Blind Mission: A Thrilling Espionage Novel (5 page)

Once again Greenberg’s heart pounded. He fought the first – and expected—impulse to run. He must not, he knew. If he ran now, under the best circumstances only a few minutes would pass before the men in the car noticed his absence – if they were indeed following him – and they would arrive at the conclusion that he had disappeared on purpose. As for him, due to the lack of time and the absence of planning, he wouldn’t get very far. No: when the time came to get away from them, he would have to know exactly where he was going and what his objectives were. The getaway itself would have to be made in some crowded public place. Only then would those who sent them think it was just a case of incompetent trailing.

As for now, he must not do anything unusual, hasty, or unexpected that was liable to arouse their suspicions. Just the opposite! He had to dull their senses, let them feel sure they couldn’t lose him.

Greenberg had never before thought about what facial expression he had when walking innocently in the street. Now he tried to convey utter casualness as he pretended to calmly approach and enter an Oriental restaurant just opposite the blue Fiat.

Before Greenberg could sit down, a waiter was busy wiping crumbs and stray bits of food with a damp cloth from the Formica table top into his open hand. The man then slapped a menu in front of him.

As the waiter sauntered away, Greenberg noticed two men entering the restaurant. They were the two from the blue Fiat. He now felt his suspicions confirmed. They picked a table by the door, placing their chairs at an angle from which they could observe him without turning their heads or arousing attention.

He had no doubt they were professionals.

He had little money left, and so had to satisfy himself with a plate of hummus, chickpeas ground into a tick paste, and a glass of seltzer. He hungrily tore off a piece of pita bread and used it to scoop the hummus into his mouth. As he chewed, he let his glance stray to the faces of the two men. He engraved on his memory the prominent cheekbones and square jaw of the one and the high forehead and clear blue eyes of the other.

What was the meaning of this strange situation he had become involved in? In order to answer the question, he decided he first had to separate the bare facts from his intuitions, imaginings, and guesses. These were the facts: A right-wing organization known as The Rising had sought to enlist him in its ranks; his car had disappeared; his personal documents were gone; his bank account, including his savings, were frozen; the well-paying job he had held for the past three years no longer existed; his apartment had been taken over by unknown persons and his personal belongings had been packed up and taken away; for at least the past two hours two strange men had been following him; and then the main thing – for the past three days, according to official documents, Dan Greenberg was, for all practical purposes, dead.

Surprised at his ability to consider his situation with relative calm, almost as if it were happening to someone else, Greenberg began to examine his possible courses of action. He judged there were two: to dial the number the name “Zvi” had given him or to try losing the men tailing him and see what would happen. He didn’t need much time to arrive at a decision.

He quickly listed on a paper napkin all the errands and meetings he had to attend to. After going through the list, he crossed off a few and added several more, then copied the final list in the right order. He crumpled the original into a ball and shoved it into his pocket, aware of the necessity of not supplying those following him with an itinerary. With a decisive move, he rose and made his way to the cashier, paid his bill and walked outside.

On the sidewalk Greenberg stopped at the display window of a stationery store next door, in time to see out of the corner of his the two men getting up and following after him. One of them walked off, apparently towards their car. As Greenberg resumed walking he could see the second one, the younger of the two, begin to follow him. After about 10 minutes, as they approached the busy intersection with Allenby Street, Greenberg decided to act.

It took him about 20 seconds from the moment he entered the giant department store to exit from a side door. Immediately across the street from him was his next objective – a huge office building; one of those new glass-walled towers from whose windows one could only see in one direction, from the inside out.

Greenberg quickly crossed the street, weaving among the cars stuck in the semi-permanent afternoon traffic jam. He paused for a split second at the entrance to tuck his shirt into his slacks and then stepped inside with assurance.

“Yes, sir?” the receptionist began as Greenberg crossed the lobby with a non-committal nod in his direction, stepping into a fortunately waiting elevator.

