Blind Mission: A Thrilling Espionage Novel (22 page)

To his relief, nobody was waiting. The car doors opened on an empty hallway. Greenberg looked left and right, then used the hat to block the electric eye and thus keep the doors from closing. A glance at the indicator lights of the adjacent elevator showed him it was two floors above and coming down. He pressed the down button to order it and held his breath, still fearing that someone would suddenly appear in the corridor. The next few seconds were an eternity. The down elevator had now left the floor above and in an instant would be opening its doors in front of him.

A man and a woman stood inside, deep in conversation. Did they intend to get off on his floor? No; they continued talking, unable to see the spectacle in the next car. In a split second Greenberg flipped the unconscious officer’s hat into the car and stepped into the down elevator. The talking couple didn’t spare him a glance. He held his breath another few seconds until the doors closed, then let it out and let his muscles sag. In less than two minutes he had passed by the patrolman’s bored partner waiting for him in the lobby and had exited into the street, swallowed up among thousands of others.

*     *      *

He singled him out as soon as he got to Washington Square Park. It was impossible to miss him, and Greenberg couldn’t understand why the police drug squad hadn’t picked him off the streets long ago. The man was operating virtually in the open. His disjointed, nervous walk and involuntary twitches were blatant evidence of the black man’s utter addiction to the stuff he was dealing.

Greenberg sat on a bench and pretended to doze, while behind the dark glasses his eyes followed the dealer as he accosted likely looking passersby and offered them his wares in a loud stage whisper. Greenberg needed to determine that the man was not under police surveillance or was not himself an undercover cop.

Gradually the foot traffic eased up and the type of visitor seemed to change. The untidy cruising youngsters, the various crazies, and the homeless –many of whom, with nowhere better to go, would return for the night – gave way to respectable looking businessmen in three-piece suits. These came down from the many office buildings in the area and used the park for a short cut, or for a place to relax before boarding their trains home to the suburbs. If so, Greenberg knew, the number of customers of the man he was following was rapidly dwindling. Shortly the dealer would be moving on.

And so he did. At about 5 p.m. the man shuffled over to one of the exits, and Greenberg rose from his bench and followed him. The man’s jerky walk made him easy to shadow from the opposite side of the street, where he was less likely to spot Greenberg, who could catch up with him easily when the time came. The nearby streets were quickly emptying. In an hour the character of the area would change once again, and respectable businessmen would give way to those who lived on the fringes of society. Drunks, addicts, the mentally disturbed, and the homeless would stake out places in the doorways of abandoned businesses and prepare to spend the night.

As he followed the man into a side street, Greenberg noticed an alcove in the wall up ahead that served as the back entrance of a restaurant that had closed for the day. He quickly narrowed the distance between himself and the drug dealer. As the man came abreast of the alcove, Greenberg was an arm’s length away. Swiftly glancing left and right and seeing no one near, he reached out and grabbed the black man by the throat, at the same time shoving him into the recess and up against the wall.

Before the dealer could grasp what was going on, a Smith and Wesson was pressed tightly against his nose.

“Wha, what you want from me?” the dealer said trembling.

“I need some plastic explosive. Where do I get some in this town?”

“I don’t know. That’s not my line…”

“Listen, you sonofabitch,” Greenberg threatened, “I know exactly what you
do
trade in. With what you have on you right now I could put you inside for eight years. So you’d better refresh your memory, unless you don’t mind being inside.”

“Okay, okay, I get your point, man,” the dealer’s voice squeaked through Greenberg’s stranglehold. “I don’t know where you can get the stuff, but I know the name of someone who knows where to get it.”

Greenberg eased his hold on the man’s neck. “That’s better. I hope you don’t have any stupid ideas about trying to trick me – ‘ cause if you do, you can be sure I’ll make you sorry you were ever born.”

The man mumbled an address and Greenberg released his grip. He repeated the address the dealer gave him and left the alcove. As he walked down the street it seemed he could still hear the sound of the dealer retching on the pavement.

*     *      *

Jesus Garcia Fernandes stood outside the door of his apartment on the sixth floor of the Rising Sun Apartments in Queens and inserted his key in the lock. Turning it to the left with one hand and turning the doorknob with the other, he pushed the door open – and immediately lost control of events.

