Blind Mission: A Thrilling Espionage Novel (10 page)

After the meal he went into the bathroom and took a hand towel from the rack, then went methodically around the room wiping his fingerprints from everything he had touched. He paid particular attention to the briefcase that had contained the money – after he had transferred its contents to the folding cloth bag in which he carried his personal belongings.

About nine o’clock, after settling his bill, Greenberg went out into the street. There was still a bit of light. A few dozen meters from the hotel he turned into the entrance of an apartment building. After looking carefully left and right, he threw the black case into a trash dumpster in the courtyard. Now no one in the train station or anywhere else could identify him by the black briefcase.

It was nearly 10:00 when Greenberg mounted the train for Germany and almost 11:00 when he got off at the last town before the border. He did not think for a minute that his photograph had been circulated among all the Swiss border posts, but still did not want to take any chances. An underground organization that could distort a TV news broadcast just in order to influence the move of one Dan Greenberg was capable of anything. He would thus not make the crossing into Germany openly: he would spend the night walking. He did not have any idea how long it would take him to cross the border, but hoped somehow to find Switzerland behind him by first light.  Was he crazy – or just careful?

For the fourth time the actors advanced to the front of the stage and bowed to the audience – which had still not grown tired of applauding. Greenberg could tell exactly when the actors stepped forward, for then the applause grew in intensity. It was probably deafening inside the hall, he thought; but from where he stood, in one of the man subterranean dressing rooms of Frankfurt’s old opera house, the applause sounded muffled and far away. He pictured the standing ovations and people throwing bouquets onto the stage, the actors bowing again and again, blowing kisses to the crowd. The ovations lasted for three-and-a-half minutes.  Only after he heard the orchestra once more play the opening notes of the familiar overture to
Fiddler on the Roof
, with the theme from “If I were a Rich Man,” did he know that the actors were not going to return to the stage. He tensed his muscles and held his breath.

It was seven minutes after midnight when the dressing room door opened. Through the narrow gap between the curtains covering the wardrobe where he was hiding, Greenberg could snatch a glimpse of her. It was she, he thought; without a doubt it was she.

The woman turned her back and locked the door. In the split second before she released the key, Greenberg launched himself out of the wardrobe and grabbed her from behind; his left arm binding her arms and holding her against his chest, as he covered her mouth with his right hand. He could feel her whole body tense in fear.

“I have no intention of hurting you,” Greenberg told her in Hebrew, speaking quietly but with great emphasis. “All I want are the answers to a few questions. Then I’ll go. Do you understand?”

Long seconds went by before the startled woman recovered enough to nod her head.

“I’ll say it again: I promise not to hurt you. And now – now I’m going to let you go. Will you answer my questions? Can I trust you not to scream or try to call for help?”

Once again seconds passed until the head held close to his chest moved in assent.

He gradually loosened his grasp, waiting a moment until the woman’s breathing had returned to normal. When he was convinced she would not do anything unexpected, he let her go.

The actress slowly turned to face him, massaging her sore lower jaw with one hand; it had nearly been bruised by the force of his grip. Her other hand went reflexively to straighten her hair, but was arrested in mid-motion and redirected to cover her mouth, now gaping open in sudden surprise. She drew in her breath in astonishment; she had recognized him.

“Good evening, Madam Rom, congratulations! I did not see tonight’s performance, but the private one you staged for me a few days ago was certainly convincing.”

“Who… who are you?” she asked with fear in her voice. “That’s not really important madam. The question is, who sent you, both of you?”

“Look, I didn’t mean… David also didn’t mean…We didn’t know that –“

“What didn’t you know? What didn’t you mean? What are you trying to say?”

For a long moment, Tova Rom remained silent, as if struck dumb by shock and fear. But Greenberg did not forget for a second that she was an actress. She swallowed and passed her hand across her forehead, as if trying to collect her thoughts. Greenberg did not press her; only stared at her silently, waiting. The tense silence became unbearable.

“What do you want to know?” she finally asked with some hesitation.

“Everything! From beginning to end, please,” he replied, impatience in his voice.

The woman looked off to the side distractedly, then collapsed onto a straight-backed chair. “He phoned a week ago and asked to meet,” she began slowly.

