“We know,” Brodsky said. “We heard him order the car last night.”
“Will he be followed?”
“He is being followed.”
“But I didn’t see another car when his car left,” Herzl said. “I was watching from the window.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Brodsky said in a kindly tone, “and stay away from windows.”
General Grossman climbed into his car, surprised to find another soldier at the wheel other than Sergeant Saul, but at least the sergeant’s replacement held the door open for him and saluted smartly, which was not always the case with Sergeant Saul, who did these things only when he thought of it. The general settled back in his seat as the car left the curb.
“To my office …” he began.
“Yes, sir.” Richter sat ramrod straight in the driver’s seat, handling the car excellently.
“We know,” Brodsky said. “We heard him order the car last night.”
“Right after you called,” Richter said, switching from Hebrew to German, “the sergeant had an unfortunate accident.”
Grossman felt a slight shock run through him. So his driver was ODESSA! Whatever else one might think of the organization, in a way one had to admire it for the excellent German planning and execution. Richter had spoken Hebrew; Grossman was positive the man also spoke Yiddish fluently, as Eichmann had. ODESSA did things in a proper fashion, you had to give them credit for that. They were also murdering bastards, but he would handle that problem when the time came.
“Fatal?” he asked, although he was sure he knew the answer.
“Unfortunately,” Richter said evenly. He spoke without turning his head, almost without moving his lips, nor did he make the mistake of glancing in the rearview mirror to watch the general as he spoke. To the most observant outsider watching he would have appeared at most to be mumbling to himself. “He will not be found, so that is no problem. However—your instructions, Colonel von Schraeder. Get them right the first time, because after I leave you at your office, you will not see me again until the time of delivery. Are you ready?”
“Yes.”
“Good. A week from tomorrow is the fourteenth of May. It is both the Sabbath as well as being the twenty-third anniversary of the founding of Israel. It is a day when security forces are generally more lax, with most people worrying more about celebrating than anything else. You will give your driver the weekend off; it is a time when this can be done without the slightest suspicion. You will drive yourself. We suggest you arrange matters to deliver the materials that night; at midnight to be exact. You can arrange to pick it up whenever you wish; that day or earlier. It is your problem. Is it understood?”
“Yes.” The fourteenth of May was a day that Grossman had already considered, although he obviously had been unable to finalize his plans before this meeting. They thought of everything, this ODESSA!—including how to deliver explosive packages to innocent women.
“Good. Now,” Richter said, driving expertly through the heavy morning traffic, “are you familiar with Eilat?”
“I’ve been there.”
“You may know, then, that on the road leaving Eilat to the south, you first pass the old and new ports, then the glass-boat pier, and a short distance beyond the pier you come to two hotels on your right, across from the diver’s club. A bit further along you come to the undersea observatory. At the observatory you will set your speedometer. Exactly two and three tenths miles past the observatory, you will leave the road and drive on the sand. The sand is firm; there is no problem driving on it. Exactly two miles further, on the sand, you will see a small dock. I shall be there with a speedboat. You will deliver the material to me, I shall verify it, and after that you are free. You can either go with me or stay. If you stay, we may have other work for you; if you leave with me, we can always use a man of your talents. The choice is yours.”
His tone of voice changed from the impersonal flatness to one that was more intimate.
“I should imagine your going or staying will depend upon how much exposure you suffer in getting the material, or how much you disclosed when you went to the Mossad after returning from Argentina—”
Grossman frowned. “You know that, too?”
“Not directly. It is something I deduced, you might say, from the fact that there are two bugs—signal generators—in operation on this car at this moment. One is taped inside the rear bumper; the other—”
“Is mounted with a magnet fastener in the left-front-wheel hubcap,” Grossman said. “I know.”
Richter came close to permitting himself a smile. Colonel von Schraeder had lost none of his intelligence and little of his skills in his years in Israel. It augured well for their mission.
“Very good,” he said, and pulled up before the building in which the general had his offices. He got out and opened the door, saluting smartly with his other hand. “Good luck, sir. Your car will be in the battalion garage when you want it.”
He closed the door as General Benjamin Grossman slowly mounted the steps of the building, then Richter climbed back into the front seat and drove to the battalion garage, not even now permitting himself the small smile that had almost escaped him before, not even to congratulate himself on a scheme well planned and well executed. Major Hans Richter was a well-trained soldier.
“The general has reached his office, sir,” said Brodsky’s aide, standing before him, and then in a more personal tone, he added, “We’ll see to it he’s well protected. Nobody wants anything to happen to the general, sir.”
Brodsky had instructed his men that General Grossman was being threatened, that the people who had murdered his wife were still a threat to the general. It was all he had told his men and it was all he needed to tell them.
“Good. Any stops on the way?”
“No, sir. He came directly from his apartment to the office.”
“And the signal?”
“It worked perfectly, sir. You could almost tell when the car turned a corner.”
“Very good,” Brodsky said with satisfaction. “All routine, eh?”
“Yes, sir. Except—”
Brodsky looked up. “Except what?”
“Well, sir, it’s probably of no significance, but you said you wanted complete details on the surveillance—”
“Get on with it,” Brodsky said impatiently. “Except what?”
