Blind Mission: A Thrilling Espionage Novel

by Schmidt, Avichai

  * * *

  Some spit dribbled form the corner of his mouth, wetting the pillow. There was a heavy taste of sleep on his tongue. He pulled his left arm close to his face and tried to focus his eyes on the dial of his watch. It was late that night; he must have slept a long time, not just an afternoon nap. But he now felt considerably relaxed. Shivering slightly from cold, he slowly stood and rubbed his shoulders to warm them. He walked into the bathroom and opened the hot water tap, letting the water run hot, then washed his face. Now he was awake.

  Thoughts began to race once more through his mind. For the time being, he believed, he could continue hiding here in this empty apartment for sale. For the next four days, the realtor would have no reason to try to sell the property to someone else – certainly not after such a meticulous customer had asked him so many questions, had shown a willingness to pay a price that was even a little bit above the market price…On second thought, he only had the apartment for three more days. At the very latest, by the morning of the fourth day had to be gone. In any event, he had no intention of remaining in a chilly apartment for much longer. Someone on the run should never stay put too long.

  He put the bag of groceries on the kitchen counter and began to improvise a late supper for himself, and as he did so he tried to organize his thoughts. Yesterday morning he had become someone’s quarry; by evening he had also become a wanted man – and not just wanted: wanted for murder. Just thinking the word “murder” was enough to make him shudder. In his mind the charge was more accurately manslaughter. He was bothered by the fact that his identify was known to those who were chasing him, and that “they” had come after him even before the tragedy at the plant nursery, why? And if they didn’t want him to be identified, as the altering of the police sketch proved, this must mean that they did not really want to capture him; but just to frighten him, to make him do something they wanted him to. But what – what was it?

  Chapter 6

  Greenberg breathed in and out rhythmically. He could feel his arm muscles tightening and an almost painful tension in his thighs. A sharp burning sensation filled his chest with each lungful of air. Beads of sweat dropped from his forehead into the corners of his eyes, blurring his vision.

  Forty-seven…48…49… One more push with his whole body, straightening his elbows – 50. With one motion he collapsed forward onto his stomach and lay there. The effort had cost him all his strength. For the past two days, three times a day, he had repeated a strenuous series of calisthenics. He wanted to get back in shape, knowing he was likely to need to be fit. Anyway, what else could he do but think, work out, and rest?

  It was a few minutes before 11 p.m. As Greenberg began to make his bed ready, he reached out and turned on his cell phone’s built-in radio. The sign-off music replaced with a string of commercials leading up to the news. While he waited for the news to come on, Greenberg removed his shoes and socks and was about to take off his slacks, when something made him alert – something connected with his radio receiver, or with the commercial that was on just then, about a pension savings plan sponsored by one of the big banks. It wasn’t the contents of the commercial that had caught his attention, however, but the voice; the voice making the appeal to the pensioners. He recognized the voice; but where had he heard it before? Where the hell had he heard it? He focused his entire attention on the voice as it read the end of the sentence: “…and for further details, please contact any of our investment counselors.”

  Then Greenberg identified the voice and caught his breath. Yes; there was no doubt it was him. The more he recalled the tone of voice, the quality, the accent, and the diction, the more he was convinced. But how could it be?! He now remembered that, even at the time, he had had a glimmer of suspicion, but had pushed it out of his mind. His face went pale, and he sat heavily on the mattress.

  He remained awake nearly all night, planning his moves for the next day. His mind raced as he tried to choose clearly the best alternative among a wealth of possibilities. Finally, with a pounding headache, he managed to nod off just before dawn.

  * * *

  The silence of the reading room lent it an atmosphere of a place where time had stopped; a respectable place where the rhythm of life outside had been brought to a half. Despite the fact that the public library was practically deserted at this early morning hour, the librarian made her way to him down the long lending counter observing total silence. The thin, fragile looking woman slowly raised her eyes above the lenses of her reading glasses and considered with some suspicion the request of the young unshaven man in front of her: to see all the country’s daily newspapers of the past two days.

