Blind Mission: A Thrilling Espionage Novel (11 page)

Tova Rom sounded interested. “We’re going south tomorrow, to Munich. We have seven performances next week, one every night.”

“Where will you be staying?”

I’ll be in the Sheraton, but – “

“Good,” Greenberg cut her off. “I’ll see you tomorrow. In the meantime, take care of yourself,” he added, ending the call.

About 200 steps from the bar was a pedestrian footbridge. Its shadow provided Greenberg with concealment and a good view of the entire street.

He stood there for almost five minutes, wrapping himself tightly in his jacket in an attempt to stop himself from shivering -- -- from cold, of course. Then he saw a large, dark Opel gliding slowly along the wet street, then braking near the well-lit pub. A tall man, dressed in a leather sports jacket got out of the car and entered the bar. If that’s one of “Them”, thought Greenberg, then they have considerable technical resources and a huge pool of manpower. They had only needed a few moments to locate where I called from and to send people there. His teeth began to chatter.

When he calmed down somewhat, he took the train timetable from his pocket. The next train to Munich was leaving in 25 minutes’. If he called a cab he would make it – but actually he didn’t want to board it on time. He kept waiting. After about 10 minutes he left his hiding place and walked to a phone booth on the corner. With a frozen finger he dialed the number of the nearest taxi stand, which the bartender had given him. Three minutes later he was sitting in a cab. He promised the driver an extra big tip if he got him to the central train station within the next eight minutes. The black Mercedes taxi surged forward with such speed that Greenberg worried he hadn’t delayed enough before setting out. During the ride he made a point of explaining to the driver that he had to get there in time to board the train for Munich.

He didn’t make it. The train for Munich left about a minute and a half before the cab pulled up in front of the station. As if on the spur of the moment, Greenberg pulled out the timetable and consulted with the cab driver regarding his chances of catching up with the Munich train at nearby Mannheim. The driver also had a look at the timetable and declared loudly that it could be done.

At 3:30 a.m. the cab with the Frankfurt plates drew up in front of the small, deserted Mannheim station. Greenberg apologized: he had nothing smaller than a 100 euro note. If the driver would accompany him to the cashier, he would change it when he bought his sleeper ticket to Munich.

*     *      *

At 3:45 a sustained ringing summoned Ronni Tamir to the phone in his improvised home workroom. He wasn’t surprised; in his profession calls at this hour were routine.

The voice at the other end was familiar, but for a brief instant Tamir had trouble associating it with the voices he heard on a day-to-day basis. A moment later Tamir was overcome with emotion. The speaker at the other end of the line did not have to identify himself. Ten years had passed since Tamir had met the man who had rescued him from an overturned, flaming car on the Jerusalem-Tel Aviv highway, seconds before it blew up; but he would never forget. He also remembered well how he had parted from his rescuer with the required sentence, “If you ever need my help, don’t hesitate…”

Despite the fact that the two had not seen each other since, the connection had not been completely broken. They sometimes spoke over the phone and wished each other well, mainly before Rosh Hashana. Over the years Tamir’s name had occasionally appeared in the headlines – when the private detective firm of Tamir and Arbel succeeded in solving one crime or another. He had once even participated in a television show about the professional ethics of the private detective. Greenberg was pleased to find that the man whose life he had saved had become one of the most talented and sought after private detectives in Israel.

“Dan, is it you?” the detective asked in bewildered surprise. “Where are you? What’s up?”

“I’m all right,” Greenberg replied, then added without hesitation, “Ronni, I need your help. Have you got a pen?”

“Yes, yes; go ahead.”

“Good. Write this down: Nahum Weinstein, about 53, a graduate of the Herzliya Gymnasium in Tel Aviv. I want to know everything about the guy. Who is he? What is he? Where does he live? What does he do? I need the information in a hurry; as soon as you can get it to me. I want you to start right away, immediately. Use any resources you need. There’s no problem about money.”

“What money, what’s the matter with you?” said Tamir, insulted. “There’s no problem with the job. Just tell me where you are and I’ll call you as soon as I –“

“It doesn’t matter where I am. I’ll call you in exactly 12 hours.”

