Blind Mission: A Thrilling Espionage Novel (9 page)

“Please call me when you are finished,” he said as he turned and walked back to the reception room.

“All right,” replied Greenberg, lifting the lid and inserting his hand into the cool metal box. He drew out a manila envelope, opened it, looked inside, folded it over, and stuffed it into the inner pocket of his jacket. He then closed and locked the box.

Half an hour later, back at his temporary hiding place, Greenberg sat in the guest room and checked the passport and international driver’s license that had been in the envelope; both were still valid. Then he counted the money that had been there with it. There were about 5,000 US dollars and 2,000 shekels. He felt some small satisfaction. He now had a bit of money; but he was likely to need more, a lot more.

*     *      *

At 4:30 Thursday afternoon, Greenberg lay soaking in the tub in the apartment he had invaded, letting his body relax and doze off in the hot water. Without willing them to, the recent events had slowly begun to fit together logically and clearly in his consciousness. As he soaped himself he thought about his next moves. First and foremost, he had to find Tova Rom. Perhaps she would have the tail end of the thread that would lead him to the answers of all the questions seething in his brain. In order to talk with the actress he had to go to her, to Germany. Where in Germany? This was a relatively minor question, the answer to which he could find with no special effort. He had just opened the tap to let more hot water into the bath when he suddenly understood the most important point of all. “They” would let him leave Israel. In effect, it was very likely that his going abroad was their very intention. If not, why had they turned him into a fugitive wanted for murder, but taken the trouble for him not to be identified? If that was indeed the state of affairs, there was probably someone keeping an eye on the airports and the ports day and night – and not in order to stop him, but to observe his actions. No! he decided, reaching for the soft white towel he had bought. I will indeed leave the country – but not with their knowledge.

His plans quickly took shape. He tried with all his might to concentrate on the main subject. By a quarter to five he had come to a decision. Yes, the idea was worth trying. He swiftly rinsed out the bathtub, yielding to a compulsion to cleanliness that would not let him leave behind a dirty tub, even if he knew he would never bathe there again.

A few moments later he was walking down the nearby main street, waving for a cab.

*     *      *

“Turn right after the next intersection,” Greenberg instructed the driver, “then go straight. I’ll tell you where to stop.”

It was exactly 5:15 p.m. when the cab drew up at the entrance to Tel Aviv’s largest youth hostel. Greenberg swept with self-assurance into the lobby and walked straight over to the reception clerk, all of his movements conveying a sense of urgency. With feigned absentmindedness he flashed the policeman’s ID card he had taken from the hospital, holding it under the nose of the young man sitting behind the counter. He was certain the clerk wouldn’t bother to compare his face with the plastic-encased photo.

“Police!” said Greenberg. He intuitively understood that the success of his impersonation would depend almost totally on the amount of self-confidence he projected. Acting with authority would enable him to control the situation and obtain his objective with relative ease. Most importantly, he could not allow the other person time to think; certainly not to act. For this reason, he had to give one order after another, allowing his victim just enough time to obey.

“The register, please,” Greenberg barked impatiently at the clerk.

“What for? What happened?” the clerk asked with alarm.

“Friend, I don’t have all day for explanations. Please give me the registration forms for the last two days.”

The young clerk hemmed and hawed in confusion.

“Well?!” roared Greenberg – and the young man quickly handed over the register.

Opening it, Greenberg demanded without pause, “How many people are staying in this hostel?”

“I… I don’t know exactly; that is –“

“What do you mean, you don’t know? If you don’t know, who does?”

“I’m sorry; I can check…I think…that, is to say –“

“So what are you waiting for? My God! I’ve already explained to you that we’re in a hurry!” Greenberg sounded as if what little patience he had was running out.

“What’s happened? What’s so urgent?” the youth persisted, in a vain attempt to ease the tension.

“Listen, my young friend,” Greenberg replied, ignoring the questions, “take the register and please tell me how many guests from Holland have arrived here since Tuesday.”

