Blind Mission: A Thrilling Espionage Novel (17 page)

*     *      *

In the room at the dilapidated pension, the pretty young woman lay on the filthy mattress, bound tightly by her hands and feet to the bedstead, her mouth gagged. In the distance she could hear the sound of the radio blaring. For a moment she considered trying to alert the old woman or trying to free herself; but immediately recalled the determined look of the man’s face. No! She couldn’t do anything but hope that he had indeed arranged that this afternoon – an eternity away – someone would find her here.

She sighed and tried to relax her muscles.

“But why Hamburg?!” asked Ya’acov Nissan for the second time in as many minutes, pouring over the message he had received that morning from Avramico.

“Why not?” replied the head of the Mossad, leaning back in his armchair. “Look, the man felt us closing in – probably when we monitored his call to Tova Rom. He understood that we were bugging him and so he let us think he was going to Munich to meet her again. We swallowed the bait, while he went somewhere else.”

“If I understand correctly,” Nissan continued his train of thought, “He met the actress beforehand, in Frankfurt. But all this still doesn’t explain why he chose to go to Hamburg in particular. Why, for example, hasn’t he tried to leave Germany?”

“As we know, the man is fluent in German; it’s practically his mother tongue. So he can blend in without drawing attention to himself. Don’t forget, too, that Hamburg is a port city; a city that suits his purposes like a glove. With a little initiative – and a suitable amount of money, of course – he could get on a ship as an unregistered passenger and go almost anywhere in the world. And besides, he didn’t have many options at the time. He wanted us to believe that he had boarded the train to Munich, and so he had to take the first train that came along – and it was going to Hamburg…”

“So what now?” asked Nissan with interest.

“For the meantime, we’re waiting patiently until we find him,” replied Porat.

“I believe we’ll locate him in another few hours.”

“First of all, I’m not so sure of that,” Porat said, trying to deflate some of his subordinate’s enthusiasm. “Secondly, even if we do find him – we’re not going to touch him. Actually, we’re not going to do anything; just continue as before. We’ll follow him closely – this time without arousing his suspicion – with our entire objective being not to lose him.”

Ya’acov Nissan nodded his head.

“By the way, set up a meeting for me with Yitzhak Margalit.”

Nissan furrowed his brow. He didn’t like the man known as the Mossad’s “public relations expert.”

“I want to plant a story in the papers,” Porat explained.

“Where do you want to lead Greenberg?” Nissan asked his boss.

“The United States.”

“When do you want to see Margalit?”

“Today.”

The chief of operations nodded. He understood that the meeting was over and got up to leave.

He gathered up his lists, and went out into the corridor

*     *      *

The next morning at nine, the phone on the desk of the head of the Hamburg police’s stolen car unit rang stubbornly. The fat, balding man lifted the receiver and held it up to his florid jowls.

“Heinrich!”

Heinrich Kurtz identified the caller immediately. The man at the other end of the line regularly supplied the senior police officer with young girls for his entertainment – and on the house. In exchange, Kurtz was expected to perform a minor service: once a month he provided his friends with that month’s schedule of daily police patrols. Thus, when large numbers of police units converged on the main drag of  Saint Pauli, for example, for what the authorities termed a law-enforcement operation (and the press termed a publicity stunt), about 30 luxury cars – mainly BMW’s and Mercedes – would disappear from the more prestigious areas of the city. So far no one had connected the two things; not even Heinrich Kurtz, who had supplied the information.

These cars were quickly loaded on special carriers and within four hours were being taken care of in a special, well-equipped garage in neighboring Holland. By the next morning the work of the expert mechanics would be completed. The engine numbers would be altered, identifying accessories exchanged, license plates replaced – and the cars provided with the necessary registration and insurance documents. By dawn the recycled cars would be moving south – to Belgium, France, Switzerland, and Austria. There – at the central train stations, youth hostels, and student dormitories – young and innocent drivers would be recruited who were looking for a cheap way to get to the Middle East or Far East. In exchange for food, modest lodging, a token payment, and the main thing, a free journey east (with a return train ticket) – the cars would be legally registered in their names, their passports would be deposited as security with the leader of the group, and the convoy would make its way east. At the end of the road the “wealthy” European students would “sell” the luxury cars in used car lots in Beirut, Teheran, Karachi, or Saudi Arabia, and the lot owners would quickly deliver the vehicles – by previous order – to their customers at bargain prices.

“Heinrich”, the voice said again, somewhat impatiently, “this time I have a request that is a bit unusual.”