Greenberg didn’t wait for an answer. He hung up the phone and looked out at the platform. At 3:50 a.m., thoroughly exhausted, he climbed onto the express for Hamburg. The conductor needed several moments to figure out the difference between the price of a Mannheim-Munich ticket and one from Mannheim to the northern port.

Meanwhile, the other train, the one he had apparently missed in Frankfurt, continued on its way to Munich. Greenberg would not have been surprised to see the newspaper vendor at the final stop. Wearing a yellow jacket emblazoned with the name of a popular morning paper, looking intensively in all directions. He also would not have been surprised to see – once the last passenger had passed before him – that the vendor did not shift his operation to another platform, as might be expected. Instead, the man climbed into the first carriage and began moving back along the length of the train, checking each of its 18 cars, including each bathroom, and occasionally glancing out at the platform on both sides of the train.

*     *      *

A heavy rain was falling in Hamburg when Greenberg arrived. He moved quickly through the side streets of an eastern suburb, looking for a small and out of the way hotel. He urgently needed to sleep and managed to remain awake only by the need to keep walking and jumping over the innumerable puddles.

Finally he found what he wanted. The small inn had only five musty rooms. The weak light of a dusty exposed bulb cast dark shadows on the faded gray walls of the entrance. The place had two distinct advantages: one, it was situated in kind of a rear courtyard of an apartment house. Most of which had been abandoned and the remainder of which was condemned for demolition; two, it was not listed in the directory under hotels.

The elderly woman who managed the place was apparently half-blind. Greenberg could find no other explanation for the mattress with the broken springs that she offered him, which was covered with a filthy sheet and blankets that made him nauseous just to look at them.

“Pleasant dreams,” the old woman said gravely, after he had paid her in advance. Greenberg thanked her and went to his room. He had to struggle for 10 full minutes with the decrepit bathtub plumbing. When he had finished with a bath more fit for a cat than a human, he dried off with a filthy tissue-thin rag masquerading as a towel; as he did so glancing at the morning newspaper he had purchased, which he had laid out on the bed. The next second he snatched up the paper and held it close to his eyes.  His body turned cold and his fingers trembled as he read the story underneath the photograph at the bottom of the front page. He read the headline over and over: “Robbery attempt ends in murder.”

The report from Frankfurt was brief and matter-of-fact: “Israeli stage actress Tova Rom, who played one of the leading roles in the musical Fiddler on the Roof, was the victim of a violent robbery attempt on her way back to her hotel after midnight, following last night’s performance. She was brutally beaten all over her body and suffered a skull fracture. She was taken to hospital, where she died two hours later.”

The lights went spinning in Greenberg’s eyes. He stood there in shock, the terrible news weighing on his heart. Tova Rom had not been attacked on her way back to the hotel; that he knew beyond a doubt. He himself had spoken with her on the phone after she had already gone to sleep…

When would the 12 hours pass that that he gave Ronni Tamir? When would he know on whose conscience were the murders of two people?

*     *      *

“Number 42, booth No. 9!” The loudspeaker at the international telephone exchange at Hamburg’s main post office blared; first in German, then in English and French.

Greenberg scanned the electronic number signs above each phone booth and quickly saw that No. 9 was blinking. The phone was ringing impatiently and he swiftly picked up the receiver.

“Is it you?”

“Yes, it’s me,” the voice at the other end answered, careful not to use his name. Greenberg smiled. It was indeed Ronni Tamir.

“Look…” began the investigator, and was silent briefly. “This is big – too big for me. I…It doesn’t matter what it is; I don’t want to be involved – connected…”

“Why? What is it?”

“I…” Again the detective was silent. Then he said with surprising honesty, “I’m afraid.”

Greenberg thought quickly. So his early feelings had been right. The information Tamir had obtained not only had to be dangerous, but unique – if not, how could the uncharacteristic response of such an experienced operator as Ronni Tamir be explained? Now he had only one way to get the information. It was a vile thing to do, and he didn’t want to use it, but under the circumstances he had no choice.