Greenberg assumed the meaningless task he had given the clerk would put an end to his protesting and give himself the time he needed. As the clerk retreated with the register into the office behind the counter, Greenberg took the stack of registration forms of all the guests who had arrived at the hostel during the past 24 hours and began checking their personal details. He was looking for those whose details came close to matching his. They had to be close to him in age and appearance, and speak a language he knew fluently. He also assumed that someone who had only arrived in Tel Aviv the day before would not be leaving the city before he had seen all the sights, and would therefore remain in the hostel for another two or three days. This would give Greenberg time to tact with a certain amount of freedom. Each guest indicated on the form the number of days he planned to stay, and this fact also helped Greenberg’s plan.

There were three persons who fit his requirements. At that moment the reception clerk came back from his small office.

“We have 18 Dutch citizens who arrived since yesterday afternoon,” he said proudly. “Would you like me to make you an alphabetical list?”

Greenberg forced back the smile that almost formed on his lips. He understood the young man was now at a stage where he would do almost anything he was asked, so long as the uninvited guest would leave as quickly as possible.

“Yes. But before that, I’d like to know how many of them left their passports in your safe.”

The clerk took a key from a drawer next to him and quickly returned to his office. Greenberg followed him. The contents of the safe were spread out on the desk. There were about 50 manila envelopes with metal fasteners, each one labeled with the name of the depositor. The clerk compared the names with the list in his hand and gave Greenberg six envelopes, then stood waiting for the “policeman’s” next move.

“Where is the list of the Dutch people?” Greenberg demanded. “I want it to include their dates of birth, passport numbers, and home addresses.”

When the clerk finally left Greenberg alone in the room, he opened two envelopes he had chosen previously. He now had two German passports. He picked the one that looked most suitable. Inside it, an added bonus, was a credit card.

Suddenly Greenberg had a brilliant inspiration. His whole plan had now changed from one end to the other. What a golden opportunity to plan some false data! What a lovely trap!

*     *      *

He released the seat and settled back with it, luxuriating in the comfort and giving himself over to thought. Bits and pieces of the recent events had been forming themselves into a comprehensive picture in his mind, and one firm conclusion emerged: those who were following him did not want to catch him. Had that been their intention, they could have done so at various previous opportunities – they would have ambushed him at a restaurant, for example, or just a few hours ago at the airport. All they had to do was to insert his name on the list of those who were forbidden to leave Israel. What trouble would that have been for an organization so well-connected with the Interior Ministry and the police? No; they wanted him to escape, to run. But where? And why?

Again and again Greenberg came to the same incomprehensible and nonsensical conclusion. They want to follow me – but at a distance. It was not the fact he was free that bothered them, but his sudden disappearance. Now, after he had left the country under his own name, was there someone on the plane whose job it was to follow him? Did they think they could observe his actions? The very idea made him tense his muscles.

Once again he pictured the file he had found in the desk in the whitewashed room. There were so many details in it; nevertheless, so many basic details were missing … Greenberg did not believe that was the complete file. It was reasonable to assume that whoever had taken so much trouble had all the information. Whoever wanted him so desperately to escape apparently knew exactly how to motivate him, and probably also how to get him to pick the right objective. That’s it! He had to stop and go over it all over again, from the beginning.

The interview with the recruiter, for example. Suddenly he realized that it was not because of the “special characteristics and abilities” the man had spoken about that the organization had chosen him; he almost smiled when he remembered how the man had detailed the natural sense of superiority and self-importance every personal had, to one extent or another. How naïve he had been! Now that he thought of it, he could have instantly given the names of at least five acquaintances who were much more talented and suitable than he. He laughed. The man with the short hair, who had seemed so laconic and heavy-handed, was now suddenly revealed to Greenberg as a master, a superlative actor in full command of his profession.