While it indeed differed from previous requests, it did not even conflict with Heinrich Kurtz’s official police function. All he was being asked to do was to find a certain car, a blue-gray Mercedes, registered to one Heidi Braun. Inspector Kurtz promised to return the call as soon as he had the information.

At 3:15 that afternoon, the phone rang at Emil Lang’s desk in his office above the largest pizzeria on the Zeilerstrasse, In Hamburg’s Saint Pauli quarter. The blond fortyish man straightened his expensive tie before picking up the receiver.

“This is Heinrich Kurtz,” the policeman identified himself.

Emil Lang smiled to himself. The system had proven itself time and time again. Five senior Hamburg police officers had been in his pocket for nearly 10 years – and he controlled them with stimuli that hadn’t changed since man was created: greed and lust.

“The lost item has been found. Opitzstrasse 40,” said the policeman, and terminated the call.

Lang, who was known in this part of northern Germany as the king of prostitution and pornography – his large chain of pizzerias served as a perfect cover – had to admit to himself that he had been rather worried since the previous night. The fact that one of his girls who had gone looking for the mystery man his Frankfurt colleagues had asked him to find, or at least help to locate, had disappeared, could indicate that the wanted man was in Hamburg. If he was in the city, and Lang couldn’t find him, then this would be a serious matter; liable to bring about a sharp reduction in his status and in his control of the streets. Such an eventuality, Lang knew, must never happen. Now that he had the location of the girl’s Mercedes, he summoned five of his best men.

*     *      *

While the all-out search for him continued, Dan Greenberg ate chocolate mousse for his luncheon dessert and sipped his coffee while accessing one of the popular Israeli newspapers on the internet using his cell phone.

Greenberg picked up the white china pot and carefully poured himself more coffee. He felt satisfaction when the web page opened of the digital issue of the newspaper.

Then the coffee cup shook in his hand, spilling a drop on the phone’s screen. It was not the major headline that drew his attention, but the photograph that accompanied it; and not the entire picture, but the third person on the right. He used two of his fingers to enlarge the photograph. His heartbeat quickened. No! He could not be mistaken. Something inside him jumped in recognition. He raced through the article. The picture caption read: “The prime minister and his entourage prepare to leave for the peace conference in Washington.” The headline, “PM to open peace talks,” was accompanied by a subhead that encapsulated the article: “Premier to stress ‘vital importance’ of talks to Israel; last minute effort to bar Abu Hatra from conference.” For some reason the story played down the findings of the reporter, according to which senior sources in Israel insisted that, if the United States did not back down from its intention to recognize the leader of the murderous terrorist organization, a serious rift could be expected between Washington and Jerusalem.

Greenberg did not attempt to understand the significance of the item. Politics had never interested him. His attention was once again drawn to the slightly blurred image of the third figure from the right. There was no doubt: that was the man who had interviewed him in the small office in Tel Aviv; the man who in Greenberg’s opinion was responsible for all the strange “mishaps” that had befallen him since then; the man who had later been identified by actress Tova Rom as Nahum Weinstein; whom private investigator Ronni Tamir claimed was Nahum Porat – the head of Israel’s espionage service, the Mossad. This man had the answers to all the questions, and was perhaps the only person who could put an end to his insufferable situation. Greenberg had to reach him – and quickly. Only then could his life – perhaps – return to normal. And now the man was in the United States.

Greenberg remained sitting there as his coffee turned cold, his cheek resting on his hand as he thought. Porat would not be able to hide himself from him among the small Israeli delegation in Washington. Therefore, he had to get to Washington. It was the only solution. He could not keep on living like this, like a hunted animal who doesn’t even know why he is being hunted and by whom.

He quickly glanced though the rest of the articles, but did not have the necessary patience to read any of the them from beginning to end. He then entered the website of another Israeli digital newspaper and looked at it. The same story appeared there as well; surprisingly similar to the first one. The phrases were slightly different, but the photo of the prime minister and his entourage still included Nahum Porat, if no clearer than the other picture. Something bothered Greenberg, but he could not tell what. He slowly placed his empty coffee cup on the table. What should he do now, he wondered?

*     *      *

At 4 p.m., while Emil Lang’s men were searching the streets around the pension where Greenberg had spent the night, and other strangers were scouring the area of the train station – including, without knowing it, the restaurant where Greenberg had sat only half an hour before – a deal was being made in the northern part of the city. Six-thousand euro exchanged hands and Dan Greenberg received the keys to a white Volkswagen Golf in fairly good condition. He had to wait almost another 90 minutes in a nearby café, reading newspapers and trying to remain calm and save energy until, a little after 5:30, he received the registration and insurance documents from the clerk at the used car lot.