From the vantage point he chose at the end of the fifth floor corridor, Greenberg could see one of the two men standing at the entrance to the department store, ostensibly studying the display window. He looked down amused as the man shifted his weight from one foot to another with growing impatience.

Then he saw the blue Fiat arrive at the corner and stop, not being able to turn into Allenby towards the department store entrance because of the one-way traffic. The man waiting on the sidewalk also saw the car and ran over to it. A few seconds later, as he retraced his steps to the store, Greenberg saw him adjusting the ear piece of a walkie-talkie, which was apparently concealed in the man’s fashionable waist pouch.

Tel Aviv’s chronic lack of parking meant that the second man waiting in the car was not an unusual sight; indeed, there were at least two other cars with men inside waiting. But something caught Greenberg’s attention. At first, he couldn’t tell what it was; then on closer look, he saw that two telescopic antennas had suddenly extended from the rear of the blue car. Now, Greenberg decided, it was time to deal with the first item on his list. It was the perfect opportunity to act and see the results.

He found a public phone next to the elevator and paused for a moment to collect his thoughts before dialing. The sound of the dial tone spurred him on and after passing the hurdles of the three separate clerks he found himself connected finally with the assistant branch manager.

“Yes, certainly, dear sir,” the man declaimed, “there is no question that one of my jobs—one of the most important, I would say – is to meet with any client who needs any assistance. As far as I’m concerned, Mr. Greenberg, you can come to my office right away.”

How nice the man had suddenly become! That was it: now he could set out the bait and try to get both of them at the same time. Greenberg cleared his throat, thinking quickly. From where he was standing he could see the giant billboard of his insurance company, whose offices were in the next building.

“I’ll tell you what…” he pretended to hesitate. “First I have to deal with something at the main office of my insurance company. As soon as I’m finished there, if it’s not too late.”

“That’s fine,” the assistant bank manager crooned. “I’ll be waiting for you, sir.”

Greenberg crossed the hall to the window almost at a run and looked out. After about a minute things began to happen. The driver of the blue Fiat jumped out and yelled something to the drivers of the two other waiting cars. Greenberg gulped in surprise: if that’s the case, then all of them… After another 30 seconds, four young men came running from different directions. Greenberg caught his breath. It looked as if the men in the street had received orders to act. The three cars started up almost simultaneously and the four men jumped inside, the cars moving off even before all their doors were closed.

Greenberg quickly moved to another vantage point down the hall that looked down on the main entrance to the insurance company. The last glimmer of doubt left him: all of them were after him. He watched as they quickly surrounded the building opposite. Fear hit him with full force as all his suppositions were borne out. All of his documents
had
been taken from him, not lost; they had his car registration and other papers. If not, how did they know the name of his insurance company?

There was no doubt they were professionals. But could an organization like The Rising have such a network of professionals? Those following him evidently also had at their disposal vast and superior technical resources – the bugging of the bank’s phone line proved that. On the other hand, they hadn’t been able to locate where he was calling from – or didn’t they try?

From now on, he decided, he would make his calls only from public phones. As far as that was concerned, what other choice did he have? His apartment had been taken from him and he couldn’t involve his friends in this strange affair. Greenberg stood there momentarily in a daze, before snapping out of it: he had so much to do, so many things!

*     *      *

Without realizing it, he held his breath as the phone rang. After about 15 seconds, it was answered. It seemed as if the receiver were being lifted with a certain weariness, a function of the burning heat of the afternoon.

“Zvi’s Plant Nursery,” a woman with a heavy Polish accent answered.

“May I speak to Zvi, please!”

“Hello! Who is this?” the voice demanded.

“I’d like to speak with Zvi!”

“Who is it?” the woman demanded again, standing her ground.

“Greenberg!” he exclaimed, left with no choice. “Is Zvi there?”

The woman leaned away from the mouthpiece, calling out, “Zvi! Telephone for you.”

An eternity passed before he heard the voice, breathing heavily: “Hello, this is Zvi! Who is speaking?”