No! That also had not been his personal motivation, so to speak, following his family tragedy years before. Dozens of years of living in the shadow of terrorism had caused enough personal tragedies in Israel to supply lots of fierce motivation for revenge.

If so – then why the hell pick him? Superficially there was no logical reason; unless they knew of something… He was afraid to go on thinking about it. The very idea gave him a feeling of dread.

The pilot’s announcement of the final approach provided a welcome, if temporary, relief from his troubling thoughts.

Even before the engine had finished releasing the accumulated air pressure of its brake tanks with a long, pressurized Shhhhh, Greenberg was already standing on the platform of the train station, breathing in the smells of the city. There was something of the unknown in the early morning air of a strange city; like the activation for the first time of a gigantic machine, which begins to move but whose nature is unknown. It was sort of a new beginning; one which bore the expectation of things to come.

Holding the handle of his bag with one hand, he tried with the other to turn up the collar of his coat in a vain attempt to cover his ears. The air was cold and misty, still bearing the morning dew. Only a few people got off at the Basel station at that hour, a quarter to five; within seconds they had disappeared in all directions. Greenberg walked over to the station restaurant, which was open 24 hours a day, his footsteps on the frozen asphalt echoing in the stillness.

A thin, pale looking waiter, wearing a gigantic black bow tie, unsuccessfully hid a yawn behind the back of his hand and welcomed Greenberg, seating him at a table. He ordered a large size Café Longo and adjusted his chair so he had an unobstructed view of his surroundings. Through the half-pane glass partition separating the restaurant from the station waiting room he scanned the deserted platforms and empty telephone booths. Within just a few days, suspiciousness had become a dominant attribute of his character.

Some three hours later, five empty coffee cups and four day-old local papers – with the remnants of their skin-tight green plastic wrappings – littered the table. As he stood up, Greenberg folded and put into his back pocket the list of addresses he had copied form several newspaper ads.

On his way out of the station, he stopped at an information booth to pick up a train timetable. At a nearby kiosk he purchased the most detailed map of the city he could find. Across the street from the station he noticed the signs of several hotels, several of them still illuminated as if in defiance of daylight. He picked a hotel of average size and inquired at the reception room overlooking the main street.

He registered as Peter Ross of South Africa. As long as he spoke French, no one would suspect his origin. He was not concerned about a police inspection, because he knew this took place – if at all – in late afternoon or at night. By then he hoped to be gone from the city.

From his fifth floor window Greenberg could see the main entrance of the train station and the adjacent main street. There was much traffic, but the room’s height cut off most of the street noise. The clock on the front of the terminal building showed 8:30. He went into the corridor and examined the two elevators, the stairwell, the emergency exit, the two laundry rooms, and the chambermaids’ room – all in case he should be forced to make an escape sooner than expected. Afterward he returned to his room – all in case he should be forced to make an escape sooner than expected. Afterwards he returned to his room and hung the “Do Not Disturb” sign outside the door. He filled the tub with hot water and by nine was in a deep sleep.

He woke four hours later. Moving aside the heavy curtains, he looked outside to check the weather. It was somewhat cloudy, but still a nice day. At exactly 1:00 he left the hotel and walked down the street until he came to a store selling photographic and optical equipment. There he bought a pair of high-quality opera glasses. Walking at a leisurely pace, occasionally consulting his map, he then made his way to the center of Basel. He had to check four addresses, all of them downtown and very close to one another. After about an hour, at 2:15, he reached a decision.

From the second floor window of the Café Cerise, Greenberg looked down at the opposite side of Basel’s main commercial street. Despite the swarms of tourists filling the pedestrian mall, he could see at the end of the street an almost pastoral picture of an ancient square paved with small cobblestones, surrounded by gray buildings in the classic European style.