“He had a different driver today, sir. Not the usual one.”
“What?” Brodsky frowned. “But he telephoned his regular driver last night—” His frown deepened; it seemed to puzzle his aide.
“Sir? Does the general having a different driver have any special significance?”
“Never mind,” Brodsky said. “You can go.”
As his aide walked from the office, Brodsky swiveled his chair and stared from the window. A new driver … He would give odds that this new driver was from ODESSA, and while he would put men at once onto the garage and wherever uniforms could be obtained—which in Israel was almost anywhere—the driver by this time was probably in Jordan or possibly even on his way back to Germany. He would also put men onto Sergeant Mordechai Saul, but he was fairly sure that Sergeant Saul was dead. They would not have left a loose end like that.
He swiveled back and stared down at his bare desk. So whatever instructions were to have been passed, had been passed. Well, in a way it was good. It would bring the business to a conclusion. Now they would have to keep a tighter control on Colonel von Schraeder, that was all. Give him leeway without actually giving him leeway. Let him think he’s home free. Let him lead the Mossad to his ODESSA contacts; there were others who could take over from there. But putting their hands on any ODESSA agents was only a small part of the plan. Far more important was the fact that while there might not be sufficient proof to put Colonel Helmut von Schraeder on the gallows where he belonged, catching Benjamin Grossman in an open act of treachery, of betrayal of his country, added to that other proof, should wind up the matter of Helmu
t von Schraeder quite satisfactorily.
Chapter 7
The feeling of celebration was everywhere that Friday the fourteenth day of May in that year 1971. One saw it in the faces of strangers in the streets, of visitors from abroad, in the singing and dancing almost everywhere, the extra smiles and congratulations, the unusual politeness at the beaches and in the hotels. Twenty-three years of nationhood had been passed, three wars had been fought and won, and there was no indication that there would not be more wars in which many would die and Israel’s existence would be threatened. But these were thoughts for yesterday and for tomorrow—today was Independence Day, and nowhere in the world is Independence Day celebrated with as much direct personal memory of the bitter struggle for that independence than in Israel.
It would be more accurate to say the feeling of celebration was almost everywhere. To Colonel Max Brodsky of the Mossad, as well as to those under his command, that Friday was a day like all other days, with work to be done and, in fact, extra precautions to be taken. Brodsky had long considered the strong possibility that Independence Day, particularly when combined with a Sabbath, would be an excellent time for whatever mischief ODESSA had in mind for Benjamin Grossman. But the report his aide gave him was the same as it had been every day that week.
“Sir, General Grossman has arrived at his office. No stops on the way. No contacts with anyone. Same driver, a Sergeant Breil. Thoroughly vetted, sir.” The aide had served in the British Army during the war.
“Good—” Except Brodsky was really not sure it was all that good, although he did not know exactly why. He did know, however, that the two weeks were about to pass, and he did not believe that when an organization such as ODESSA said two weeks, that they meant fifteen days.
And later, “Sir, the general has arrived home. He’s driving himself. He gave his driver the weekend off for the holiday.”
There was nothing unusual in that on Independence Day, but still Brodsky felt that slight chill that came to him when something was about to break. General Benjamin Grossman had also gone home early, again nothing unusual on Independence Day. Still …
“Keep an ear on him,” Brodsky said, and leaned back, thinking.
To Herzl Grossman that day had an air of unreality about it. It had been increasingly difficult as the days went by to act as if everything between himself and his father was as it had always been, but this Friday when his father had returned from the office early he had paid little attention to his son or anything else, sitting in his study with the shades drawn, his briefcase inexplicably on his desk before him and his hand resting on it as if for comfort, seemingly staring at the wall, thinking. But of what he was thinking, Herzl could not imagine. What did a man think who had put to death almost one million Jews and then falls in love with a Jew? What does he think when the woman he loves is killed because of something in his past? Does he blame himself? Or does he put the blame on someone else? Colonel Helmut von Schraeder would undoubtedly blame someone else. Who did Benjamin Grossman blame?
It was all very confusing.…
It was also very confusing as to what game Max Brodsky was playing in giving a criminal like von Schraeder the time he was giving him, the freedom of action he was allowing him. Why had Max Brodsky taken away all the evidence he had amassed in Germany? Why had Max Brodsky not brought Helmut von Schraeder up before the authorities at once? Accused him to his face and had him arrested and brought to justice—and the hangman? Because it would be Helmut von Schraeder they would be hanging, not Benjamin Grossman, his father. Could it be possible that Max Brodsky, who had been closer to him than an uncle could be, almost a father, could be part of some grotesque conspiracy? If his father, Benjamin Grossman, whom he had loved and trusted all his life, could be exposed for the murdering criminal he was, could anyone, including Max Brodsky, be trusted?
And who was really being under surveillance, his father or himself? It was very suspicious being a prisoner in his own apartment, told not to leave when his father came and went whenever he wished and with no indication that he could see that there was any surveillance there at all. And also the business of the telephone being tapped; von Schraeder could stop anywhere he wanted and make as many unrecorded calls as he wanted, but every word Herzl spoke into the instrument was being picked up. Three times in the past week he had picked up the telephone to call Munich and try to reach Miriam Kleiman, and three times he had hung up just as the overseas operator came on the line. Whatever he had to say to Miriam—and he had no idea of what that might be, especially under the circumstances of his parent’s past—was certainly not to be said with someone with earphones on in a little room somewhere listening to every word.
