Chapter 22
The man and the woman sitting in the blue car on Pennsylvania Avenue, not far from the White House, would never have imagined that they had been transformed from the hunters to the hunted. The idea that they, the dancers, were now under surveillance by the very man they were looking for, and that he was now sitting in a silver Buick parked some 100 steps behind them on the other side of the street, was beyond their wildest dreams.
In the afternoon the tramp had returned to the bathroom in the bus station near Pennsylvania Avenue, some two hours after he had left it in his disguise. Once again he entered one of the cubicles, and this time emerged immaculately dressed in a suit and tie. However, even now it would be hard for someone to identify him as Dan Greenberg. Dark brown curls, a thin moustache, and fashionable sunglasses provided excellent camouflage.
At the car rental office a few blocks away, the clerk politely and efficiently prepared the documents for the troubled businessman, who told her he urgently needed a replacement for his own car, which had broken down. The license and credit card he had obtained in New York served him well.
“Here we are,” she smiled at him, holding the keys to the silver Buick. “Until your car is fixed, we’ll be happy to help you.”
By now Greenberg had been sitting in the rented car for nearly three hours, without taking his eyes off the car opposite. The time crept slowly. Twice more the man in the blue suit walked past him, back and forth.
At 2:30 p.m. the three trackers’ shift apparently ended. The red Oldsmobile pulled up behind the blue car and ejected another man in a suit, this time a brown one. It waited for the blue car to pull out, then parked in its space.
The blue Ford moved off down the street, now followed by the silver Buick. After several dozen meters the dancers’ car stopped to pick up the man in the blue suit, then continued on its way, with Greenberg three cars behind it carefully following at the same speed. After a 15-minute ride, the two cars glided down into the giant underground parking lot of a downtown Washington hotel.
Greenberg found himself a parking space and then walked quickly to the elevator. Two seconds later the couple he was following arrived. He held the door open for them and they both thanked him by nodding their heads. When they were inside the car they turned to face the door, inclining their necks upward to watch the floor numbers flash by.
* * *
The couple got out on the 12th floor and Greenberg followed them. The two turned right and walked down the corridor. Greenberg bent down as if to tie his shoelaces and out of the corner of his eye continued to follow the man and woman and see which door they knocked at. He then stood and walked past it, noting its number, until he reached the large picture window at the end of the hall.
Now he returned to the elevator. When the door opened he almost bump into the man in the blue suit. The man who had so thoroughly combed the sidewalks for him now passed in front of Dan without noticing him. Greenberg kept the elevator door open long enough to see him swallowed up by the same door as his two colleagues.
Nice; it appears this apartment serves as kind of headquarters. It’s reasonable to assume that the three trackers have to make some sort of a report on their shift, or get further orders. If so, there is probably someone there who gives the orders. Would this be the man he was looking for – the head of the Mossad himself, Nahum Porat? He began to formulate a plan that would enable him to find out.
Arriving in the lobby, Greenberg went to one of the house phones and dialed.
“Room 1218?”
“Yes.”
“Sorry to bother you. This is the hotel garage. Is the gentleman’s car a white Buick, registration number ZX8-347? We’ve got a little problem, and we wanted to ask if you could move it –“
“That’s not my car.”
“Excuse me, but is this room 1218?”
“Yes, but the car you described doesn’t belong to me.”
“Just a minute, please. If that’s not your car…then I guess there’s been a mistake…We’ve got you written down…Could you tell me the number of your car? I’d appreciate it. We’ve got a little problem and –“
“My car is a gray Chevrolet station wagon whose number is – just a minute –“ The man read out the number in a single breath, probably form a piece of paper.
“Thank you very much, sir. I appreciate your help. If there’s any problem, I’ll call you right back.”
Dan replaced the receiver and smiled with satisfaction. He entered another elevator and took it to the lowest of the four garage floors. The thought that he might now have to search four giant parking areas wiped the smile from his face and he sighed.
The elevator door opened and he exited into a wave of gasoline and exhaust fumes. The smell was so strong that he held his breath and then tried to regulate his intake of the polluted air. He began a systematic search. Ten minutes into his search of the third level he found the gray wagon. He peeked through the darkened window, but could not make out anything unusual. It was 4:30 p.m. He returned to the elevator and rode down to the bottom floor, where he found his rented car and sat inside.
While he had found the car belonging to the man who lived in the room entered by the three trackers, he had no guarantee the man was indeed Nahum Porat. Actually, it made much more sense that he was one of the many commander subordinates to Porat. And maybe it was the room of one of the three trackers? But the three had a different car, so the premise that gray one did indeed belong to the man who was at least their immediate superior was not unreasonable. In any case, there was only one way to verify or overturn this line of reasoning – and for this, he knew, he would need patience.