  “Do you also mean the foreign language ones?”

  “Yes, please, all the papers.”

  For several long minutes Greenberg watched with amusement as the librarians moved among their patrons, making themselves busy. He couldn’t help being reminded of a joke told about a certain Middle Eastern ruler who, while on a visit to Moscow, attended a performance of the Bolshoi in his honor. When he returned to his country and was asked what he thought about the performance, he replied enthusiastically: “What respect! What consideration! What manners! Sixty dancers twirled in front of me on their tiptoes, trying to keep silent…”

  For the next half hour, Greenberg carefully examined the large pages laid in front of him. The librarian would pass by him occasionally, carrying piles of books to return to their places, stealing glances over his shoulder. She was amazed to discover that he was not looking at the want ads, as she had imagined, nor a particular article or editorial – but was systematically and meticulously combing the obituaries.

  When he had finished he remained seated, bent over the table with his chin resting on his folded hands. Now he had almost no doubt in his mind; but nevertheless felt he had to keep checking.

  His next request to the reading room librarian was so different from his previous one, that the efficient woman began to doubt whether he was entirely rational. However, good work procedure was stronger than doubt, and she brought him his request.

  When Greenberg found Page 52 of the thick tome bearing the gold-embossed title, Personalities of the Israeli Theatre, he caught his breath. Even though the photograph had been taken several years before, there could be no mistake. Greenberg positively identified the actor who had spoken to the pensioners in the radio ad. Under the photo was the name David Gur, the Mask Theatre.

  * * *

  The northern end of Tel Aviv’s Yarkon Street surged with traffic. Greenberg had been waiting for nearly three minutes for a gap to open and allow him to cross.

  He had found the address in the phone book. The man he was looking for wasn’t famous enough for his number to be unlisted. The building was on the left, about a hundred meters from where he was standing. It looked exactly like any other beachfront apartment building in Israel’s largest city. The stucco exterior had been renewed recently, but still had not been able to withstand damage by the salty sea wind. In every spot where the stucco had peeled was an ugly blotch not unlike the liver spots of old age.

  Just as Greenberg was about to step off the pavement, he suddenly saw the figure he was looking for step out of the gloom of the entrance hall he had been looking at. He sucked in his breath and felt his heart pound. Despite the distance, and even though the man was now wearing a suit, it was impossible for him to be mistaken. The same height, same broad shoulders, the same slightly bent posture…it was he!

  The old man in the gray suit slowly made his way from the building entrance to the sidewalk, his attention absorbed in the morning newspaper he held open between his hands. He stubbornly smoothed the big pages each time the wind caught and ruffled them. On the other side of the street, Greenberg had already begun to advance toward the man, who was still oblivious in his reading. Greenberg wanted to look at him from up close, in a kind of final confirmation of what he already knew for sure.

  The man on the other side of the street had reached the sidew
alk and stopped. He tried to turn the page of his newspaper, but the strong sea breeze continued to toy with him. Abruptly there came a lull in the traffic. Greenberg had already put one foot into the street when a sudden noise made him step back involuntarily, his head jerking around to locate the source. Across the street and to his right, the engine of a large Ford roared as its driver floored the accelerator. Greenberg looked to the left. The old man had stepped into the street, still struggling with his newspaper. It seemed to Greenberg he could taste the danger. The big American car lunged forward with a blood-chilling screech of tires. Greenberg caught his breath and watched as if in slow motion, as the terrible event unfolded; knowing what was about to happen and being powerless to do anything to stop it. Without conscious thought his eyes followed the read of the car as it shot by, his brain registering the license number.

  The old man looked up suddenly and realized the danger, but it was too late.