“Who?” Greenberg asked, but the actress went on as if she hadn’t heard him.

“I hadn’t seen him in maybe…maybe 35 years. I was very happy for the chance to see him again. You understand…we went to high school together, in the same class…” A smile briefly passed across the face of the attractive woman, perhaps a youthful memory.

“He…he asked me a favor,” the actress continued haltingly. “He asked me if I could bring a fellow actor to the meeting; someone middle aged. He said, ‘I’m interested in trying out a short exercise in improvisation.’ I remember asking him what we had to do, and he said he didn’t know exactly yet, and would decide later.”

“Who is ‘he’? Who asked the two of you to perform at the plant nursery?”

“Nahum, Nahum Weinstein.”

Greenberg shook his head. The name didn’t mean a thing to him.

“We didn’t suspect anything. We thought – we believed – that you were also an actor. Actually, that’s what we were told. And you did behave exactly as he told us you would.”

“How?”

“Nu, the way you did – with violence, force.”

Greenberg bent towards the woman, putting his face close to hers, and whispered with the intensity of a shout: “And you didn’t ask what it was for?
Who
it was for? I don’t understand…” His voice rang with disbelief.

For a moment silence reigned in the room. “I’ll answer you truthfully,” the actress said finally. “I told you. Nahum was a classmate, a friend, a youthful companion… When he briefed us, he spoke of national security. Both of us got the impression it was important, extremely important – and secret. He told us that people’s lives depended on it. We asked how, but he said he couldn’t tell us any more than he already had, and asked us not to ask any more questions.”

Greenberg thought about what she said. “What does he do, this Weinstein?”

“I don’t know exactly; I didn’t think about it. I’ve already told you – we got the impression he was connected with security matters. But why are you asking all these questions? Who are you, anyway?” Her voice rose higher, and it appeared she was about to lose control.

“What does he look like, this Weinstein?” Greenberg ignored her outburst – or her acting.

“Medium height, square jawed, short gray hair, thin but muscular.”

That was he, Greenberg thought; the man who tried to enlist me in the underground, the man with the tough military bearing whom I met on the day this whole nightmare began, somewhere in southern Tel Aviv. “And what did David Gur think about all this? How did he react?”

“He accepted it, like I did. You must understand – we’re actors, artists; perhaps we were a little naïve… Gur trusted me, as a friend. He didn’t ask questions and did what he was asked to do. His doubts – and mine – began afterward, on that night.”

“What happened?”

“Gur saw your police sketch on television. He identified you, despite the cosmetic changes to your eyebrows. Anyway, he understood that you were wanted for
his
murder – and didn’t understand why. Suddenly the whole thing looked funny to him. He couldn’t make sense of it and, frankly, neither could I. That night he called me and we talked about it. We tried to understand what it was all about, we really did.”

“And what else did you, besides ‘try to understand’?” Greenberg taunted.

“We called Weinstein to ask him for an explanation. David was beginning to get scared –“

“And what did Weinstein say?”

“We couldn’t reach him. There was no answer at the number he gave me. Suddenly I realized I had no way to contact him – and believe me, I tried. The next day I called everyone I knew who I thought could help, including friends from high school I hadn’t spoken with in years. Most of them had practically forgotten Weinstein, and those who remembered him hadn’t seen him in a long time. Two or three friends from the past who had run into him by accident didn’t know…didn’t have any idea about what he was doing or how to find him.” Tova Rom turned her head towards the man standing in front of her and continued in a breaking voice. “Gur became very tense. In the last conversation we had he suggested we go to the police and tell them about the whole thing. Something seemed strange to him, suspicious. If it hadn’t been for that terrible accident, I’m sure he would have gone to the police in the end.”

“And what did you do then?”

“I didn’t have time to think. I had to go to Germany. I had a contract. I couldn’t even go to his funeral. I just wanted to forget the whole thing. I almost had – until you showed up.”

“I’ll be gone soon. Just two more questions and you’ll never see me again. How old are you?”

The question startled the actress. “What? I don’t understand what business that is of yours!” she responded angrily, insulted by the query.

“I asked how old you are,” Greenberg enunciated slowly and coldly.