Someone grabbed him forcefully, pulling him inside the apartment, and in an instant he was surprised to find himself flying across the room, dragging the coffee table along with his momentum. Several glass and ceramic knickknacks, a clay Indian vase, and a small potted cactus that were on the table ended up in a shattered heap on the floor with him. As he fell the Puerto Rican’s head struck the wound edge of the heavy dining room table by a large picture window and he collapsed on the floor unconscious.

When he finally awoke he had no idea how long he had been out, not that it mattered. As he opened his eyes the 30-year-old man found himself looking straight into the barrel of a large gun, which he immediately identified as a New York police service revolver. The man holding the gun was wearing a motorcycle helmet, whose dark-tinted visor was locked in place. On his hands he wore sinister-looking black rubber gloves.

“What…what do you want from me, man?” Garcia mumbled in panic, breathing heavily. “Who…who are you?”

The voice that came from inside the helmet was deep, cold and hard. The Puerto Rican, who had grown up on the streets of New York, identified the accent clearly as that of a black from the Bronx. The ideas that had begun to form in his mind vanished.

“I need two pounds of plastic explosive,” the stranger began suddenly. He pulled out a wad of bills and counted off several. “The street price is $400,” he said, “but here is $600. I’m in a hurry.”

Garcia did not even try to claim he had no access to the material. As an experienced operator, he knew when it was too dangerous to be anything but straight. “What kind do you need?”

“It doesn’t matter. But Semtex would be best.”

“You don’t think I keep the stuff here in the apartment? “ Garcia asked rhetorically.

“You’ve got two hours for the Semtex,” said the voice form inside the black visor. “And two more hours for some papers I need: a driver’s license and two credit cards.

Here’s another $300. Go get them and back here in four hours at the latest. I’ll be in touch.”

The man shoved the gun into his pocket and walked to the door. “Four hours!” he said again, and went out. While his visitor’s voice was not overtly threatening, its coldness sent a chill down Garcia’s spine.

As soon as the door closed, he painfully got up from the floor, holding on to the corner of the big table for support, and went to the window. Carefully drawing aside the curtain, he looked down at the entrance to the building. From his floor he could clearly identify anyone entering or leaving the huge apartment building.

He waited and waited, and as time passed his apprehension grew. Without realizing it, the Puerto Rican had tightly clenched his teeth. The black biker had not gone out; nor had any other black man. Suddenly Garcia shook himself and looked at the wall clock. Almost 20 minutes had passed already and his frightening visitor was apparently still in the building! He quickly went into the bathroom, washed his face, and tucked his shirt neatly into his slacks. After passing a comb through his thick, oily hair he returned to the entrance of the apartment. He slowly opened the door and looked left and right down the long corridor. Seeing nobody, he ventured out and locked the door, then went to the elevator.

*     *      *

“Okay,” said Ya’acov Nissan as he entered the room. “We’ve put a man outside the home of each of the eight journalists, as you asked. And about two hours ago we found where he spent the night.”

“It’s about time,” said Porat. “It’s been almost three days. Where is it?”

The chief of operations ignored the first comment and answered, “Here, in Manhattan; not far away actually. But the question is not where, but with whom.”

“With whom?” asked the head of the Mossad pointedly.

“Your man is now in the company of Jennifer Robbins.”

“Damn! The reporter who uncovered –“

“Exactly.” Nissan cut him off.

“That’s all we need,” said Porat. “Where is our man right now?”

“Somewhere in Manhattan. I’ve had the Robbins apartment under surveillance since this morning. Two men and two women. I assume he’ll return there during the day, and then we’ll be able to follow him directly.”

“Listen, Ya’acov, I want the undercover unit here, in the United States, ready to go. How much time will you need to get it organized?

“You want
what
?!” Nissan exploded, his eyes gaping.

“I asked you how much time do you think you’ll need to get it organized,” Porat repeated with emphasis.

