Blind Mission: A Thrilling Espionage Novel (20 page)

Without noticing, he spent nearly three hours there completing his research. He now had all the information he needed.

*     *      *

Leroy Jackson wasn’t at all surprised when his dispatcher gave him that picture and told him to keep his eyes open. Actually, very little could surprise the large black man – except for the fact that, in 15 years of continuous cab driving in the violent streets of New York, he had never been robbed or attacked, and was still alive.

Just as his fare was leaving his cab, even before he had closed the door behind him, Jackson had stolen a glance at the postcard-sized picture he had put in the glove compartment – then immediately compared the image with the man zipping up his windbreaker.

At that moment Leroy Jackson felt lucky. He hurriedly parked his cab a block away, and nervously dialed the number written on the back of the picture. It had already been made clear to him that this was the direct line to the office of Sam Gold himself, and Leroy Jackson was old enough to know the score.

The line was busy.

At the sound of the busy signal, the huge man slammed his fist in frustration against the steering wheel. He dialed again and again got the busy signal.

It took some time for his call to get through. The man who answered was businesslike. He took down the details, including the license number of the cab, and ordered Jackson to go back to where he had let his fare off, to stay there, and to keep his eyes open.

But the man they sought did not reappear at the library entrance. After a short while a gray Pontiac with tinted windows pulled up beside the cab driver, who was leaning against his cab with his hands in his pockets, his teeth chattering. Three men got out of the Pontiac and began asking him short questions about his anonymous passenger. Jackson tersely explained the situation and pointed towards the library steps. With that, he knew, his part was over. He got back into his cab and drove off.

He did not say anything to the stranger who appeared at the cab garage later that afternoon and gave him a brown envelope. When he opened it, he found five $100 bills.

“I was taught that in a situation like this you don’t ask questions,” Leroy Jackson later told his wife – and himself – when he put the envelope on their kitchen table that night.

*     *      *

At the eighth floor apartment on 93
rd
and Park Avenue the doorbell rang.

It was second nature for Nahum Porat to snap awake to instant alertness. He looked at the clock on the night table as he rose to put on a bathrobe.

The doorbell rang again, in short impatient jabs. Porat went to the door and looked through the spy hole, before turning the key and sliding back the security chain. Ya’acov Nissan entered the room in great excitement.

“He’s here, in New York! We found him!”

“When? How?” Porat could hardly contain the sense of satisfaction that flooded through him.

“You won’t believe it. Shmuel found him through one of his cab drivers.”

“What did I tell you? I knew if the man was in this town, Shmuel would be able to lay his hands on him. Tell me what happened already; from the very beginning!”

Ya’acov Nissan described the unfolding of events to his superior. Porat’s brow furrowed a bit when he realized that his trackers had not succeeded in establishing direct contact with the subject. By the time they had gone into the library after him, he had vanished.

“Did you question the librarian?”

“Of course.”

“And he cooperated?”

Nissan hesitated. “It cost us $500 –“

“Five hundred dollars?” the head of the Mossad cut him off, snatching from Nissan’s hands the photocopies he held out to him and quickly looking through them. They were copies of the periodicals the subject had studied, and Porat wanted to know what the man had been looking for; what they had in common. Only when he understood what Greenberg wanted to find did he permit himself to relax a bit. Now Porat knew for certain that his men had not erred in their identification of the subject, and his anger over the $500 the trackers had had to pay the librarian in order to bend the rules was forgotten.

Nissan studied his commander. “Did you find something?”

Porat ignored him. “That’s it! It all fits,” he said to himself. His face was paler than usual. Walking over to the desk, he took a sheet of paper and copied a certain name from each of the photocopied periodicals.

“These eight persons are journalists,” the head of the Mossad explained to his deputy. “Find them and set up a close surveillance on each one.”

Jennifer Robbins sat in front of the mirror and combed her long straight hair. It was only recently that she had begun to use a color rinse to keep the sleek brunette color she had always known.

The heightening shriek of the tea kettle sounded from the kitchen and she quickly rose and crossed the short hall dividing her bedroom from the cooking area. Just as she reached out and turned off the burner, the sound of the kettle was replaced by the insistent buzzing of the intercom.

“That’s life,” she sighed to herself. She went through the living room and over to the wall intercom to the left of the apartment door and pressed the answer button.

“Ms. Robbins? This is Richardson,” came the weak voice of the doorman from the downstairs lobby of her posh apartment building.

“Good morning, Henry, how are you today?” she asked perfunctorily.

“Very well, thank you. There’s a registered envelope here for you, came by Federal Express. Should I send it up?”

“Yes, please.”

Just as she was putting her lips to the mug of boiling hot coffee, the doorbell rang.

“That’s life,” she sighed again, putting down the untouched drink.

The hard envelope the delivery boy had given her did not have a return address. She was surprised, but her curiosity overcame her initial suspiciousness and she tore off the plastic seal. Inside there was only a small slip of paper, and what was written on it was mystifying, truly mystifying. The message was brief and handwritten: “Syria–Israel War. Time, October 24. My number is 627-1834.