Dan started his car and drove up to the street; a man sitting in his car in a garage is too auspicious. He parked near the entrance, turned on the radio and tuned it to an easy-listening music station, and leaned back in his seat. Let’s say he was waiting for his wife, who insisted on visiting her elderly aunt who was staying in the hotel, and who had promised him it would only take five minutes; or maybe he was sitting here because of his mistress, who was upstairs getting dressed before going out with him for a clandestine meal in one of the city’s luxurious restaurants…
Nearly three hours passed. Twice Greenberg was forced to leave the car to relieve the stiffness in his body and to keep his legs from going to sleep. As he was getting out to do so for the third time, he saw the gray Chevrolet suddenly shoot up and out of the exit of the parking garage. He immediately got back behind the wheel and set out to follow the Chevrolet.
The gray car turned right and merged into the traffic. Greenberg tried not to lose it. After about 10 minutes of riding through Washington’s crowded streets, the Chevrolet turned into the drive of the Four Seasons Hotel and stopped at the main entrance. Greenberg stopped the silver Buick some distance from behind. The motor of the Chevrolet was still running and the driver remained behind the wheel.
The revolving door of the hotel began to turn and Dan held his breath as he made out who was coming out. With a springy step, the new surveillance subject walked to the gray station wagon, pulled open the door, and in a single movement disappeared smoothly inside. It was the man who had interviewed Dan in Tel Aviv, the man who supposedly sought to recruit him into The Rising, the head of the Mossad himself – Nahum Porat.
The gray wagon began to move, with Greenberg not far behind.
* * *
Dan sat in his room at the Sheraton and tried to relax.
For about 45 minutes the two cars had driven at a moderate speed through the streets of Washington, and when they had passed through the same intersection for the second time Greenberg had known that Porat and his driver were not headed for any specific destination, but were riding around for the purpose of holding a discussion. It appeared the Chevy wagon served as the Mossad head’s car, and the second man was either his deputy or some other senior official. At about 6 p.m. the gray Chevrolet dropped Porat back at his hotel and then returned to the under
ground parking lot at the first hotel. In Greenberg’s mind a plan began to take shape.
Now, in his room, Dan felt he had to regain control over his body, thoughts, and actions. He must not act on impulse. And the best way to regain complete control over events was to put his plan into writing, point by point. Whoever could not put a plan of action into writing certainly could not expect to carry it out.
With furrowed brow, he sat at the small desk and wrote. Alongside each action he noted the start time and the expected duration. Gradually he felt his thoughts settling and himself recovering control over the situation. His breathing stabilized and he relaxed. For a moment he perused the completed plan, then tore the paper into tiny pieces.
At 8 p.m. Greenberg called room service and ordered a light supper. He resisted the desire to order a small bottle of wine with it, and instead made do with mineral water. By 8:45 he had finished eating, bathed, and dressed in a conservative three-piece suit. He devoted great care in putting on a silver-gray wig. After adding a small, matching moustache (he would never trust someone with a mustache again!), he put on a pair of thick, horn-rimmed glasses with plain glass lenses. Standing before the full-length mirror, he was pleased with whom he saw. A middle-aged businessman of the type that filled hotels all over America stared back at him. At 10 p.m. he rode down to the parking lot and got in his car.
It was 10:28 when he parked beside the gray Chevrolet station wagon in the hotel’s underground garage. He couldn’t have found a better parking space. When he opened the door of his car, it provided a screen from anyone who might happen to pass by and glance in his direction. The fact that he had parked on the Chevrolet’s right side was also advantageous: Greenberg estimated that if Porat returned to the car he would do so again as a passenger, and not the driver. He would thus probably sit in the front passenger seat. Now with great care Greenberg took out the plastic box he had prepared in his hotel room, spread on one side of it a layer of quick-drying contact cement, and waited. According to the instructions on the tube, he had to wait three minutes; after which the glue would adhere to almost any surface.
As the second hand on Greenberg’s watch came around for the third time, he opened his door wide and carefully got out; slowly extending the hand with the plastic box inside the well of the Chevrolet’s right front fender and pressing it firmly.
He held it in place for another 30 seconds, until he felt the box with the detonator and explosive was securely attached. Greenberg stood and stretched for a moment, then got in and started his car. In another moment he was swallowed up among the dark, chilly streets of Washington.
* * *
The young receptionist at Natural Sound smiled up at the young man in the motorcycle jacket and helmet as he entered the office of the sound equipment company. From behind the partially raised visor of his black helmet came a hesitant voice: “Is there somebody here named…” – the youth glanced at the label on the package he carried – “Robinson?”
“Yes,” the receptionist answered, still smiling.
With brisk, businesslike movements, the messenger placed the cardboard box on the corner of her desk and pulled out a green form from his back pocket, pointing with his finger at a space at the bottom.
“Sign here, please,” he asked.
She did so obediently.
“Thanks a lot, ciao!” he said over his shoulder, as he went back out.
“Mr. Robinson,” the receptionist said, pressing the intercom button, “there’s a package here for you. The sender is someone called… Jeffrey Hammond from NBC.”
“Ah, good! Very good! Those are probably the new microphones. I’ll be right there.”