A waitress dressed in a traditional dirndl placed a pot of coffee and a gigantic cream pastry on Greenberg’s table and he promptly paid her. After taking a sip he put down the cup and took the opera glasses from his jacket pocket, focusing on the scene below. Any tourists who noticed him probably would think he was examining the steeples of the aged church sticking up from behind the group of buildings in front of him; for it was indeed hard not to marvel at the precision of the work performed hundreds of years before. But he had not come here to inspect old masonry; he was focusing downward on the ornate oak door of a building of thick, rough stone, whose entrance was separated from the street by five broad steps. From his angle of observation Greenberg could not read the tiny letters engraved on the shiny brass plaque to the right of the door; but he had already memorized the address when he stood on the sidewalk: The Swiss Fidelity Bank – Main Office.

*     *      *

The venerable Swiss Fidelity Bank was considered one of the most reliable and biggest banks in Europe. Its branches could be found in every large city on the continent and its name was well known throughout the world. It would have been reasonable to assume that the branch in this building would have a larger sign or a much more impressive entrance – but those who came here were not looking for opulence and grandeur; that was meant for another sort of clientele. Those who required services the bank provided at this address – which was published in small, discrete advertisements in the financial sections of the daily press – sought anonymity and secrecy. The bank, which understood its customers’ needs, behaved accordingly. Those who crossed the threshold of this building passed into another world – the word of real money, black money, money in unlimited quantities; whose source no longer bore any importance.

By 3:30 only three persons had entered via the stately wooden door that was the focus of Greenberg’s attention. Two of them were still inside when he ordered another pot of coffee. He intuitively felt he had no reason to show them any interest. His impatience was growing. Every so often he glanced at his watch. The sky darkened and it looked like it would soon begin to rain.

A person who stated his business to the receptionist of the unimposing building and was admitted with an almost imperceptible nod, was then escorted down the long, softly carpeted corridors and handed over to a uniformed, armed guard, who in turn opened the door to one of several secure rooms. The heavy, conservative furniture in the room was meant to inspire both a feeling of comfort and peaceful security to those who entered. After a moment the Swiss clerk would enter and present himself formally, then swiftly extract the necessary documents for signature from an elegant leather portfolio. The client would always remain anonymous, with no identification beyond the secret account number. Even the sums that changed hands, no matter how large, would always be just a number.

At 3:55 another man approached, swinging a briefcase. Greenberg lifted the glasses and examined him. Had he been asked, he could not have explained why he believed that this was the man he had been waiting for; perhaps it was the nervous way he looked over his shoulder before seeming to gather courage and pushing open the heavy oak door. Greenberg burned with excitement, suddenly feeling like a beast that had just scented its prey. As the man was swallowed up inside the doorway, Greenberg – who had been holding his breath without realizing it, -- let it out with a long sigh.

Time crawled along, each minute separated by an eternity. The waitresses had long changed shifts. One of the new waitresses approached his table and he waved her off impatiently. He waited and waited, but still the man did not reappear. At 4:45, a little before it became dark, he caught his breath. The door he had been watching for hours slowly opened and a shadowy figure emerged. He could now make out several details: the man had a mane of dark hair; he was thin and slightly built, but with an erect posture; he was wearing a brown leather jacket and matching beige slacks. His right hand was pulled downward by the apparent weight of the briefcases. Because of the distance it was difficult for Greenberg to see the man’s features and, because of this, to estimate his age.

Greenberg waited a few seconds more without taking his eyes from the man on the other side of the street. He watched as the man tightened his grip on the case, and then immediately shifted it to his other hand. It was that casual movement that enabled Greenberg to decide. There was no doubt the case was heavy, much heavier than before. Two or more seconds passed. The man stood for a moment, as if uncertain, then set off straight into the mall.

Greenberg bolted from the table, almost upsetting the one next to it. Apologizing over his shoulder to its occupants, he did not wait for a reply or slacken his pace, but ran as fast as he could down the spiral staircase to the ground floor of the café. In seconds he was quickly making his way down the mall with long, swift strides, scanning the passerby for a sign of the man in the short broad jacket. Suddenly he saw him a short distance ahead, standing at the entrance of a restaurant and inspecting the framed menu beside the door.