“The information is important to me,” he said. “It’s a matter of life or death. Believe me when I say I’m not exaggerating. I hate to say this, but – but you owe me your life. And now – now I’m asking for my life in return.”

There was quiet at the other end of the line, except for the sound of rapid breathing. Then Tamir spoke. “All right, all right. How will we do it?”

Greenberg’s heart thumped with excitement. He knew he would get the information in the end, and so he had carefully prepared a way for it to come to him. Over the next two minutes, he read Tamir a long list of phone numbers; then immediately hung up.

For the next four hours, Greenberg visited no less than five luxury hotels throughout the city, each stop separated by 45 minutes. At each hotel he sat in a comfortable arm chair and waited until he heard the ringing of a small hand bell by one of the hotel staff and saw a little blackboard with the chalked announcement:  “Phone call for Mr. Rosenberg.”

On each occasion the same excitement returned. The worker would lead the carefully dressed Greenberg to a special phone booth for receiving confidential calls. There he would lift the receiver, say his name, and hang up – after hearing only a single word. Immediately afterwards he would walk to the main entrance and have the doorman flag down a taxi. In Tel Aviv, he knew, Ronni Tamir was making his way from one public telephone to another, also at 45-minute intervals.

By 8:30 that night Greenberg had the complete message. For several minutes he studied it without moving. The text was short, complete, and to the point. The content, as shocking as it was, explained all the events and circumstances. Now Greenberg knew it was not an underground organization named “The Rising” that was chasing him, even at the cost of the lives of two innocent actors; now he understood just how powerful his pursuers were.

The message in his hand read: “Weinstein alias Porat director Mossad.”

The telephone rang three times in the darkened room, then was still.

The man in the bed opened his eyes and reached out to the digital clock on the bedside table to his right. It was 12:05 a.m. His eyes focused on the blinking red numbers. Exactly 30 seconds had passed since the previous ring. It rang again five times, then stopped. He pondered the emergency procedures. He estimated he had only an hour to reach the meeting place. He slowly eased himself out from under the heavy quilt, swung his feet out and stood on the cold floor. Now he was thoroughly awake. He felt for his trousers hanging over the back of the chair and went into the bathroom. While he quickly shaved he heard the familiar voice call him from the bedroom:

“Nahum!”

Without paying particular attention, he wiped the rest of the shaving cream from his face and returned to the bedroom. The woman lying on the left side of the bed pushed herself into a sitting position and turned on the bedside reading light. The blinding glare of the light prevented him from seeing her face.

“I have to go out,” he said curtly.

“The woman made no response; just watched as he hastily finished getting dressed. During the past 25 years she had never once asked to know about his nocturnal sorties and periodic absences. She had no reason now to deviate from her custom. Before they had married he had made it clear to her with his short decisive sentences that this is how their life together would be; she quickly learned that he meant every word. She also didn’t bother asking when he’d return, but waited patiently for him to finish tying his shoelaces and quietly leave the room. Only then did she turn out the light and lie back down, wrapping herself in the quilt. Before she dropped back into sleep she managed to hear the front door quietly close.

The ordinary-looking Subaru traveled south on the Herzliya-Tel Aviv road, toward the Country Club junction. The yellow street lights on both sides of the highway flashed by him one after the other. For the first time in recent months he was alone. His thoughts turned again to the subject that had bothered him recently more than any other – even more than the emergency meet to which he was now traveling: his own future, the way he would lead his life in about another six months, when he would retire. He knew well that his present lifestyle and that forced upon the members of his family was not normal. Now he understood that he would have to devote much thought to the way he would repay those close to him for all those years. First of all he would have to deal with the crisis that every married couple passes through at the beginning: living with another person. Would he be able to live with the fact that there is someone who knows exactly what he is doing at any given moment? Again and again he was troubled by the fear that all was lost, that the entire course of his life had been nothing but one big mistake.

Nahum Porat turned left, then right, entering the Ayalon Highway. Like his predecessors, he would prefer that his identity also remain a secret until the conclusion of his term in office, but the law maintained otherwise. For this reason, only a few did not know who for the past five years had headed one of the most important service branches of the State of Israel and one of the best intelligence organizations in the world. He could not help but wonder about the laconic announcement that would be issued to the media on the day following his retirement: “Nahum Porat, 53, yesterday concluded his appointment as head of the Mossad.” A brief notice encompassing an entire way of life, and dozens of secret operations by Israel’s secret service over the years he led it.