Herzl sat in his room, trying to read, and then gave up. He looked at his wristwatch. Eight o’clock. God, how that day had dragged! His father had confirmed Max Brodsky’s instructions as to the necessity of his not leaving the apartment, saying it would all be over in a few weeks, but those few weeks were about at an end. And, besides, his father was not to be trusted, and very possibly the same was true of his Uncle Max—
He became aware that he was being scrutinized and he looked up to see his father standing in the doorway of his room, his attacheé case in hand. The general had changed to civilian clothes and was smiling at him in a strange manner.
“I have to go out,” he said. “I may be gone all night. But I’ll be back as soon as I can. It’s nothing to worry about,” he added.
He came and put one arm around the stiff shoulders of his son, squeezed him once with affectionate camaraderie, and walked from the apartment quickly, closing the door behind him. Herzl stared at the telephone, wondering if he should call. But he knew he would not. Only one person he knew could truly be trusted, and that was himself. Besides, he had started the investigation into the past of von Schraeder-Grossman, and that investigation was not finished. He walked to the window, staring down into the street as the general emerged from the front of the building and walked to where his car was parked in the street.
Then Herzl ran for the basement garage and his own little sports car.
“The general’s left in his car. He’s driving.” The little square box on Brodsky’s desk imparted a metallic tone to the speaker’s voice.
Brodsky sighed. Whatever was in prospect was at work.
“Trail him,” he said, “but not too close. Not even in sight. He may have noticed you during the week.” He had given up all pretense of his men protecting the general; at the moment he didn’t much care what his aides thought as long as they followed their orders. He just didn’t want to lose the man. “The signals are coming in clearly?”
“Like a dream,” Michael said. “The radio-direction finder is working perfectly. We could follow him blindfolded.”
“Just don’t lose him.”
“We won’t.” There were several minutes of silence. Then, “He’s on the Lod road. He’s leaving town.”
In his office Brodsky stared at the map of Israel pulled down on the wall, his pulses quickening. The chase was on; its success or failure could be vital to the security of Israel, to his future, to the life of Herzl and possibly many more people. He studied the map. The Lod road led to the Ben Gurion Airport, but it also led to Jerusalem with a turnoff at Ramla, and it could also lead to Ashdod, cutting west beyond Gedera, or it could even lead to Ashkelon or Gaza on the sea. It could lead to just about anywhere in southern Israel, or Grossman could be simply leading them in the wrong direction as a precaution against being followed before losing his pursuers and turning to the north. All they could do was wait until a further turn might give a better indication of his end destination. And, of course, not lose him.
“He passed Ramla heading in the direction of Gedera,” the tinny voice said. “Sir, we might be able to come in closer with all this traffic. I doubt he would notice us—”
“Stay well back out of sight!” Brodsky said irritably. “That’s why we hung all that electronic gear on the car!” He w
ished now he had chosen to go with the pursuit car; sitting in his office and merely waiting for reports was damned irritating.
He swiveled his chair, staring from the window out over the lights that sparkled from the sprawling city. I should be down there celebrating with the others, he thought sourly, instead of trying to find out what my old friend Benjamin Grossman is up to. I only hope it isn’t what I think it is, because if anything goes wrong and he gets away with anything, I should be taken out and shot for not having dragged him in in the first place, sufficient proof or not. But we have to catch him with the goods; otherwise he’ll continue to be a hero in Israel and continue to have endless chances to harm us. And I’ll end up, as his accuser, in jail as an accomplice to our enemies. No, we have to catch him in the act, or with the goods, and we’ll never get another chance like this one. Ben was in a panic when he told me of that meeting in Buenos Aires; he had to be to tell me what he did. And he must have hated himself the next day. But he needed protection for his family.… Brodsky shook his head in disgust. Protection! That was great protection I gave Deborah.… Let’s not dwell on that!
Or am I totally wrong? Is it possible that Herzl’s information is wrong, or that we are putting the wrong interpretation on it? Could it really be just some monstrous coincidence? After all, I’ve known Benjamin Grossman for almost thirty years; could he have been von Schraeder all that time and I not note it? The time we spent in the camps, our travels together from Germany to Italy and then to Israel, his saving us all when that gunboat stopped us when we arrived—would I not have known if he were a Nazi? Would I not have felt it? At that time in the Zion Films projection room, it seemed incontrovertible that Grossman was von Schraeder, but here, now, at this moment, it did not seem possible. The Mossad agent I sent to Europe to search for fingerprints or other information about von Schraeder has gotten no further in almost two weeks than Herzl did in a few days. What I should have done, of course, he thought, was simply to confront Ben, face to face, and ask him to give me an explanation. But if he were innocent of the monstrous charge, he would have no explanation, other than to say it had to be a gross coincidence. And if he were guilty? He certainly wouldn’t admit it—
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