Now Greenberg could clearly see the man’s features. He was a strange combination: despite the raven black hair, the man’s skin was extremely pale; almost white. When he turned aside slightly, Greenberg saw that his eyes were slanted. Holland, thought Greenberg immediately; that’s where there were many Eurasians like the man he was following. He remembered the Zeedijk quarter in Amsterdam and the Chinese mafia, which dealt in hard drugs. There was a lot of money in such crime – quite a lot. His sixth sense told him he was not mistaken.

The Eurasian entered the restaurant, now looking somewhat relieved. Greenberg followed him inside. The man paused for a moment at the bar and asked the bartender something. The latter gave a slight nod to the left and the man with the slanted eyes moved on into the dining area.

If Greenberg had correctly guessed the intentions of the man he was following, this was precisely the right time and the right place to act. He quickly moved among the tables of diners and made his way to the back of the restaurant, happy to find that the waiters and other guests paid him no attention. He pushed back a swinging door and immediately saw a sign with the international symbol for men’s room. He opened that door and was struck with the pungent odor of stale urine. Forcing himself to ignore it, he swiftly inspected the layout of the room and was pleased to see that the large mirror extending over the line of the sinks was directly opposite the toilet cubicles.

Holding his briefcase in his left hand, the man in the leather jacket was searching his pockets for the right coin to insert in the lock of one of the pay-toilets. Greenberg took his comb from his back pocket – it was about the only thing left from his quiet life before the attempt to enlist him in the underground – and stood before the mirror, combing his hair. The tension he had felt beforehand had completely disappeared. Even the knowledge that other people were liable to enter the men’s room at any moment did not cause him unease. He was breathing regularly and had to restrain an impulse to start whistling. The man behind him finally slipped a coin into the slot and the lock clicked open.

As the man pushed open the door to the cubicle, Greenberg turned around and with three quick, silent steps closed the short distance separating them. Reaching the Eurasian, he took a deep breath as he raised his hand in the open position for a rabbit punch; then, expelling the air, he struck the man a short cutting blow to the side of his neck. Despite the many years that had passed since he had undergone training in such methods, known somewhat misleadingly as “self-defense”, Greenberg was surprised to find he had lost nothing of the precision and power of the blow. Like swimming or riding a bicycle, such expertise was something that once learned was never forgotten. The man collapsed at his feet.

*     *      *

By 7:30 Greenberg was back at his hotel. Taking his key from the bored reception clerk, he went straight up to his room. Only after double-locking the door did he toss the briefcase onto the bed. On the night table to the left of it he placed a screwdriver, a small hammer, and a pair of long-nosed pliers – work tools he had purchased on the way back from the restaurant.

As carefully as a surgeon he tapped the handle of the screwdriver, trying to force the edge of its blade under one of the steel-encased locks. After nearly 20 minutes he succeeded in dismantling both locks. Perhaps he owed his success to their poor quality? Now he only had to insert the end of the pliers into the recesses of the locks to release the mechanisms. Another minute and the black briefcase was unlocked. Greenberg’s wide smile was not prompted only by the contents of the briefcase now displayed before him, but also by the knowledge that his sense of judgment and ability to improvise had not disappointed him.

He impatiently tore off the rubber bands binding the packets of money and, wetting his finger and thumb, began to count. As he completed counting each bundle, he noted the sum on a piece of paper. It took a long time, and by the time he had finished, Greenberg was sweating freely, as if after a great physical effort. When it was over he was amazed to discover that spread out before him on the bed, packet upon packet, were $45,000 in American money, about 12,000 euro, 1,000 pounds sterling, and 600,000 Japanese yen. What really astonished him was that, in addition to that money, there were also about 100 Chinese yen – an almost negligible sum.

When he had finished adding up the total, Greenberg wearily rose and once more checked the lock on the door. Moments later, he dialed room service and ordered dinner, then took a shower while waiting for it to arrive.