“Look, Nahum, it’s none of my business, but… wouldn’t it be worthwhile to think over such a decision? You know what is entailed, and we’ve already caused considerable damage to the running of Operation Boss; that is to say –“

“Ya’acov!” Nahum Porat spoke slowly and deliberately. “This is the last time I’m going to repeat my question: How much time do you need?”

Nissan swallowed and replied, “Twenty-four hours, I hope. Maybe even a bit less.”

“Fine,” said Porat. “In the meantime, I want all our young people who are here in New York to be around the home of this reporter, around the paper where she works, around the home of her ex-husband, her parents, her siblings, her aunts and uncles, her dog’s veterinarian; anything to do with her; anything you can think of. We’re not going to lose our man again, are we?”

“All right,” the Mossad’s chief of operations nodded his head.

“I also want all the material you can get on this Robbins woman. And this time I mean all the material – every detail you can get, from her career to her sexual appetites, and fast!”

Jennifer Robbins tightened the strap of her shoulder bag as she left the subway and walked towards her apartment. On a sudden impulse she stopped and retraced her steps and entered the Royal Dragon, a Chinese restaurant on the corner. As always at this hour, there was a long line of people waiting to be seated. But as was her custom, Jennifer went over to the takeout counter, where she greeted the server.

“The usual,” she said after exchanging hellos. “No; actually, give me two of everything.”

“No problem,” smiled the Chinese counterman.

Five minutes later Jenifer had reached her apartment building. She looked up mechanically at the window of her flat that faced the street and suddenly froze. The curtains of her bedroom window were awry. She never opened them. She could still remember the day she moved into the apartment and discovered how the sunlight streamed in through the left side of the window and struck the brass frame, making it uncomfortably hot.

If so, Greenberg was in her room despite what she had told him; and she hated strangers in her bedroom! Already thinking how she could make this abundantly clear to her guest, she stalked angrily into the lobby, greeting the doorman with a perfunctory hello. She was walking past him toward the elevators when he called out to her.

“Miss Robbins!”

She halted and turned back to face him. The doorman left his reception desk and walked over to her.

“There was a little problem with the central heating. We had to let the maintenance man into your apartment to do some work. There was a small leak – nothing special; but we had to fix it. I just wanted to tell you so you wouldn’t be surprised, in case they were still up there.”

“Thanks, I’m glad you told me. It’s not very pleasant to come home and find a strange man, especially in New York. “

“Right you are, ma’am.”

Jennifer smiled at the doorman and turned towards the elevator. Wait a minute! The relief she had felt when hearing an explanation for the curtain being askew suddenly evaporated. The name of the game now was: Caution! To the best of her memory, she had never had any problem with the heating system. Why today, all of a sudden?

She quickly returned to the doorman. “Listen, Henry, I forgot my keys at the Royal Dragon down the street,” she called to him. “I’ve got to go back there. Watch my things, will you? I’ll be right back.”

The doorman nodded his assent.

“And don’t finish all the food!” she called back to him smiling as she went out the door.

Out on the sidewalk Jennifer knew the excuse she had used wasn’t a bad one; but it entailed returning to the restaurant. Once there, she would have to keep playing the game and ask about her supposedly missing keys, all to provide the correct response to any questions those following her might ask. In the midst of these thoughts, a small doubt nagged at her: aren’t I exaggerating? Does a crooked curtain and a heating technician mean that I’m under surveillance? Maybe I’m completely mistaken and it’s just that Dan has dragged me along after him into some crazy delusion?

Jennifer returned to the Royal Dragon and after leaving it again turned left and walked quickly to the next intersection. She waved to flag down a cab.

“Bloomingdale’s,” she told the driver without thinking. She had to give some address, and the big department store was as good as any.

Once the taxi had begun to move she glanced behind her. She did not see any vehicle following closely, and again she asked herself if she had not let the spellbinding words of Dan’s hair-raising story drag her into an imaginary world.