While it was a man’s voice, it bore no resemblance to that of the man who had interviewed Greenberg several hours earlier. It was a rough, gravelly voice of a man in his seventies. Its Polish accent was no less pronounced than that of the woman who answered. A strange thought flashed across Greenberg’s mind: it seemed to him he had heard that voice before. Where and under what circumstances, he couldn’t remember.

“Who is speaking?” the voice asked again after a moment’s silence.

“Greenberg!” he said finally, hoping that his name might clear up some of the uncertainty surrounding the conversation.

“Which Greenberg?” the man demanded.

“Dan Greenberg!”

“Dan Greenberg… “the man muttered to himself, as if trying to make a connection, but in vain.

“Is this 3678211?”

“Yes,” the old man confirmed, still in a fog.

“I want to speak with Zvi!” Greenberg demanded angrily.

“I’m Zvi,” the old man insisted.

Greenberg paused. “Okay,” he said finally, deciding to approach the problem from a different angle. “Perhaps… perhaps there is someone else there named Zvi?”

“Sir, this is Zvi’s Plant Nursery! I am Zvi! I’m a busy man! What do you want?”

Greenberg fingered the slip of paper he had been given. “I was told to phone Zvi, at this number,” he mumbled.

“My dear sir,” the man cut in. “I don’t know what you are talking about. I don’t understand what you want!”

Just before the man slammed the phone down, Greenberg could hear himself called, in Yiddish, “Meshugganer!”

Running the conversation back in his mind, Greenberg began to feel a change of heart. His fear of the unknown had been replaced by a burning anger. He had only one way left to get to the bottom of things.

*     *      *

“Hello, this is Information, Nechama speaking,” the pleasant voice answered.

“Hello, I’d like the number of Zvi’s Plant nursery in Tel Aviv,” said Greenberg.

He heard the response at the other end. “The number you requested is…”

“37? How could that be? What’s the address of the nursery you’re giving me?”

Thus Greenberg obtained the nursery’s address. It appeared that Zvi’s Nursery was about 5 minutes’ walk from where he stood, and not far from the Tel Aviv Central Bus Station. He made his way there quickly, every so often casting a nervous glance behind him to see if he was being followed. In any event, at that hour, the offices in the area were emptying out for the day and the streets were full of people.

The nursery was situated on a huge lot, which resembled an abandoned junk yard more than anything else. A sharp odor of earth and plants assailed his nostrils, easily overcoming the choking fumes of passing buses. Two evidently starving guard dogs, chained to a wheel that moved along a 20-meter length of steel cable attached to the fence, greeted him with savage barking and bared fangs.

Above the barred iron gate, which had warped with the years until it was impossible to close it completely, a rusty tin sign was nailed to a piece of rotting wood. He could only guess what had been written on the original sign, but Greenberg got the impression that the words “Zvi’s Plant Nursery” had only recently been hastily pained over it.

In the far corner of the yard, two middle aged women could be seen choosing among young cactus plants. The entire place looked as if it had long passed its prime—there were few plants, a really poor selection, and much neglect.

Near the gate was a crumbling old wooden shack, patched with pieces of rusting tin, which apparently served as the office or perhaps just a source of shade. In the doorway of the shack stood a man in his late sixties, of average height and broad shouldered, dressed in blue overalls, who was filling an old flower pot with unpromising-looking earth.

“Yes, sir?” the man asked as he saw Greenberg approach. “How can I help you?"

“Are you Zvi?” Greenberg asked.

“Yes.”

Now that Greenberg was standing next to him, he felt a surge of anger.

*     *      *

Greenberg’s lungs burned and his chest heaved as he panted form breath, his body soaked in sweat and his heart pounding wildly. H gradually slowed his pace from a sprint to a fast walk, now taking the opportunity to check his watch; but he could not tell how long he had been running.

Dusk had fallen and the street lights had turned on automatically, one after the other. His mind was empty. As he continued walking quickly, he slowly grew aware of his surroundings, noticing the noisy traffic around him. He turned into the first side street he came to, and then the next one after that, quickening his pace with a restless movement of his arms.