Blind Mission: A Thrilling Espionage Novel (3 page)

“Mr. Greenberg is leaving now,” he called into the waiting room as he opened the door. The driver rose from his chair.

Greenberg head the door close behind him. He turned quickly, as if to say something more, but the driver took his arm and gently, but firmly, led him away. “Let’s go,” he said.

The sudden braking of the car jerked his head forward, and were it not for the seatbelt he would have been slammed into the windshield. The driver roughly pulled the opaque glasses from Greenberg’s face, then reached across him and threw the door open. He got out without a word.

As he stood on the sidewalk, blinking in the abrupt glare of the harsh sunlight, the car peeled away with tires screeching. Greenberg stared around in a daze. The street looked familiar. He unconsciously began walking down its slope.

A young mother pushing a baby carriage almost ran into him. He swerved aside at the last second, bumping his shoulder into an oncoming man. The sharp pain of the blow and the noise of the street jarred him back to reality. He now recognized where he was, and knew that his car was parked in the next street on the right. He approached the corner, reaching into the right front pocket of his slacks for his key ring.

He rounded the corner and froze, startled, his mind refusing to absorb the scene of an empty space where he knew he had parked his car less than two hours before. Greenberg paced quickly up and down the sidewalk, his eyes searching the street. It can’t be, it just can’t be!  he repeated as he walked. He remembered the delicatessen with the neon sign and the hardware store next door, whose display window he had intended to look at. Everything remained the way it was, except the care he had parked there some 90 minutes before was no longer there. A spirited curse escaped his lips.

Crossing the street, he asked the lottery ticket seller in his booth opposite if he had seen what happened to his car, but got only a wordless shrug of the shoulders in reply.

Damn! He swore to himself, his anger bursting. Damn!

*     *      *

“Shut your mouth, bitch!” the man yelled, balling his fists. “I’ll kill you!”

“You hear? You hear?” the woman asked the desk officer at the Dizengoff Street precinct. “Now he’s threatening me. Add that to the complaint!”

The sergeant tried as best as he could to calm the couple standing before him with their angry red faces, waving their arms and yelling at each other oblivious to their surroundings.

“Okay, okay,” the officer hollered, trying to make himself heard over their shouting. “What should I write down?”

“That this whore…”

“Whore?! He’s calling me a whore? You should see…”

“Quiet!” the officer thundered. “This is a police station, not a market!”

His efforts were in vain, for the two were totally involved in their quarrel and only shouted louder. A man in civilian clothes came out of an inner room, an angry scowl on his face. He took the couple aside and began speaking forcefully to them.

Greenberg saw his opportunity and advanced to the counter. “Excuse me,” he began. “My car –“

Before he could complete his sentence, the sergeant had shoved a form to him.

Twenty minutes later, he watched intently from over the counter as the officer quickly typed the details he had listed on the form into a computer terminal. He knew from rumor that finding a stolen car in Tel Aviv was no easy matter. Who knows, by now his three-year-old Audi 4 was probably over the Green Line, being dismantled for parts in a Palestinian chop-shop. He resigned himself to the thought of most likely having to be a pedestrian for the next few weeks. The very thought depressed him.

After a moment, the requested data streamed from the computer printer. The sergeant casually ripped the sheet from the machine and glanced at it, then a puzzled look came over his face. “What the hell, is this?!” he murmured to himself. He looked at Greenberg and said, not without a measure of impatience, “According to this, sir, your car was taken of the road for safety reasons, after being severely damaged in an accident three days ago. It was declared a total loss.”

It took Greenberg about 10 seconds to digest what he had heard. “That can’t be!” he exclaimed. “I’ve owned that car for almost three years and it’s never been in an…”

“One moment, sir” the officer cut him off. ”There could easily be a mistake. Do you have the registration with you?”

“Of course.”

Greenberg reached into his back pocket – his wallet was gone!

