Operation Diamond: Mossad’s Daring MiG-21 Heist
August 16, 1966 – Over the Jordanian Desert
Radar Blip, 30,000 feet. The Israeli air defense operator’s pulse quickens. An unidentified jet – fast, Soviet-made – streaks across northern Jordan toward Israel’s border.
In the cockpit of that jet, Iraqi Air Force Captain Munir Redfa grips the stick of his MiG-21 fighter. His heart pounds as he breaks away from his training formation, throttling up. Two Royal Jordanian Hawker Hunter jets scramble on his tail, but the MiG is flying at Mach 2 and 30,000 feet – too fast and too high to catch. Over the radio, panicked Jordanian controllers hurl queries: Whose jet is this? Syria’s air defense, either mistaken or confused, replies that the MiG is theirs on a routine mission. With that assurance, Jordan’s anti-air batteries hold fire. Redfa pushes westward, skimming the edge of empty fuel tanks and betrayal. He’s betting his life – and his family’s – on the promise that Israeli operatives made to him in secret.
As the MiG-21 screams toward Israeli airspace, two Dassault Mirage III fighters of the Israeli Air Force form up on its wingtips. In Redfa’s headset, an Israeli voice crackles in broken Arabic: “Welcome, brother. You’re safe now.” The Iraqi pilot exhales; the Mirage escorts guide him toward a dusty airstrip on the coastal plain. Moments later, Redfa’s single-seat MiG touches down at Hatzor airbase – sputtering on “the last drop of fuel” as he later admits. Operation “Diamond” – the code name for this audacious Mossad mission – has just hit pay-dirt. The Israelis now possess the Middle East’s most advanced Soviet fighter plane, a prize snatched from under their enemies’ noses.
Three Years Earlier
Tel Aviv, 1963. Newly appointed Mossad chief Meir Amit surveys a list of Israeli strategic wish-items. At the top: acquire a Mikoyan-Gurevich MiG-21. The sleek Soviet interceptor had begun appearing in Arab air forces’ arsenals by the early 1960s. It was the pride of the Kremlin – Mach 2 speed, deadly missiles, and a mystique of invincibility. Very little was known in the West about the MiG-21’s true capabilities, and Israeli pilots whispered about facing these “unknown beasts” in a future war. General Motti Hod, commander of the Israeli Air Force, told Amit plainly that getting a MiG-21 would unlock the secrets of the Arabs’ best jet – potentially saving Israeli lives in the next conflict.
The mission seemed impossible. The Soviets guarded their planes zealously, even stationing their own advisers and technicians at client states’ airbases. Mossad’s first ideas ranged from bribery to stealing one off a tarmac, but none looked feasible. In 1962, an attempt to bribe an Egyptian MiG pilot for $1 million backfired catastrophically – the Egyptian turned the agent in. Mossad operative Jean Thomas and several accomplices were arrested; Thomas and two others were hanged as spies. A second approach to Iraqi pilots also failed, ending with Mossad agents resorting to rough “silencing” tactics to avoid exposure. The message was clear: failure meant death – and success seemed a distant dream.
Yet by 1964, a stroke of fortune came from an unlikely source. An Iraqi-born Jew named Joseph (Yusuf) had embedded himself as a trusted servant within a prominent Christian family in Baghdad. Through this family, Joseph learned of a relative by marriage who just so happened to fly MiG-21s – Captain Munir Redfa, a talented Iraqi pilot. Over tea and whispers, Joseph heard that Redfa, an Assyrian Christian in a Muslim-majority Air Force, was deeply discontent. The pilot felt mistreated and mistrusted by his commanders because of his faith. He’d been passed over for promotion and even assigned limited fuel on missions as if his superiors feared he might one day flee. To make matters worse, Redfa had been ordered to bomb rebellious Kurdish villages – an order that sickened him and clashed with his conscience. “He was beginning to doubt whether he had any future in Iraq,” one account noted.
When word of this disillusioned pilot reached Israeli intelligence, ears perked up. Munir Redfa was exactly the kind of man Mossad could target: skilled, aggrieved, and sitting in the cockpit of the coveted MiG. The operation moved into its next phase – identifying how to win Redfa’s trust and lure him, and his plane, to Israel.
The Recruitment
Athens, 1965. A Mossad operative, posing as a wealthy businessman, meets Redfa on neutral ground. The pitch is simple yet staggering: Defect to Israel, bring your jet, and secure a future for yourself and your family. At first, Redfa hesitates. Betraying one’s country, especially in Iraq, means certain death. But Mossad sweetens the deal: safe passage for his entire family, financial security, and a fresh start. The disillusioned pilot listens.
Over the next year, Mossad tightens the net, sending operatives to shadow Redfa, ensure his security, and gauge his commitment. He receives coded messages, secret briefings, and maps detailing his escape route. Meanwhile, in Iraq, Mossad extracts Redfa’s family under the guise of “sending them on a European vacation.”
The Escape
Summer 1966. Mossad smuggles Redfa’s family out of Iraq, using Kurdish guerrillas to help. His wife Betty and their children, believing they’re on a European vacation, unknowingly flee to Paris. Only at the last moment does Mossad tell her the truth. She panics, nearly calling the Iraqi embassy, but Israeli agents calm her. Hours later, she boards a flight to Tel Aviv.
Back in Iraq, Redfa prepares for his defection. He convinces mechanics to overload his MiG’s fuel tanks—an unusual request, but as deputy squadron commander, he gets away with it.
August 16. Redfa takes off, flying a “routine training run.” Near the Jordanian border, he suddenly banks west. Iraqi control erupts in panic. Sirens wail. Jordan scrambles interceptors. He throttles up, pushing the MiG past Mach 2.
Jordan radios Syria: Is this your jet? A Syrian officer makes a critical miscalculation and responds without hesitation : Yes, it’s ours. The misidentification buys Redfa time. He crosses into Israeli airspace.
Two Mirage IIIs intercept him. Israeli controllers confirm his identity. As he descends over the Negev, his fuel gauge plummets. The MiG sputters. The runway nears. Redfa coaxes the jet down, skidding to a halt. The engine dies.
He’s made it.
The Aftermath
News of the defection explodes. Iraq and the Soviets demand the MiG’s return. Israel ignores them. Engineers dissect the jet, discovering its weaknesses—underpowered in low-speed dogfights, reliant on pilot skill.
Months later, Israeli pilots use this intel to shoot down six Syrian MiG-21s with zero losses. When the Six-Day War erupts, Israel dominates the skies.
The MiG’s secrets don’t stop there. In 1968, Israel loans the jet to the U.S. under Operation Have Doughnut. American pilots use it to refine air combat tactics for the Vietnam War. In return, Washington sells Israel its first cutting-edge warplanes—the F-4 Phantom II—marking the start of U.S.-Israeli military cooperation.
As for Redfa? He disappears into quiet exile in Europe. Never flies a combat jet again. Passes away in 1998.
The Legacy
Operation Diamond was more than just a defection—it was a masterclass in psychological warfare, deception, and strategic gain. Mossad had not only convinced an enemy pilot to switch sides, but they had also secured a game-changing military asset that would shape air combat for years.
A single plane. A single pilot. A single mission. Yet the consequences rippled far beyond that fateful August day in 1966, solidifying Israel’s intelligence dominance in ways the world would only later understand.
Today, in Israel’s Air Force Museum, the stolen MiG-21 stands with “007” painted on its side—a nod to its daring theft. A reminder that, in 1966, a single jet shifted the balance of power in the Middle East.