He had no other alternative. The people looking for him so intensely throughout Germany – and who had almost found him – knew he was in Hamburg. They would not ease up and let him leave the city by conventional means; and he not only had to leave the city, but the country as well. Clearly the train station, the buses or cabs, the airport or the harbor were all off limits to him. After a moment’s thought he also rejected a rental car or even the hitchhiking post at the city’s exit. Ever since the days of the Baader-Meinhoff gang, these were subject to regular police inspection. He thus had only the step he had taken – one which also had a certain risk, but a calculated one.

At around 6 p.m. the Golf entered the westward autobahn. A few minutes later, it stopped briefly on the shoulder to pick up a young woman dressed in faded jeans, an oversize sweater, and carrying a large knapsack, who had been holding a large cardboard sign reading “Amsterdam”.  A man and a woman usually aroused less attention than a man driving alone, Greenberg knew; particularly when crossing borders.

“Thanks,” the dimple-cheeked, red-haired girl smiled at him.

From the conversation that soon developed between them, Greenberg learned that the girl, Laura, was a Dutch student on her way home after vacationing in Italy. She, in turn, learned that her driver, John Gibb, was an Australian businessman, living in Germany.

At 9:30 p.m. they crossed the border into Holland. No one had stopped them for an inspection. At about 10:30 they stopped to eat at a roadside café, and by the time they returned to the highway a heavy fog, accompanied by rain, had settled over the road, making visibility difficult.

It was 3:30 the next morning when they arrived in Amsterdam, in pouring rain.

Dan Greenberg awoke slowly. At first he didn’t know where he was or who owned the woman’s clothing he saw draped over the chair next to the bed. Then he remembered. Laura had taken him home with her.

“This isn’t exactly the perfect weather to cruise around the city looking for a hotel,” she smiled at him. “You can sleep on the sofa in my guest room; it’s pretty comfortable. But you can also sleep in my room, in a much more comfortable bed.”

Her tone of voice did not permit any opposition, but Greenberg had no intention of refusing her offer in any case. He couldn’t have had a better one.

Now that he was completely awake, he was angry with himself. A man in his position could not permit a pretty girl to temp him – even if he had met her by chance hitchhiking. A mistake! The empty bed made him uneasy. He had to be more careful.

It was then he heard voices form the kitchen through the half-open door and smelled the strong and pleasant aroma of coffee brewing. He sat up in bed, slipped his legs into his jeans, and stood up. Throwing his arms behind him, he stretched his shoulders and back, repeating the exercise several times. He then put on his tricot shirt, tied his running shoes, and left the small bedroom for the even smaller kitchen. Laura stood there preparing a large breakfast. Suddenly Greenberg realized the aptness of the saying, “clothes make the man.” The young woman who turned to greet him did not at all resemble the one he had picked up beside the road the day before; not even the one he had slept with last night. Now, after she had brushed her hair and dressed tastefully in a colorful skirt and blouse, she didn’t look at all like the wild, free spirit he had taken her for.

“Hello,” she smiled broadly at him. “Did you sleep well?”

“Very well, thanks.”

“You slept like a log. I was up half the night, and I was amazed that you would sleep through such a ferocious thunder storm.”

“I didn’t hear a thing. I guess I was very tired. All that driving –“

“Yes, driving is very tiring,” she cut him off. “Well, sit down. The coffee is ready; the eggs and toast will be ready in a minute.”

“You didn’t have to bother. I could eat out.”

“It’s no bother at all. There’s sugar in the yellow bowl, if you want.”

“Thanks.” For a long moment he examined the pretty young woman, who became uneasy under his glance; then he decided he was being overly cautious. No; this woman was not hunting him. With a sense of relief, he sat down and put two cubes of sugar in his coffee, then began to leaf through the strange newspaper resting on the table.

“Do you read Dutch?” Laura asked in surprise, when she saw Greenberg studying the paper intensely.

“Not yet,” he joked. “I’m just looking at the pictures.”

They both laughed, but Greenberg suddenly stopped and snatched up the paper, looking at the page like a hawk eyeing its prey. His eyes stared unblinking as his blood pounded. What was written in the caption under the bottom picture? For an instant he felt as if the missing piece were trying to fit into place, as in a child’s puzzle. He tried to examine the piece at hand from every angle, in an effort to turn it and fit it into the picture. And then he understood, and stopped trying.