He quickly retraced his moves since leaving home, while continuing to pat his other pockets in vain. The café. He had probably left it at the café.

“Kept the registration in the car, eh?” the sergeant smirked, shaking his head. “It’s always the same story. People won’t learn not to leave valuables in the car, especially not documents – “

“No, no,” Greenberg protested. “The papers are probably in my – “

“Sir,” the sergeant cut him off, “without the registration I have no way of checking. As far as I’m concerned, the car with the number you gave me doesn’t exist!” With a shrug of his shoulders, he turned to an elderly woman standing behind Greenberg. “Yes, how can I help you, ma’am?”

Greenberg turned and walked outside.

*     *      *

The female clerk at the Interior Ministry counter was about 25 and, in Greenberg’s estimation, wore too much makeup. He slipped his completed application forms through a slit in the greenish-tinted glass barrier, along with two passport-size photos that were still damp. The clerk took the forms, then scanned the computer screen for a moment and then looked up at Greenberg with what seemed to him suspicion in her eyes.

“What’s the problem?” he asked.

“No problem,” came her unconvincing reply. “Would you please go to inquiries, Room 51? There seems to be some problem in the registry. It’s down the hall, on the left, right after Information – second door on the right. I’ll tell them you’re on the way,” she concluded, and with unexpected efficiency, picked up the phone.

A metal frame engraved with the number 51 was fastened to the left of a dark green door. In the space usually reserved for the name of the clerk inside was written a single word: Inquiries. He knocked once and went in.

The middle-aged woman sitting behind a simple office desk looked up at him as if she had been awaiting his arrival and motioned for him to sit down. Her blue rinsed hair was immaculately coiffed and her eyes were hidden behind fashionably tinted glasses.

“Just one more moment, sir,” she said. “The material in your case should arrive from the archives in just a minute.”

Indeed, she had barely finished speaking when a messenger boy entered the room carrying an armful of files, most of them to be delivered to other offices. He stood next to the woman’s desk and waited patiently for her to pull the wanted files from his pile.

“But wait a second…” the woman murmured to herself as she opened a file.

As a look of puzzlement spread over the woman’s face, Greenberg leaned towards her and began employing a skill he had developed as a youth: the ability to read upside down. His eyes quickly scanned the lines of type and their content jolted him into a sudden dizziness. On the desk in front of him, at arm’s reach, was a death certificate – with his name on it!

No, there was no mistake, and it wasn’t his imagination. It was not some other Greenberg, a common enough name: the personal details were entirely correct. Date of birth, place of birth, parents’ names – all of these were right.

Beyond the shock it gave him, the meaning of it all gave him a sudden twinge of fear. Under the heading “Cause of Death” was listed a medical term in Latin. But the following sentence, written in plain language, was something he could understand: skull fracture. The cause: automobile accident. In the upper left-hand corner of the document there was a date: three days ago. Estimated time of death: 10:30 a.m.

When the woman recovered, her reaction was businesslike: she pulled another official form from somewhere and Dan Greenberg, armed with a list of the documents he needed to correct the registration, was asked to return to her office in a week.

*     *      *

“I’m sorry, sir, but I can’t help you,” the teller said, languidly chewing her gum.

“What?!” exclaimed Greenberg, who had not expected anything more than the usual bureaucratic runaround, but now felt as if he had been slapped in the face. “I don’t think you understand. This morning my credit card was stolen, and all I want to do is report the theft and get a new card, and withdraw 200 shekel in cash!”

“Sir,” she said, popping her gum, “that’s just impossible!”

“But…”

“Just a moment, I’ll get the assistant manager,” she said, getting up and going back into the recesses of the bank. The woman waiting in line behind Greenberg grumbled at the delay. After about five minutes the teller returned, accompanied by a conservative looking man wearing a gray suit and tie.

“Come with me, sir,” said the assistant manager, a man Greenberg recognized by sight, but had never met.

