When the Mossad team awoke on May 11, they faced a long day of nervous waiting before they could execute the capture that evening. Tabor and Malkin double-checked that the safe house was ready and finished the hiding places. Shalom, Gat, and Eitan drove to San Fernando and back to check that no obstruction had appeared along the routes. Aharoni made a rushed trip to a garage to buy a new battery for the Buick.

By early afternoon, they had run out of ways to pass the time. Everyone involved in the capture operation waited at Tira. Between games of chess and gin rummy, they looked for anything other than the operation to talk about, but there was no point. Some retired to their rooms to relax — maybe even to sleep — but they were always back in the living room shortly after, more on edge than ever.

An hour before they were due to leave, Malkin splashed some water on his face and pulled on a wig, a blue wool sweater, and black pants. For a long time he stared at himself in the mirror, mentally charging himself up. Memories of his family overran his thoughts, followed by a rush of fear that he might fail his team and, in some way, all the people who had died because of Eichmann, including Fruma, her husband, and their three children. To push these feelings away, he repeated to himself, “I’m going to catch him.”

Then he went downstairs to find everyone else was ready. Tabor had also put on a wig, covering his bald head, and he wore a heavy overcoat that made him look even more like a giant than usual. The others had dressed in jackets and slacks. Some wore ties, to look more like diplomats, but they were not in disguise. Only Malkin and Tabor would be outside the car.

Before they left, Eitan reviewed their plan one more time. He offered no eloquent words of inspiration. Each of them knew what he needed to do. It was half past six. Time to go.

Adolf Eichmann began his day as usual, rising from bed before sunrise. He shaved, washed himself in a pail of water, and then had breakfast. He left his house, caught bus 203 at the kiosk, and began his daily two-hour trek to work at a Mercedes-Benz manufacturing plant. He switched buses twice, catching the one for the final leg at Saavedra Bridge, which separated the city center from the outlying districts of Buenos Aires. This bus was filled with the same people every day, mostly his fellow workers. He offered only spare greetings to the other passengers during the twenty-mile ride. Some of them knew his name, Ricardo Klement, but that was about it.

At the plant, he clocked in like everyone else and put on a pair of dark-blue Mercedes-Benz overalls. As a foreman, he spent the morning winding his way up and down the assembly line, checking the work in progress. When the 12:30 P.M. whistle blew, he took his lunch break, alone, in the restaurant at which he ate every working day. An hour later, he returned to work exactly on time, and stayed there until he finished his shift.

Eichmann’s Mercedes-Benz identity card.

Zvi Aharoni turned the Buick limousine off the highway, heading toward Route 202. Rafi Eitan sat beside him, and Tabor and Malkin were in the back. They all kept their eyes trained on the road, though they glanced at one another occasionally. They knew that each of them depended on his teammates for the success of the operation — and, potentially, for his own freedom and even his life.

At 7:35 P.M., they reached Garibaldi Street. Shalom, driving the Chevrolet, had taken a different route, but the two cars arrived at the same time. Gat was in the passenger’s seat, at relative ease. He knew they had a good plan. More than that: He had faith in the team.

In the backseat, the doctor was quiet and still. He was looking at the Mossad agents through different eyes. They were almost a separate breed of men, he thought, so calm in the moments before this covert operation began.

In five minutes, the bus would arrive. They had not wanted to be in the area for too long before the capture in case they drew attention to themselves, but now they needed to move quickly to get into place. Shalom stationed the Chevrolet on Route 202, facing Garibaldi Street, and turned off the headlights. A truck was parked behind them, between their car and the railway embankment, its driver preoccupied with eating his dinner. There was nothing they could do about him now.

Aharoni stopped the Buick limousine on Garibaldi Street, ten yards in from Route 202, facing Eichmann’s house. Tabor and Malkin stepped out into the cold and lifted the hood. Tabor bent over the engine; he would be hidden from Eichmann when he turned onto the street. On the limousine’s front left side, Malkin leaned slightly forward as well, as though he were watching Tabor’s efforts with the engine.

Eitan climbed into the backseat, his forehead pressed against the cold glass as he kept his eyes trained on the bus stop. From the driver’s seat, Aharoni stared in the same direction through a pair of night-vision binoculars. There was no reason for them to speak; they only had to wait and to watch.