If you don’t contact me by 8:15, I’ll conclude you have no interest in the subject, and won’t bother you again.”

For a long moment Jennifer stood there without moving, her eyes poring over the message and her brain trying to comprehend its significance. She absentmindedly gazed around the room for her watch, which she found lying on the coffee table. It was 8:09.

Suddenly she thought she understood. She shook herself free of her amazement and went into her work room. She rifled through drawer after drawer of a large metal filing cabinet until she found what she called her “private archive.” In approximately the middle of the fourth drawer she found a file labeled “Syria–Israel, War.” She pulled out the section for October and sat down at her desk with it, at the same time turning on the reading lamp. The clippings were not arranged chronologically, so it took her another two whole minutes until her searching gaze focused on the desired date. The moment she saw the giant headline her heart skipped a beat. She felt as though a switch had been thrown and her memory jolted back years. She envisaged the course of events as if they had happened only minutes ago.

In her years of work as a journalist, Jennifer Robbins had written several hundred investigative stories; it was no wonder she couldn’t remember the exact details of one of them without a second look. Exactly how did that aid organization operate, when it wanted to steal the food instead of transferring it to those dying of hunger in Bangladesh? Who had leaked to her the first reports of a planned coup in Haiti? What was the precise rationalization with which the South African government had sought to explain the disappearance of John Konenga? She could no longer answer all these questions with precision. But this was not the case now: she could never forget that article, not even if she tried. It was not every day that the most famous investigative journalist on the East Coast had to admit to her public that she had come to a dead end and could not solve the puzzle and answer all the questions. No! She hadn’t forgotten a single detail.

She reached for the phone. It was 8:14.

*     *      *

When she woke that morning, it had seemed to Jennifer Robbins that the day would be fresh and clear; but now it had grown overcast and a light rain had begun to fall. Hell! She knew that in weather like this it would be impossible to find an empty cab. So she quickly retraced her steps and borrowed the doorman’s spare umbrella.

Water drops had gathered on the crystal of her watch, and it took her an extra second to make out the time. It was already 8:30. In her haste she had not bothered to look outside before leaving the apartment, and now she was forced to take giant steps among the puddles – somewhat difficult in the tight jeans she wore, the legs of which soon became drenched – with six more blocks to go before she reached the address given her for the meeting at exactly 8:45!

There was a sudden lull in the rain, and Robbins looked at the street sign as she wiped a drop of rain from her cheek. For a moment she debated whether to turn down toward Madison Avenue at 73
rd
Street, or to continue a little further and turn down 72
nd
. She finally decided, but at her first stop her high heels betrayed her and she slipped. The next split second seemed to pass in slow motion, but the expected impact failed to come. She never hit the muddy pavement; instead she just felt a sharp stab of pain in her right elbow. “Careful!” called the male voice at the same instant.

Robbins quickly turned her head to look over her right shoulder. The man standing beside her and supporting her by the elbow was of medium height and athletic build. He was wearing jeans, a thick sweater, and a short leather jacket. He was smoothly shaven and had a pleasant smile. His graying brown hair blew freely in the gusty wind. He kept holding on to her arm, but eased up on his grip.

“Oh, thank you!” Robbins said with sincere relief and gratitude to the man who had kept her from falling. “You saved my life!” she smiled at him, still breathing heavily from the sudden scare.

“Don’t exaggerate,” he responded, smiling. “But you probably do own me at least a few bones…”

She laughed. Then suddenly her eyes narrowed. Something was bothering her. Hadn’t she heard this man’s voice before? She couldn’t identify the voice, but the speech pattern…

“…and since that’s the case, perhaps you’d have a cup of coffee with me?” he proposed, releasing her arm.

Robbins carefully examined the face of the man opposite her and looked straight into his eyes. No; this man was not one of the friendly perverts of New York. His eyes were too sober. And she knew one more thing about him: he was a foreigner. No native New Yorker would make such a come on, out of fear of being accused of sexual harassment.

“I’d be happy to, but…” For a second she thought of rejecting the invitation, but in the next second she changed her mind. The pleasant-looking man was interesting. “…but I’m rushing to get to a meeting. Why don’t I give you my phone number and –“

“That’s not necessary,” he said with a chuckle. “I think your meeting has been moved up a bit.”

She gaped at him, waiting for him to continue.

“I’m the man you’re supposed to meet. “Charlie’s Café, 8:45’ Sound familiar? The words came lightly, almost jokingly.

For a moment Robbin’s face registered astonishment, followed immediately by anger. “You’re the man who sent me that message? The one I called half an hour ago?” she asked rhetorically. Now she knew where she had heard his voice. “You followed me?”

“I had to.”

“You had to, eh?” she repeated his word ironically. “Why?”

“I had to be sure you were alone.”

“Why? Why did you have to make sure I was alone?” she asked, her voice showing the aggressiveness that had made her a top reporter.

“If you’ll let me explain…” the man began, again taking her arm, but gently this time.

Jennifer Robbins made her decision. His pleasant voice and face, and above all, her curiosity, persuaded her to let him lead her down the street.