Tova Rom felt the pent-up tension in his voice and understood that she would gain nothing by refusing to answer his questions. “Fifty-three,” she answered resignedly.

“What high school did you go to?”

Even if she were surprised by the question, the actress displayed no further resistance. “The Herzliya Hebrew Gymnasium in Tel Aviv.”

Greenberg looked at the woman sitting tensely on the chair. “Look, Tova,” he began. “I’m going now, as I promised. But before I do, I have some important advice for you: don’t tell anyone that you saw me and told me anything. Nothing good will come of it, believe me.”

The actress silently nodded her head.

*     *      *

Greenberg pulled the bill from where the waiter had left it under an ashtray and glanced at the sum as he took out his wallet. It was 2:30 a.m. and he was at a bar in the fancy Sachsenhausen section of Frankfurt.

An unfamiliar slip of paper stared up at him from among the banknotes, but when he unfolded it and looked at what was written he remembered. They were the numbers of the cars that had followed him, which he had copied down when he realized they were closing in on the department store in Tel Aviv.

The next instant his expression froze and his body became immobile as a status. He looked over the numbers again and his heart nearly stopped. He quickly gulped down the rest of the water in his glass. Surprise had turned into shock, and shock into understanding. There was no mistake: one of the three numbers was identical to the one he had managed to copy from the gray Ford that hit David Gur!

Now he knew: not only were those working against him very strong, but ruthless. Once again he went over the events of the past few days, verifying his assumption that there was nothing coincidental in any of them. The telephone number given him by the anonymous recruiter was no mistake; it was the number of the plant nursery and it was given him on purpose. The planners had wanted to bring him onto familiar ground, and everything that happened at the nursery was staged. The actor who had played the role of Zvi Teitelbaum was no longer alive. Greenberg shuddered as he recalled the way David Gur had left the world; a chill passed through him as he pictured the old man lying in the street. “They” would not let him go. If they wanted to kill him, they wouldn’t even have to stage an accident: he had already been killed in a traffic accident some days before, according to documents at the Interior Ministry, the police, the Health Ministry, and who knows how many other places. If so, they would probably not let him be resurrected. Thus his previous life was over, and his present one was one big nightmare. He was alive for the sake of a purpose that was unclear to him. How much longer could he live this way? More than anything else he was bothered by the fact that “They” did not want him dead. So what did they want? When would they decide that the time was indeed ripe to kill him as well? And if he did succeed in eluding them – would he have to begin a new life; now that he was over 40?

Tova Rom, he suddenly thought: whoever had killed David Gur would also not hesitate to harm the actress! For some reason he felt he had to warn her. Greenberg left two bills on the saucer in the middle of the table and went over to the telephone at the end of the bar.

Two minutes later he heard a pleasant, if tired, voice say, “Hilton Hotel. May I help you?”

“I’d like to speak to a guest of yours named Tova Rom. It’s urgent, and I must ask you to wake her despite the late hour.”

“One moment, sir,” said the voice. Greenberg imagined it belonged to a young woman, who was looking up the name in the register. A few seconds later he heard the line ring and then it was answered.

“Yes?” a sleep voice said.

“Tova? Tova Rom?”

“You again?” the voice asked, already knowing the answer. “What do you want from me now?”

“Nothing. I just wanted to warn you. Now I understand: David Gur was not killed in a hit-and-run accident. He was run over on purpose; he was murdered.”

There was silence at the other end of the line, finally broken by a weak sigh. “My God…”

And then Greenberg understood that he had erred. He did not know if this was his first mistake, but he had no doubt this was a bad one. He should not have phoned the hotel. The almost imperceptible click he had just heard on the line left no doubt: Tova Rom’s phone was bugged.

He reached out to replace the receiver, but changed his mind at the last second. If he did so, he knew he might as well be sealing off Frankfurt’s approaches and exits with his own hands – for then those following him would know that
he
knew about them. There was also another way: to keep talking and let the listeners locate the origin of the call, and even to give them enough time to start out. He could also use the opportunity to plant some false information. He had to use this mistake to his advantage: to get them to look for him elsewhere. I’d like to see you again, to explain exactly what happened.”