  A dull, heavy thud sounded and the big Ford came to a halt with a terrible squealing of brakes. Its driver slammed the automatic shift into reverse and swiftly backed the car several meters, braking with another screech. The Ford’s transmission whined in protest at being forced too fast into forward gear. As the driver floored the accelerator the rear of the car shuddered for an instant and seemed to rise before the car surged forward, the rear wheels laying a strip of burning rubber on the street. The driver expertly flicked the wheel to the left and the monstrous car shot off down the street makings its escape. Other cars jammed on their brakes in time to avert a pile-up, their drivers cursing, as the shutters of neighboring buildings were thrown up, windows opened, and curious heads leaned out to stare.

  Greenberg sprinted forward, weaving his way among the jammed cars and ignoring the insufferable noise of horns blaring and drivers shouting at one another from their overheating vehicles. The man in the gray suit was about eight meters from where he had been standing before, lying spread-eagled on his stomach. Greenberg had no doubt about the seriousness of his injuries. He also did not care. The only thing that concerned him was the desire to verify his assumption.

  A passerby had already rushed over to the injured man; another arrived with Greenberg. The shock that struck him when he saw the man’s face did not stem from the frightening spectacle of his wounds; Greenberg had seen much worse. He was stunned by something else.

  The man who lay in front of him was indeed David Gur, the actor from the Mask Theatre whose voice he had identified on the radio ad. He was also the same David Gur who had played a private performance as nursery owner Zvi Teitelbaum – the elderly man who made pitiful choking sounds in Greenberg’s hands just three days before and then, with great talent, had collapsed in a heap at his feet. It was the same man for whose murder Greenberg was wanted. Now he understood why no obituaries had appeared in the papers announcing the death of the nursery owner.

  * * *

  Dizengoff Street was teeming with people in the afternoon rush hour. The pleasant weather made it a challenge to find a place to sit in one of the many outdoor cafes scattered the length of the thoroughfare. It was only near the end of the street that Greenberg found a café that was not completely full; he chose a back table far from the eyes of passerby. Before calling a waiter, he checked that the rear exit door was unlocked. He had not yet recovered from the shock. He felt alternatively cold and hot, and periodically took a paper napkin from the metal dispenser on the table and wiped his forehead.

  Almost three hours had passed since he witnessed the gruesome accident. Immediately afterwards he returned breathlessly to the library and in a hoarse voice urgently requested the album of theatre actors. He grabbed the thick volume from the startled librarian and did not even bother to take it to one of the reading tables. With a speed bordering on panic, he had flipped through the thick glossy pages until he found the one he feared he would find. His face froze. The same woman, the one who two days before had yelled “Help! Police! so convincingly, smiled at him from a very flattering color photograph. The woman from the nursery, the supposed wife of “Zvi Teitelbaum”, was named Tova Rom and was a regular member of the Wandering Theatre company.

  Greenberg sat drinking his coffee and thought. He had looked up the woman’s phone number and called her home, but no one had answered. The Wandering Theatre was only a fast eight minutes’ walk from the phone booth.

  “Tova Rom is in Germany. She went there two days ago for a round of performances of Fiddler on the Roof, in the German version,” said the young receptionist in the lobby. “No, I don’t know exactly when she’s supposed to return to Israel. I assume in another four or five weeks.”

  Greenberg signed and signaled to the waitress. Another cup of coffee wouldn’t hurt him.

  * * *

  At 8:30 the next morning the two heavy, copper-covered bank doors swung open. The branch was on a side street not far from the Tel Aviv Municipality. A crowd of customers waiting outside entered with a rush, as if they had heard rumors the institution was going bankrupt.

  Greenberg followed them in at a slower pace and walked with assurance to the stairs leading to the lower floor.

  The words “SAFE-DEPOSIT VAULT” were printed in large white letters on a black plastic sign, with an arrow pointing to the right. He followed the arrow down the corridor to a barred gate, at the side of which was an intercom. Above and in front of him the lens of a closed-circuit television camera stared down at him. He pressed the button on the intercom and was answered by the hum of an electric lock.