Greenberg followed him behind the counter, but to his surprise, the assistant manager did not conduct him to his office. As soon as they were out of sight of the customers waiting in line, the man stopped abruptly and turned to address him.

“Mr. Greenberg,” the man said, clearing his throat. “You of course understand that, no matter how much I might want to do so, I cannot authorize a cash withdrawal. You also cannot receive a new credit card. I certainly understand your situation, but regulations, are you surely know – “

“What’s the problem? What’s wrong? People lose credit cards every day. I’m not the first and surely not the last. What the h…what in the word is the problem?” Greenberg decided this was not the time to begin cursing.

“Sir,” the assistant manager said, trying to sound more assertive, “under the existing circumstances, I cannot – “

What ‘existing circumstances’? What are you talking about?” asked Greenberg, cutting him off.

“Well, sir, you know as well as I do that, without a doubt, your account is well overdrawn, much more so than usual, to be exact. Under these circumstances, I do not have the authority to approve a larger overdraft – to my regret, of course. With regard to your credit card, you may put in a request; but when the company asks us for a statement of your account, you must understand there is no chance you will get the card.”

“Just a minute! Are you telling me that you’re not going to let me withdraw money from my account?”

“As long as the computer shows that your account is so heavily overdrawn.”

“But that can’t be right! I’ve always been careful not to have an overdraft.”

“Mr. Greenberg,” the assistant manager began with a look of distaste, “of course there may be some mistake, or some misunderstanding. I would suggest we examine the matter again tomorrow, when the updated print-outs arrive. Perhaps a clarification will arrive even sooner – maybe even this afternoon.”

“In that case, I’ll come back this afternoon,” Greenberg yielded.

“You had better call me first, sir” said the assistant manager.

“Yes, I understand,” Greenberg replied bitterly. “I understand.”

*     *      *

At about 12:30 p.m. Greenberg managed to escape the hot, sweaty, noisy, crowded stink of the bus where he had stood for the past 40 minutes. He shoved his way through the press of shopping bags and unyielding shoulders and got off at a stop near his home, a large apartment building in the upper middle class section of north Tel Aviv. He stood still for a moment, breathing deeply and thanking God the exhausting ride was over. He could not remember the last time he had ridden a bus, but now that all his money amounted to the dwindling few bills in his pocket and some change, he could not afford to take a cab.

He paused in the entrance hall to extract a folded envelope sticking out of his mail box. Just as he pressed the elevator button, he decided on second thought not to wait for it, and quickly took the stairs to the fourth floor. As he mounted the stairs, he could still feel the sway of the bus in his legs.

He pictured his snug bachelor’s apartment and where he would look for the papers he was now almost certain he had left behind, perhaps in the drawer of the little table by the door. He quickly approached the door, his key ring in hand.

His key would not move in the lock. The sophisticated cylinder stubbornly refused to turn.

Startled, Greenberg held the coded Swiss key up to the light. Perhaps it had become bent and therefore wouldn’t work? Seeing that nothing appeared to be wrong with the key, he carefully reinserted it and tried to turn it. Nothing.

Losing his temper, Greenberg grasped the doorknob and threw his shoulder fiercely against the door. It remained unmoved, but the sound of him smashing into the door echoed in the empty hall. The pain spreading through his shoulder distracted Greenberg from the sound of the door opening behind him.

“They’ve already managed to change the lock.”

Greenberg jerked his head around. It was Dana, the student who lived in the opposite flat. She would exchange greetings with him and occasionally borrow something, but that was the extent of their relationship.

“Excuse me? What did you say?”

“The new tenants – the ones who moved in this morning. They seem like nice people. Did you forget something? But that’s not what I wanted to ask you. Listen, the people you hired to move your stuff worked like crazy. They did it so fast – an hour, hour and a half, and it was all packed. You must give me their phone number. A friend of mine has to move in another two weeks, and I’d like to recommend –“