But no! Her intuition – a quality that had been crucial to her success as a journalist – told her that she was not imagining things. And if that was the case, she had no more time to waste casting doubt on the story. She had to act! Jennifer leaned back into the seat and considered the situation. If whoever was in her apartment was not a heating technician, it was probably someone who was following Greenberg. The more she thought about things, she could not understand how the pursuers had made the connection between her and Dan; but this fact was no longer important. She now had to find out who the stranger in the apartment was, and perhaps also warn Greenberg. If until now she had been uncertain whether she was doing the right thing by putting up this strange Israeli in her flat, she now found herself fully behind him. As for the intruder, violating her privacy was undoubtedly the most effective way of turning her into an enemy.

After a few minutes ride, the cab pulled up at the southern entrance of Bloomingdale’s. Jennifer went immediately to the public phone inside the doorway. It only rang twice before the receiver was lifted at the other end. No sound came from it.

“Hello,” said Jennifer.

“Yes?” said an unfamiliar, gruff-sounding male voice.

The journalist felt a sudden dread. “Hello? Is this the residence of Jennifer Robbins?

“Yes,” the interloper replied, without volunteering any further information.

Jennifer weighed the possibilities. It wasn’t Dan’s voice – but he could change his voice at will. Nevertheless, Dan would certainly have identified her voice. No! It wasn’t the man she had welcomed to her home who answered just now. The man in the apartment was a stranger – and what the hell was he doing there?!

“This is Helen Moore, a friend of Jennifer’s,” Jennifer said, without having a clue where the idea had come from. “May I ask who the gentleman is?”

“Ms. Robbins will be here in a few minutes. I’m a maintenance man. We’re fixing a heating pipe here. Do you want to leave Ms. Robbins a message?”

If she needed it, this was another confirmation that this was no maintenance man. Such individuals did not answer the phone; and certainly did not take messages. In the best case, if they didn’t curse you out and slam down the phone, they’d refer you to the doorman. A maintenance man would also not know when she was expected to return. In order to know this, he would have had to ask the doorman; and heating men wouldn’t take the trouble to do so. No! The man on the other side of the line was an intruder. He was waiting for Greenberg, and perhaps also searching for something. She had to warn Dan, but how?

“I’ll call back later. Thank you,” she said, hanging up.

Well, she couldn’t go home; but she had to meet Greenberg and update him! She quickly came to the conclusion that she had no way of warning him. She did not know where he was or what he was doing, so all she could do was hope that the impression she had of him – a man who could look out for himself – was not mistaken. She wanted to believe so with all her might; that someone like him would not fall into such a trap. In any event, there was nothing she could do right now. She had to think of a place where they could meet after he eluded his pursuers. It would have to be somewhere they both knew – and only one place came to mind. Yes, she made up her mind; he had a sharp mind, and sooner or later he’d get there. She just had to be patient, and to be there when he arrived.

She sallied forth into the street and hailed another cab. Ten minutes later she had reached the spot and was preparing for a long wait.

*     *      *

Dan Greenberg told the cab driver to stop next to a phone booth about two blocks from Jennifer’s apartment building. Should he really call Jennifer before going up to her apartment? Maybe he was becoming too suspicious for his own good? He became angry with himself, and immediately tried to convince himself that he wasn’t going too far: just a short, reassuring phone call.

He took out his pack of Kent cigarettes (how hard it had been getting used them, after years of smoking his Israeli Time cigarettes!) and dialed the number he had written down on it. Strange, he thought, how he had not even tried to memorize the number; as if he didn’t need to worry at all about Jennifer. The voice of the man who answered rang a series of alarms in his brain. Without thinking he altered his pitch and rhythm of his voice and, speaking in English with a thick French accent, asked to speak with Mademoiselle Jennifer Robbins.”

“She’s not here.”

Greenberg’s mind raced. The presence of the man in the journalist’s apartment was unexpected She had told him that she had not been seeing anyone since a long love affair had broken up several months before. If so, it was not reasonable that someone had received the keys to her apartment. Perhaps it was some relative or friend? Would she let someone enter her place when she was absent without telling him about it? She knew what kind of situation he was in! He also did not like the sound of the man’s voice.

“May I leave a message?” asked Dan.

“Yes.”

“This is Charles Depaux of the French newspaper
L’Express
. I would like Mademoiselle Robbins to contact me as soon as possible.”

“Okay, sir.”

“Do you perhaps know when she will return?”