  Pushing the heavy door open, he took two steps to another barred gate and waited until he heard the one behind him swing closed. The electric lock of the second gate hummed briefly, and Greenberg entered a small reception room.

  The safety-deposit clerk, who had worked there for nearly 25 years, recognized Greenberg immediately and welcomed him with a broad smile and warm handshake.

  “It’s been a long time since you visited us, Mr. Greenberg,” the man said.

  “Yes, a long time,” Greenberg agreed.

  “Now, let’s see. You are… 1, 6, 2, 0. Right?”

  “How do you manage to remember all these numbers?” Greenberg exclaimed. He had not been there for at least two years. Actually, the safe-deposit box was not registered in his name; it had belonged to his parents and he had obtained access with a power of attorney after their deaths. He had never bothered to change the registration, since the bank had sufficed with the court order declaring him the sole heir. For this reason, Greenberg hoped that the people following him did not know of the box’s existence, and that is why he had dared to come here.

  The clerk smiled at him and nodded his head. He did not ask for an ID, as Greenberg knew he wouldn’t. The man pulled out the appropriate card and indicated where Greenberg should sign, then drew a key and led him to the long rows of safe-deposit boxes. When they came to the right box, the clerk inserted his key together with Greenberg’s into the two locks and opened the door. With practiced discretion, the man stepped back.

  “Please call me when you are finished,” he said as he turned and walked back to the reception room.

  “All right,” replied Greenberg, lifting the lid and inserting his hand into the cool metal box. He drew out a manila envelope, opened it, looked inside, folded it over, and stuffed it into the inner pocket of his jacket. He then closed and locked the box.

  Half an hour later, back at his temporary hiding place, Greenberg sat in the guest room and checked the passport and international driver’s license that had been in the envelope; both were still valid. Then he counted the money that had been there with it. There were about 5,000 US dollars and 2,000 shekels. He felt some small satisfaction. He now had a bit of money; but he was likely to need more, a lot more.

  * * *

  At 4:30 Thursday afternoon, Greenberg lay soaking in the tub in the apartment he had invaded, letting his body relax and doze off in the hot water. Without willing them to, the recent events had slowly begun to fit together logi
cally and clearly in his consciousness. As he soaped himself he thought about his next moves. First and foremost, he had to find Tova Rom. Perhaps she would have the tail end of the thread that would lead him to the answers of all the questions seething in his brain. In order to talk with the actress he had to go to her, to Germany. Where in Germany? This was a relatively minor question, the answer to which he could find with no special effort. He had just opened the tap to let more hot water into the bath when he suddenly understood the most important point of all. “They” would let him leave Israel. In effect, it was very likely that his going abroad was their very intention. If not, why had they turned him into a fugitive wanted for murder, but taken the trouble for him not to be identified? If that was indeed the state of affairs, there was probably someone keeping an eye on the airports and the ports day and night – and not in order to stop him, but to observe his actions. No! he decided, reaching for the soft white towel he had bought. I will indeed leave the country – but not with their knowledge.

  His plans quickly took shape. He tried with all his might to concentrate on the main subject. By a quarter to five he had come to a decision. Yes, the idea was worth trying. He swiftly rinsed out the bathtub, yielding to a compulsion to cleanliness that would not let him leave behind a dirty tub, even if he knew he would never bathe there again.

  A few moments later he was walking down the nearby main street, waving for a cab.

  * * *

  “Turn right after the next intersection,” Greenberg instructed the driver, “then go straight. I’ll tell you where to stop.”

  It was exactly 5:15 p.m. when the cab drew up at the entrance to Tel Aviv’s largest youth hostel. Greenberg swept with self-assurance into the lobby and walked straight over to the reception clerk, all of his movements conveying a sense of urgency. With feigned absentmindedness he flashed the policeman’s ID card he had taken from the hospital, holding it under the nose of the young man sitting behind the counter. He was certain the clerk wouldn’t bother to compare his face with the plastic-encased photo.