigerators in the storeroom, looking around at the Mossad team. Since he took over running Arus, things have been going well. Not only have they been able to keep up a steady flow of airlifts for the Ethiopian Jewish refugees, but the resort has proven so popular that it's become financially self sufficient. The team often joke about how Mossad's accountants must be explaining the fact that one of their operations is actually bringing in some money, but today Yari's expression is deadly serious. Guys, I have news from headquarters. They've obtained intelligence that someone has informed on us. This new military government in Sudan now knows this place is a sham, so we've been ordered to evacuate. One of the other officers speaks. Do we Go right now. No. If we all just suddenly leave, it will arouse suspicion. We still have guests here. We cannot risk alerting the Sudanese to our plan to escape. Right now they think we don't know that they've uncovered the truth about Arus. If we try to run, they'll know we're trying to escape. So we keep running the resort as if everything is absolutely normal. We'll filter you out little by little over the next week or so. Then the moment the last guests leave, the last of our team here will get out too. Yarif can see the looks of concern breaking out across the room. He knows he needs to reassure the group they aren't about to be picked up by the Sudanese secret police. Look, if headquarters thought we were about to get raided, we'd already be on a plane out of here. Slipping out quietly is the best way. By the time they even realize we're gone, we'll be back on the beach. Until Tel Aviv. Until then, we have a holiday resort to run. So what's for dinner tonight? If we got any lobster stashed away in the freezer, might as well eat it now. One week later, Yariv and the last four Mossad operations operatives left at Arus stand smiling and waving goodbye to the last group of tourists staying at the village. The rest of the team have slipped away one by one over the past few days. The second the bus is out of sight, the team bursts into activity, running out across the resort and loading gear into a truck. In a few hours, an Israeli Air Force plane is going to pick them up at a prearranged spot deep in the desert. Yariv walks over to where the head of the Sudanese staff is standing. We're going to Port Sudan to pick up some supplies. The next group of guests should be arriving anytime now. We'll be back by tomorrow to take them out for the first dive. The Sudanese manager nods and walks off to direct the rest of the staff. Meanwhile, Yariv makes his way over to a large shed on the edge of the resort. It contains the expensive water desalination machine that Mossad brought in for the resort to use. Yari walks up to the huge machine, glancing at where the Made in Israel insignias have been filed away on the metal pipes. So as not to arouse suspicion. Yariv pulls a piece of paper and a pen out of his pocket. He leans against the metal and scribbles a note. It reads, this is the contribution of the State of Israel to the well being of Sudan. He folds the note slides it between two of the machine's pipes, then strides out of the door to where a truck is standing by. The team is already in it and waiting. Yariv lifts himself inside. Yariv turns and watches Arous recede from view, the red roofs of its vacation chalets contrasting beautifully against the azure blue of the sea. Soon it disappears from the horizon. A bus passes them on the road. The Mossad team smile and wave at the next guests bound for the resort. Yari waves along with the rest. He feels a pang of guilt knowing that these tourists will wake up tomorrow to find that the people who were meant to be taking them scuba diving would have vanished into thin air. Many years later, Danny Limour sits at the front row of his son's wedding ceremony. Limour can see that the young couple look euphorically happy, gazing into each other's eyes under the delicately embroidered upper canopy. In accordance with Jewish tradition, the rabbi takes a glass wrapped in fabric and places it on the ground in front of Limor's son. The young man smiles at his bride, raises his foot, then brings it down hard to smash the glass. The assembled guests burst into applause. The now married couple hold each other in a passionate embrace. As the couple lead their guests towards the nearby marquee, Namor finds himself walking next to the rabbi. Thank you, Rabbi. The rabbi stops in his tracks, seizes Limor's arm and looks him straight in the eye. No, Danny. Thank you. The rabbi's name is Sharon Shalom, but he only took that name after he arrived in Israel and trained to become an Orthodox rabbi. Before that, his name was Zaodo Mulu, the same terrified 8 year old boy that Limor and his team lifted onto a rubber motorboat on a Sudanese beach one night so many years before. Operation Brothers was the first of several major operations bringing the persecuted Ethiopian Jewish community to Israel. In all, nearly 100,000 made the journey. Today, the Ethiopian community accounts for roughly 2% of Israel's population. On arriving in Israel, many Ethiopian Jews also faced stigma and discrimination. Integration into broader Israeli society has proved a slow and often difficult process. After the Mossad team left Sudan, the holiday resort at Arus fell into disrepair. It was eventually taken over by the Sudanese military. In the early 1990s, Sudanese authorities allowed a jihadist fighter from Saudi Arabia to use the resort as a hideout. That jihadist name was Osama bin Laden. Join us in the next episode where we sit down with Mossad agent Gad Shimron. He spent three years working with Danny Limour at the resort hotel staff by day, secret agents at night. Speaking to comedian and writer Charlie Higson, he discusses this dual life living under the constant threat of being discovered, arrested and executed by the Sudanese military. Foreign plus subscribers can binge full seasons of the Spy who early and ad.

Gad Shimron (41:42)

Free on Apple Podcasts or the Wondery app.

Raza Jaffrey (41:52)

Have you got a spy story you'd like us to tell? Email your ideas to the spy who@wondery.com from Wondery this is the third episode in our season, the Spy who Ran Mossad's Fake Hotel A quick note about our dialogue we can't know everything that was said or done behind closed doors, particularly far back in history, but our scenes are written using the best available sources, so even if a scene or conversation has been recreated for dramatic effect, it's still based on biographical research. We used many sources in our research for this season, including Mossad Exodus by Gad Shimron and Red Sea Spies by Rafi Berg. The Spy who is hosted by me, Raza Jafre. Our show is produced by Vespucci with writing and story editing by Yellow Ant for Wandering For Yellow Ant. This episode was was written by J.S. raffaelli and researched by Louise Byrne with thanks to Gad Shimron and Guy Bahia. Our managing producer is Jay Priest for Vespucci. Our senior producers are Ashley Clivery and Philippa Gearing. Our sound designer is Iver Manley. Rachel Byrne is the supervising producer. Music supervisor is Scott Velasquez for Fritz N. Sink. Executive producers for Vespucci are Johnny Galvin and Daniel Turcom. Executive producer for Yellow Ant is Tristan Donovan, our senior producer for Wondery is Theodora Leludis and our senior managing producer is Rachel Sibley. Executive producers for Wondery are Estelle Doyle, Chris Bourne and Marshall Louie.