* * *
He sat in front of the breakfast he had ordered, but couldn’t eat a thing. Again and again he went over in his mind all the actions he had taken until now, and the last remaining one he had to do. Yes; if all went well, Dan Greenberg would be a free man again by tonight. No one would follow him, no one would break into his apartment, no one would try to control him like a robot. In another three hours the ceremony would begin; three hours that would last forever, if not longer.
* * *
“Seven bombs were planted yesterday in different parts of the country,” intoned the announcer on Israel Television’s special evening news broadcast before the start of the Washington talks. “Six of them – four in Jerusalem, one in Haifa, and one in Ashdod – were discovered and safely dismantled. The seventh bomb, which exploded this morning at Tel Aviv’s central bus station, wounded six persons; fortunately, all of them lightly. Only minor damage was caused to property. But the most severe terrorist attack occurred this afternoon in Paris. First reports say a bomb that exploded in a Jewish-owned restaurant, La Pais (homeland), in the 16th district, killed four persons and wounded some 40 others. “ A film clip sent by satellite shoed the destroyed restaurant.
“In Baghdad today, the foreign ministers of the Arab “rejectionist front” convened in an emergency meeting. The Iraqi ruler mocked yesterday’s Cairo statement, according to which the agreement to be signed in Washington and the talks to follow are to be only the first stage in the solution sought by the Arab countries. Our Arab affairs commentator says the rejectionist front will probably decide to sever political and economic relations with George Abu Hatra and his organization, as well as with anyone who supports him. These countries are also expected to initiate an oil boycott of the United States and the European countries that support it. ‘The state of Palestine is only the means to a goal,’ the rejectionist foreign ministers said in a communique. ‘Palestine is part of the sacred Arab land, and Arab unity will not permit the restoration of the just rights of the Palestinians to be linked to the recognition of Israel.
“In Damascus this afternoon, Palestinian students burned effigies of Abu Hatra and the US president, and chanted slogan against any compromise with ‘the Zionist Satan.’ The organ of the ruling B’ath Party, Al-B’ath, stated yesterday that if Israel continues to exist, even temporarily, because of the agreement to be reached in Washington, Abu Hatra will be considered a traitor to Islam; beside which the treason of Anwar Sadat would pale in comparison. ‘An agreement with the Zionist entity means only one thing,’ Al-B’ath states, ‘and that is a holy war against the invaders who are occupying our land.’” The dark-haired announcer concluded the roundup of Arab countries with a line from a tough speech given by Libya’s ruler in Tripoli. “We must oppose with force of arms what the American imperialists are planning for us,” she quoted.
“And now back to local news. Preparations for the era of peace are at their height. With the exception of the continuing demonstration by several hundred Jewish settlers opposite the Knesset, it appears the Israeli public is happy with recent developments. All of the country’s high schools devoted a special hour this morning to explaining the peace process…”
* * *
Barry Stone, the NBC director in charge of the broadcast, charged about on the White House lawn issuing orders left and right. Two intense, young assistants scurried after the large man straining not to miss a word.
“Balance and camera check!” the gray-haired director’s words filtered through a giant Havana cigar; his aides rushed to relay the order.
Five large video cameras were already in place on special towers, at carefully chosen angles. The output of powerful spotlights – which would change in accordance with shifting sunlight and cloud movements – was controlled by a sophisticated lighting computer. The sound balance was adjusted so the red needles of the meters would register according to the voice levels of the speakers, without going over the red line. The broadcast pickup and relays were also checked repeatedly.
Not far away, in a special enclosure that had been set up for the occasion, was parked a mammoth broadcasting unit that in some two hours’ time would transmit one of the most newsworthy events of the year. Inside the mobile studio each technician was engaged in completing the preparations to ensure that the picture and sound
from here would be faithfully received in hundreds of millions of homes throughout the world. None of those in charge of the production wanted to be responsible for any kind of fault that occurred due to an oversight. In the meantime, the communications satellites were transmitting special test patterns for the world’s television stations to check their reception from Washington. “This is the international broadcast from the White House in Washington,” a recording repeated over and over with the test.
At 11:55 a.m. Eastern Standard Time, the recorded message was heard for the last time. For the next five minutes, the test screens in television studios around the world displayed a digital clock counting down to zero.
At 10 seconds before noon, the director’s assistant started an electronic stop watch and the production assistant began counting backward: “…four, three, two, one!”
“Take VTR two!” the most experienced news director in America called out in the control room. The vision mixer pressed a button and the video tape recorder marked 2 began to roll.
At this second, hundreds of millions of viewers in homes all over the globe cold see the familiar logo of the NBC network accompanied by an equally well known musical signature. This faded to a frontal view of one of the most famous structures in the world, the White House. The picture was from the archives, for Colonel Edward Stevens, the man responsible for security at the ceremony on behalf of the Secret Service, vehemently refused to allow live camera coverage of the president’s residence, even from long-range; mainly because the camera lenses could reveal the positions of sharpshooters on the building’s roof.
Blind Mission: A Thrilling Espionage Novel Page 24