Seconds before bus 203 was scheduled to show, a boy wearing a bright red jacket, about fifteen years old, pedaled down Garibaldi Street on his bicycle. He stopped at the limousine. Aharoni stepped halfway out of the car — he was the only one of them who spoke any Spanish. He knew he needed to get this boy out of there, quick and quiet.

The boy asked what was wrong with their car, if they needed help. Aharoni smiled at the boy, saying, “Thank you! No need! You can carry on your way.” The boy took off, his unzipped jacket flapping around him in the wind as he disappeared into the darkness.

Then 7:40 P.M. passed, and the bus still had not shown up. Three minutes later, they saw the lights of a vehicle approaching from the direction of San Fernando. They had spent enough nights on the railway embankment to know that it was the bus.

Malkin prepared himself, repeating the words “Un momentito, señor” over and over in his head, gauging where in relation to the road and the car he would make his move. Tabor readied to drop the hood and help him. They would have to keep Eichmann from screaming — but they had practiced plenty. Malkin was to seize him by the throat, spin behind him, and drag him toward the open car door. Tabor would grab his legs and help throw him into the backseat. Both reminded themselves that they were not to hurt Eichmann. They had no guns, nor any need of them.

The lights from the bus cut through the night. They braced themselves. But instead of stopping opposite the kiosk, the bus kept going, past the second capture car and underneath the railway embankment. Then it was gone. It had not even slowed down near its usual stop.

A rush of doubt overcame the team. Had Eichmann altered his schedule or gone on vacation? Had he returned early from work? Worst of all, had he learned of their presence and fled from Buenos Aires?

Malkin looked toward the Eichmanns’ house. Only a single lamp was lit. Typically, after their target returned home from work, there was a lot more light and activity. He was definitely not at home, but this did not rule out the possibility that he had taken the week off, or disappeared completely. After all, because of the rush to switch safe houses and to finalize their plans, the team had not watched Garibaldi Street for two nights.

The surge of expectation slowly ebbed. Nobody wanted to voice the concern they all shared: They might have missed their opportunity.

The wind continued to strengthen. Thunder from the approaching storm grew closer, and now and then there was a burst of lightning in the distance. Every few minutes, a train roared by on the tracks.

Five minutes passed. Then ten. Another bus came down the highway. The team readied for action again, but this bus did not stop either. The possibility that Eichmann had simply missed his usual bus was becoming unlikely.

Shalom and Gat got out of the Chevrolet and stood on Route 202, looking over at the limousine to see if there was any movement. According to their plan, if Eichmann did not show up by eight o’clock, they would leave and come back the next day. The longer they stayed in the target area, the greater the chance the police would happen upon them.

Behind them, they heard the sudden start of an engine. They whirled to see the truck that had been parked to their rear take off down the highway. At least that driver was no longer a concern.

After taking a few steps closer to Garibaldi Street and seeing no activity at the limousine, Shalom decided to wait. He did not want to go over to talk to Eitan, because if somebody was watching them, they could then connect the two cars. He would stay where he was until he saw the limousine pull away.

As 8 P.M., their deadline to leave, arrived, Aharoni turned in his seat and asked Eitan, “Do we take off or wait?”

Eitan had made up his mind when the first bus had passed without stopping. He knew they were jeopardizing their chances to come back the next day, but he also knew that the team was more ready now than it would ever be again. “No, we stay,” he said firmly.

The minutes passed slowly: 8:01, 8:02. They all stared down Route 202. Tabor and Malkin felt certain that Eichmann was not coming, that they would have to spend more nights mentally preparing for the moment when they would grab him. They waited for the word from Eitan to close the hood and pack up.

At 8:05 P.M., headlights broke the darkness once again.

Isser Harel sat alone in a café not far from Tira, sipping a hot tea with brandy. He had checked out of the Claridge Hotel that morning and left his suitcase in a railway-station locker. If the operation met with disaster or if he were followed, he could disappear without a trace. Which was all well and good, except that he was so miserable with fever that even thinking of attempting such an escape felt beyond him at that moment.

He checked his watch: almost eight o’clock. His men would already have Eichmann in their hands — if everything had gone as planned. He did not expect anyone to come to the café to inform him of their success or otherwise for at least another forty-five minutes.