“No.”

Sonofabitch, Greenberg thought to himself. The man was deliberately refraining from speaking an entire sentence. He had to get at least a few words together from this creep! Then he could perhaps get a fix on his accent and know what country he was from.

“Perhaps you could write down my telephone number? He finally asked.

“Yes.”

“2, 3, 3, 4, 0, 3, 6.”

“Okay.”

“Would you please repeat the number if gave you, sir?” Here was the trap. By the way he would say the English number 3, Dan would know whether he was an American or a foreigner; and if he was a foreigner, perhaps even his country of origin.

The speaker on the other end hesitated. Dan could almost feel his inner struggle through the open line. Finally the man came to a decision, and Greenberg was gratified that he himself had chosen to speak with a French accent. It had probably put the intruder somewhat off his guard.

“2, 3, 3, 4, 0, 3, 6,” he repeated with obvious reluctance.

Greenberg froze. He had deliberately used the numeral 3 thrice; but the foreign pronunciation of the speaker was so marked that it was enough for him to hear the first 3 to know with certainty. There was no doubt: the man was an Israeli. He thanked him and hung up.

He immediately dialed the information operator and asked for the number of Jennifer’s building (Eden Towers was rather a pretentious name, he thought). A moment later he was speaking with Henry the doorman.

“Do you know why Ms. Robbins is not answering her phone?” asked Jennifer’s Australian cousin.

“Ms. Robbins left about half an hour ago. She forgot her keys in the restaurant and she was supposed to be back a while ago – the restaurant’s just a couple of minutes’ walk form here,” the doorman responded, sharing his concern with the caller without being asked. “Anyway, trying calling back in a few minutes. I hope Ms. Robbins will be back by then.”

So, Greenberg concluded to himself after hanging up, Jennifer is not home. A stranger, apparently an Israeli, is in her apartment. Actually, Jennifer had come home, -- but had abruptly left the building before going up to her apartment. Had she really forgotten her keys in the restaurant? This didn’t make sense: the journalist was amazingly well organized – as only someone can be who remembers to fold her clothes before making love – and thus it was doubtful she would forget any of her possessions anywhere. It was likely she had to use the lost keys as a pretext for – for what, actually? Perhaps just to get away from the building? Perhaps she found out somehow that there was someone in her apartment? Then, in order not to arouse suspicion, she invented the ruse of the keys. That’s it! The woman used her imagination, and maybe even hoped that he would understand that she wouldn’t forget something as important as the keys to her apartment in a restaurant.

And now, where did she go? He had to meet her, to talk with her, to warn her. Both of them had to decide what the next step would be. But where the hell would he find her? She wouldn’t go back t the newspaper, he guessed, because she knew the hunters were liable to be waiting there for her – or for him. He dare not try her cell phone as the calls were certainly being tracked and it was the reason he couldn’t dare use his phone to call anyone else. No! It had to be someplace they both knew, and wasn’t known to anyone else. Had he told her of someplace in New York he had visited or where he had stayed? No; they hadn’t talked about New York. Wait! There was a place where they had been together! Why hadn’t he thought of it before?

With a sense of relief he opened the door of the phone booth. A fresh breeze struck his face and made him suddenly aware of the sweat pouring from his brow. The relief he had felt passed as swiftly as it had arrived, as his conscience began to torture him. How had they gotten on Jennifer’s trail? How had they made the connection between him and the journalist? And now she was also in danger, unwillingly, because he, Greenberg, had met her!

Nevertheless, his caution had paid off. How satisfactory it was that all of his belongings and purchases – from wigs to microphones – were scattered among several bus and subway lockers. He had never intended to bring his things to Jennifer’s apartment or Mai Ling’s hotel. Had he had done so, he thought, it would be reasonable to assume that the man in Jennifer’s apartment would by now know his intentions and be about to frustrate them.

But wait! If they had been tailing Jennifer, then they certainly must have been tailing him. Maybe someone was watching him right now? Damn, why hadn’t he thought about that this before? If he wanted to meet Jennifer without endangering her further, he first had to try and find those who were following him – if indeed there were any – and shake them off!