As he drove the expressway to Jerusalem, Porat examined his life from every possible angle. Now that he was alone he could admit to himself that he preferred the action film of his past to the family movie waiting for him in the near future. He knew that he feared the calm, conventional, danger-free future awaiting him around the corner. Again and again he had weighed the possibility of going into politics.

Now he no longer saw the ministers – even the prime minister – as his superiors, but as potential political rivals.

Exactly one hour after hearing the first ring of the phone in his bedroom, Porat was greeting the personal secretary of the man he had come to meet. The secretary, used to being awake in the middle of the night, escorted him without delay to the meeting room. Arrangements had apparently been made so that the visitor would not have to identify himself to the guard at the entrance or sign the guest book, the customary procedure.

Only after the security people within the prime minister’s house left the room and the door was closed behind them did the prime minister of Israel turn to the man still standing at the door, his coat in his hand. It appeared to Porat that the premier had a contented look on his face.

Porat did not like or respect the man; after all, he knew him well from when the man held senior positions in the security services. Nevertheless, he was careful to obey him always: as one who has served in the Israeli security apparatus for so many years, he had never disputed the orders of his superiors – at least not aloud.

“Hello, Nahum. Please sit down,” the prime minister said, gesturing to a corner armchair. Porat dropped his coat on a chair and slowly sat down. The man standing opposite him suddenly looked worn out; old and tired. After all, he would soon be 70, he though.

The harsh voice brought him out of his reverie.

“Look, Nahum,” – as always, the man did not waste time on small talk, or even apologize for getting him out of bed in the middle of the night – “the reason I wanted to see you is important, unusual, and complicated.” As always, the prime minister weighed every word; but unlike always, it seemed to Porat that the man’s words contained more than a hint of hesitancy or lack of confidence. “I’d like to ask you something,” he continued, “following a difficult discussion I’ve had with Michael and Meir.”

Porat nodded his head and looked at the premier without speaking.

The direct and lethal question was thrown out into the room in a single breath. The specific words were said aloud, without the softening preamble given first by Michael Almog, and the prime minister’s face crumpled like a balloon that had given up all its air in a rush.

Nahum Porat shrank back in his chair, dumbfounded. It was only his long years of secret activity, the essence of which was restraint and total self-control, that enabled him to refrain from calling out in amazement or asking questions. He tried to digest the question in grave silence. The very idea made him shudder.

“Under what conditions?” the words finally came to the point, a little hoarsely.

“I don’t know. You determine the conditions, the time, and the place. We’re talking, of course, about as soon as possible. I don’t have to tell you that you may inform only the members of the action team – even there you must observe strict compartmentalization: no one but you and the executives must know about it. You understand, of course, that if even a breath of this affair gets out, it would bring down this government, even wreck the whole country.” The prime minister said the last sentence so quietly, that Porat was forced to lean towards him in order to hear.

Porat was instantly reminded of the Lavon affair, named for Pinhas Lavon, Israel’s defense minister in 1954, who was ordered to infiltrate agents into Egypt in order to sabotage British and American equipment, so as to create the impression that the Egyptians were acting against the West. He had no doubt that the prime minister also remembered the affair well, which ended with the resignation of the then prime minister, Moshe Sharett, who had not even been involved.

“So, what do you think? Will it work?” the prime minister pressed gently, after a moment’s silence.

The head of the Mossad slouched in his chair. He weighed his words with great seriousness before replying. “There is a chance, but a slight one, and only if we use the services of ‘Batman’. Under the present circumstances, we cannot use one of our people.”

“Why not?”

Porat could not help but recall the malicious, but stubborn, rumors about the premier that were flying around defense establishment circles – according to which he would not hesitate to silence his subordinates by any means, if he thought they knew too much. Was he hinting at this possibility?