He kept his mind off what might have gone wrong by mulling over what he expected Vera Eichmann to do when her husband did not come home. There was no way she could go straight to the police, Harel was sure. She would only be reporting a missing husband — a common enough occurrence that the Argentine police would not marshal their forces to investigate. Only if she confessed that Ricardo Klement was Adolf Eichmann would a serious search be launched. Before she took that step, she and her sons would no doubt check the local hospitals and Eichmann’s workplace, which would give Harel’s team at least a couple of days’ lead time — maybe more. Then again, they could not rule out a hunt by Eichmann’s sons or by his Nazi associates and their friends in the German community . . .

These theories were just that — theories — until Harel knew the result of the operation. He stared at the hands on his watch, growing more and more anxious with every passing minute to learn what was happening on Garibaldi Street.

Bus 203 pulled up to the kiosk. As it came to a halt, Shalom returned to the wheel of the Chevrolet, ready to start the engine and turn on the headlights. Gat was beside him in the passenger’s seat. At the limousine, Tabor repositioned himself over the engine, hidden from sight. Aharoni raised his binoculars again, and Malkin and Eitan looked toward the bus stop.

Two people got off the bus. The first was the stout woman who usually arrived with Eichmann at 7:40 P.M. She stepped down and turned left, away from Garibaldi Street. The second passenger was a man, but it was impossible to identify him in the dark.

The bus pulled away, moving past the Chevrolet down Route 202.

The man walked toward Garibaldi Street.

“Someone’s coming,” Aharoni whispered to Eitan, “but I can’t see who it is.”

Eitan looked into the darkness, but his vision was not what it had been in the past. He saw nothing.

Shalom flicked on his headlights, and they all knew at once that the figure cast in silhouette was Eichmann. The way he walked — bent forward, a determined gait — was unmistakable.

“It’s him,” Aharoni declared.

The two words electrified Eitan. He made sure Malkin and Tabor were in position, then he prepared to rush from the car should he be needed.

As Eichmann approached the Garibaldi intersection, Aharoni saw him dip his hand into the right pocket of his trench coat.

“He may have a gun,” Aharoni said. “Should I warn Peter?”

“Yes, tell him to watch the hand,” Eitan replied.

Malkin was counting out in his head exactly how many steps away Eichmann was, wanting to meet him a few feet from the tail end of the limousine. Lightning coursed through the sky. A roll of thunder followed as Malkin edged forward. He was certain that if Eichmann made a run for it across the field, he could catch him long before the older man reached his house.

Twenty yards away now. Malkin passed the driver’s door. Aharoni held out his hand. “Peter, he has a hand in his pocket. Watch out for a gun.”

The warning unnerved Malkin. Nobody should be saying anything to him at this moment, he thought. He did not want to be hearing about a gun. His every move had been practiced without a weapon in the equation. This changed everything.

Eichmann turned the corner. Fifteen yards away now. Malkin saw how the man was leaning into the wind, collar upturned, his right hand deep in his pocket.

Aharoni turned on the limousine’s engine. Eichmann looked in their direction, but he maintained his stride.

Malkin kept moving forward. If a gun was involved, he would have to adjust how he grabbed Eichmann. He had to make sure that Eichmann never freed the weapon — if he had one — from his pocket.

Five yards. Malkin stepped into his path, and Eichmann drew up to a stop.

“Un momentito, señor,” Malkin said, the words coming out uneasily. He locked his gaze with Eichmann’s and saw the Nazi’s eyes widen in fear. Eichmann stepped back. He was about to run.

Malkin burst forward, one hand reaching out to keep Eichmann’s right arm down in case he had a gun. His momentum, mixed with his target’s retreat, sent them both pitching to the ground. The agent seized Eichmann as they rolled into the shallow, muddy ditch that ran alongside the road. Landing on his back, Malkin tried to keep hold of Eichmann’s right arm and at the same time grab his throat to cut off any call for help. Eichmann kicked, elbowed, and clawed to free himself, loosening the grip on his throat.

Then he screamed. Aharoni revved the engine to drown out the wail. Tabor hurried over to the ditch to help Malkin. Eitan also leapt from the car. Eichmann shrieked and shrieked. His house was roughly thirty yards away, close enough for anyone outside to hear his cries — or anyone inside if the windows were open. They had to silence him immediately and get out of there.

When Tabor reached the ditch, Eichmann was pressing his feet against its side to gain some leverage against Malkin, who had his arms locked around his waist. The more Eichmann fought, the more fiercely Malkin tightened his grasp. There was no way the Nazi was going to get loose. Tabor grabbed Eichmann’s legs, further canceling any chance of resistance. Eichmann went slack and abruptly stopped screaming. Malkin rose to his feet, and he and Tabor hauled their captive out of the ditch and over to the limousine.

