ABSTRACT
On 22 October 1956, David Ben-Gurion, Moshe Dayan, and I flew to Paris on a plane sent by Guy Mollet. In the car on the way to the airport (Ben-Gurion, wearing a hat, Dayan, wearing heavy eyeglasses to camouflage himself, and I, squeezed in the middle), we were almost ‘hiding’ from each other, because all three of us were fully aware who we were, and in what direction we were heading. Actually, to be precise, only two of us knew where we wanted to go, and neither knew what the third person, Ben-Gurion-the one who had to decide-really intended to do.