“First of all, because some of our people are marked,” he replied. “Secondly, because the man might fail, and then… Of course you don’t want to be at the center of a new Lavon affair – compared to that, the years of the freeze in relations with the US will seem like a summer’s day.”

“And you think that using ‘Batman’ is the only way to keep things from blowing up if – God forbid – the man should fail…”

“Yes. The one chosen to carry out the mission must be someone whose actions we can control by means of the information we have.”

“In other words, blackmail.”

The head of the Mossad laughed to himself at the prime minister’s self-righteous expression of disgust. “You could call it that, if you want,” he replied. “But as you know, ‘Batman’ is actually an unwilling agent, feeling around in the dark; in other words, a blind agent. We have the task of guiding his steps so that, ultimately, he acts in accordance with our plans. This type of operation is one of the most complex performed by the world’s intelligence services. The man must act in accordance with some kind of personal motivation that is appropriate to our needs – but simultaneously he must be convinced that the idea and the method of action are his own. Only this way will we be completely protected in case of failure.”

“You’re right,” said the prime minister. “But we both know how complicated this kind of an operation is!”

“Certainly,” replied Porat. “The problem is that we can never be sure that things go the way we want. It is extremely difficult to point a man toward a given act, and the fear always exists that something will go wrong without us being able to control what happens. After all, there are so many factors which influence events!”

“What about operating a number of ‘batmen’ at the same time?” The prime minister wondered aloud.

“Not only would this not increase the chances for success, but even reduce them,” returned Porat. “We must focus on one man, who is very carefully chosen, and even then – guiding events and controlling them is very complicated. We don’t need a bunch of crazies moving toward the objective, when everyone is moving in the dark.”

“I understand,” said the prime minister quietly.

“How much time do we have?” asked Porat, pushing back his chair. His experience told him there was no practical value in expressions such as “as soon as possible.”

The prime minister looked at his watch as if to help him in his calculations. “For initial planning – only along general lines – I would say about 70 hours. After that, if the plan is approved –“

“Seventy hours!” interjected Porat unbelievingly. “What are you talking about? You of all people know what an operation like his entails! Seventy hours isn’t even enough time to rough out a method of action; not to mention choosing the right agent, superficially checking out the necessary data, surveillance, organizing and processing the many technical details. For all this we need at least three – no, four months!”

“Seventy hours are exactly how long the defense establishment had when it planned the Entebbe operation,” the prime minister countered.

“It’s not the same thing, and the comparison is unfair!” stormed the head of the Mossad at his superior. “You know very well that the force that took part in Entebbe in 1976 was specially set up following the murders of our 11 athletes at the Munich Olympics in ’72. You undoubtedly recall that the force was trained for years in carrying out rescue operations, and when the hijacking occurred they were ready, willing, and properly equipped; just waiting for the signal to go. Don’t forget as well that we used our people in the operation, that we knew exactly who we were dealing with, and we could define precisely what obstacles we were likely to encounter. Moreover – and most important! – it was a legitimate operation. Nobody expected us to sit with our hands folded when dozens of our citizens were at the mercy of conscienceless terrorists, and no one would have come to us with complaints about the very attempt to rescue the hostages had the operation failed! By the way: where, if I may ask, do you see a similarity between rescuing a hijacked airliner and – an operation like the one under discussion?” Despite himself, the Mossad head’s voice quavered ironically.

“In any event –“

“In any event – what?” Porat cut him off. “What do you want, for the matter to end in failure, as happened to us in Lillehammer?  You know what a disaster that was: not only were most of our team captured, but in the end we didn’t even get the right man!”

If Porat had succeeded in shocking his interlocutor by bringing up the well remembered affair, this was not evident on the prime minister’s face.

“I—“

“Or perhaps you’re interested in a scandal like that of Anne and Jonathan Pollard? You of all people know what terrible political damage was caused by that mess! And the damage to security – the need to blow the cover of some of our best people because of the capture of those two amateurs, with all their good intentions! And I’m not speaking about all the money that went to waste, just the work – how much we invested for all those years on agents who were burned because of the Pollard affair.”

“Pardon me, but there is no connection –“ the prime minister coldly tried to cut him off.