*     *      *

Despite the fact that the coffee shop was nearly deserted at this early hour, the two went to a secluded table in the rear. He took her dripping umbrella and helped her off with her wet coat, carefully hanging it on a nearby coat rack.

The journalist watched the man sitting before her with great interest, trying to estimate his worth. At first glance she saw he was tired; no, more than that: utterly exhausted. Nevertheless, her impression was that he still was in absolute control of his thoughts and actions. His English was fluent, although it bore a clearly foreign accent, and his clothing showed a European taste. Given these observations, it was no wonder the experienced journalist wrinkled her brow when she heard him call the waitress and in a typical New York accent without a trace of foreign inflection, order two pots of coffee and a light breakfast.

If that’s so, thought Jennifer, the man looking at me from across the table is quite talented an actor. It seems he must use this talent in his daily life, sometimes even unconsciously. I’ve got to be careful: a man with that kind of talent may sometimes blur the clear distinction between reality and imagination.

A mischievous look flashed in the stranger’s eyes, as if he had read her thoughts. “It’s just a little hobby I enjoy indulging in from time to time,” he said, speaking this time in a thick southern accent; which she thought few Americans could do as well.

At the surprised look on her face, he added, in a voice out of an African-American in Harlem: “Don’t be afraid mama; like I said, it’s just a little shtick, no harm done.”

Robbins laughed. The ice was broken and her fears began to melt. He had honest eyes and a warm look – but this notwithstanding, with his acting ability, could his eyes be trusted?

“Okay,” she said, getting down to business. “What’s it all about? Why did you want to meet me?”

The stranger’s face, which had looked so self-assured till now, suddenly showed consternation.

“I don’t know,” Greenberg began; “that is, what I’m about to tell you is, well….all right: It all began about 10 days ago. I had an interview with a client at a certain address in Tel Aviv. I got there a little early, and so I went into a nearby café….”

*     *      *

“…And then I sent you the note. The rest you know.”

It had taken more than two hours for Greenberg to tell her the whole story. The veteran journalist was surprised to discover that during those two hours something had happened to her that had not happened in many years, if ever: she had sat in front of a strange man and listened to him – sometimes with her mouth hanging open – without interrupting him even once. She, the embarrassing question artist, had become captivated; she believed his story. He had held back nothing of importance, yet had not belabored any point or repeated himself.  He analyzed the incidents incisively, and the conclusions he reached were compelling and logical. His long monologue had been broken off only twice, when the waitress had come over to ask if they wanted to order something else.

The man finished talking and stifled a yawn; but Jennifer remained silent, once again examining the person who had bared this astonishing tale. She found she could still not judge its authenticity. She had no doubt that the man was dangerous, perhaps even more dangerous than even he supposed. It was clear to her that it was no accident he was in this situation. Those who were manipulating him knew his character, as she did – no, better than she did. This man would not hesitate to perform the most terrible act, if he believed it was his only way out.

But this man had something else. She could not define to herself exactly what it was. A good heart? Perhaps an uncompromising integrity?

“I can’t say exactly what caused me to turn to you,” Greenberg resumed. “Perhaps it was that article you wrote how long ago? 10 maybe 12 years?. You were very close to the truth; actually, the closest. All the other journalists ignored the matter or wrote bullshit.
You
have a good head on your shoulders. You can analyze a situation with an iron logic, and draw the necessary conclusions. I value that.”

Jennifer Robbins was startled to find that she was blushing. She was used to getting compliments, but she generally treated them with suspicion; for she knew that in most cases they were given with an ulterior motive, whether open or hidden. This time she heard the words directly, without a hint of flattery, and she accepted them as they were given.

“If so, then you didn’t kill that French journalist, Leclaire.” The journalist was making a statement of fact, not asking a question.

“No; he was dead before I got to him.”

“You exploited the opportunity, and didn’t want to tell anybody about it. You were afraid they’d think you killed the man in order to take his identity and save your skin.”

He remained silent.

“Well, in hindsight, it looks like you knew who you were dealing with.”

Greenberg nodded his head in agreement.

“And you don’t think they found you out, and believe that you killed him?”

“I don’t know. If they managed to solve that incident and discover my identity, it’s reasonable to assume that they would have had me court martialed, no? They would have torn me apart, thrown the book at me – for an example, as they say. Even if they hadn’t been able to prove that I was a murderer, they would have jailed me for desertion; I don’t even want to think for how long.”

“Yes? That’s what you think? I’m amazed at you.”

“Why?” Greenberg asked curiously.

“What would they have gotten out of it?” The journalist’s face now glowed with excitement. “We don’t know when they managed to find your trail, if at all, but it’s extremely likely that it happened a few years ago – and in a case like this, too much time has passed since the event occurred for them to be able to do anything. They would have looked like a bunch of jerks or, in the best case, a bunch of goof-offs with nothing better to do. Now, on the other hand, they can exploit this knowledge to suit their needs – and in my opinion, that’s exactly what they’re doing! They’re using you. I don’t know how or for what, but there’s no doubt –“