On Route 202, Shalom waited with Gat and the doctor, desperate to know what was happening. They had lost sight of Eichmann the moment he turned onto Garibaldi Street. Then they heard shouting, followed by silence. Seconds ticked by as if they were hours. Their instructions were to move only after the limousine did.

Eitan helped Malkin and Tabor get Eichmann into the backseat. Tabor hurried around the front of the limousine to close the hood, while Malkin kept his gloved hand over the captive’s mouth. Eitan blindfolded him, using motorbike goggles whose lenses were covered with black tape. The second that Tabor slid into the passenger’s seat, Aharoni gunned the limousine and pulled away. Only twenty-five seconds had passed since Malkin first reached for Eichmann.

Aharoni swung left at the end of the street. A hundred yards from the Eichmann house, he looked over his shoulder and ordered their captive in German, “Sit still and nothing will happen to you. If you resist, we will shoot you. Do you understand?”

Malkin took his hand away from Eichmann’s mouth, but Eichmann said nothing.

“If you resist, we will shoot you. Do you understand?”

Again, no response. They thought he might have passed out.

Aharoni headed eastward, even though Tira was located to the southwest of the city. That way, if anybody saw the cars leave the area, they would point the police in the wrong direction. Malkin and Tabor bound Eichmann’s hands and feet, pushed him onto the floor, and covered him with a heavy wool blanket. They searched his trench coat, but he had no gun, just a flashlight.

Eitan looked in the sideview mirror for their backup car. It was nowhere to be seen.

“Where are they?” Malkin asked.

A moment later, headlights appeared. Shalom steered the Chevrolet alongside the limousine just long enough to receive a thumbs-up. The relief on his face was clear as he sped ahead of them, now acting as the lead car.

As Aharoni settled back behind the Chevrolet, he spoke to their captive again, this time in Spanish. “What language do you speak?”

The prisoner remained quiet, breathing heavily. A few minutes later, he leaned up slightly and said in flawless German, “I am already resigned to my fate.”

It was not what they expected to hear, but the words reassured the Mossad agents. Their captive spoke native German, and clearly knew why he was being kidnapped. It was as close to an admission that he was Adolf Eichmann as they could have hoped.

Eitan turned around and shook Malkin by the hand, congratulating him. Malkin rested back in his seat, mostly relieved. Though there was more of a struggle than he had hoped, they had their man and he was unharmed. Now they just had to return to the safe house.

A mile from Garibaldi Street, Shalom steered onto a dirt side road and stopped by a copse of trees. Aharoni followed in the limousine. Tabor and Gat hurried out of their cars and switched the Argentine license plates for blue diplomatic ones. They all had forged Austrian diplomatic papers in case they were stopped by the police or at a checkpoint, but the plates would limit the chances of that happening.

False license plate used on one of the capture cars.

Soon they were back on the road, traveling the route that Shalom had charted after two weeks of reconnaissance. They kept to the speed limit and made sure to obey the traffic laws down to the mile-per-hour.

On the floor of the limousine, Eichmann remained still, silent.

Halfway to the safe house, they slowed at one of the two railway crossings on the route. The red lights were flashing, and the barriers lowered. They were stuck with at least a ten-minute wait. A line of cars backed up behind them. Once again, Aharoni warned Eichmann that if he uttered a word, he would be shot. He didn’t move under the blanket, his breathing settled.

The four Israelis in the limousine tried to look casual — difficult, given the circumstances. Other drivers paced up and down outside their cars and smoked cigarettes while they waited for the train. Music blared through their open car doors. The storm that had threatened a downpour earlier passed overhead without breaking.

Finally, what seemed like hours later, the train roared by and the barriers lifted. The line of traffic eased forward. Shalom drove away, with the limousine close behind. Ten minutes from Tira, Shalom took a wrong turn, but Aharoni stayed on the proper route. Shalom spun the car around and soon caught up. Five minutes away, they parked for a second on a side road to change the diplomatic plates for a new set of Argentine ones.

At 8:55 P.M., the two cars slowed in front of Tira. A waiting Medad pulled open the gate. Aharoni rolled the limousine into the garage, and Medad closed the door behind him. After fifteen years on the run, Adolf Eichmann was now a prisoner of the Jewish people.