“What happened? Is everything all right?” Laura asked anxiously, looking at Greenberg with concern.

“What does this say?” he asked her hoarsely, getting up and thrusting the newspaper at the startled woman.

“’The prime minister of Israel and his team of advisers at Ben-Gurion Airport leave for the United States.’ I…I don’t understand. What’s the matter? What –“

“Nothing, nothing,” Greenberg replied impatiently. Suddenly it was clear to him. The photographs he had seen before in the two Israeli newspaper
websites – and of course
this
one – had been planted! Now he remembered what had bothered him when he examined the two Israeli newspaper websites the day before:  two Israeli newspapers that had been fierce competitors for over 60 years had published the identical picture – but one which differed from that published by the Dutch paper!

The photo he was looking at resembled the ones in the Israeli papers – except for one detail: the man he had identified as Nahum Porat was not there. Had he joined the delegation at the last minute? Had the military censor erased his image from the photo made available to the foreign press? Was he really a part of the Israeli delegation to the United States?

He peered carefully at the two photographs that had so absorbed his attention the previous day.

“Do you happen to have a magnifying glass in the house?” he asked his host, who still stood looking over him in consternation at his strange behavior.

“A magnifying glass?” Laura echoed.

“A magnifying glass, a simple magnifying glass,” Greenberg tried not to yell, “and a ruler.” His voice revealed his impatience.

“I don’t know, maybe. My roommate collects stamps; if I can only find where he keeps them…” The young woman went into the bedroom, but turned around immediately and came back, asking nervously, “Why do you need a magnifying glass, anyway? What’s happened to you all of a sudden?”

“Please, Laura, please; I know you think I’ve flipped out, but just do me a favor – just find me a magnifying glass. It’s too complicated for me to explain! I Don’t even understand. Please…”

“Okay, okay.”

In the meantime Greenberg compared the two pictures. Now he had no doubt. He was right.

“Here,” said Laura, returning to the kitchen and holding a magnifying glass in her outstretched hand; as if she feared to come closer to him.

Greenberg examined the pictures carefully. He could not identify two of the men; the third was clearly the prime minister of Israel. But the figure that drew his attention was the third from the right, the only one who looked away from the camera, whom Greenberg identified as Nahum Porat – the one who did not appear in the Dutch newspaper. What was going on? Greenberg knew that such photos had to pass strict military censorship before they could be published, and the censor would not have passed a picture that featured the head of the Mossad. It was clear, therefore, why the head of the Mossad did not appear in the Dutch paper. But how did it happen that, in Israel,
two
pictures of Porat were allowed to appear openly? Was it negligence? Greenberg did not believe there could be negligence at such a high level, and certainly not with regard to two separate photos.  Their publication was deliberate. Someone had wanted Porat to be identified.

Greenberg studied the photo with growing interest. Nahum Porat was standing at a certain distance from the other three men – far enough away to be slightly out of focus. Did he do that on purpose? Did he take the depth of field into account and stand so that his image would be somewhat blurred, so that only those who knew him would be able to identify him? Greenberg examined Porat’s profile and noted that his left hand was held awkwardly behind his back. It was not a natural gesture! Greenberg could not understand what was bothering him. He carefully looked at Porat again through the magnifying glass, examining the photo from different distances and trying to clarify to himself the significance of the distortion around the arm. Smoke! That was it – cigarette smoke! The man was holding a cigarette and trying to conceal it behind his back. Why? Perhaps the person behind the camera had placed the three other men in the picture in a certain position, and at the last minute the fourth man, Porat, had joined them. Then  the photographer had said something like, “Please put out your cigarette, sir; the smoke is disturbing,” and the smoker, instead of putting it out or setting it aside, preferred to hold onto it – as heavy smokers do, -- and just hid it behind his back. Now Greenberg had no more doubts: the photo in the Israeli papers had been staged. Porat had joined the delegation picture at the last minute, and for a reason.

“Come on, Laura,” Greenberg looked up at the young woman, who stood watching him silently, “let’s sit down and eat. I’m sorry if I startled you a little. It’s just …. It’s just that I saw someone in the paper I used to study with, whom I never thought I’d see again.”

The Dutch woman smiled in relief and sat down opposite him at the wooden kitchen table.

*     *      *

At about two that afternoon, the white Golf changed owners for the second time in 24 hours.

Greenberg had spent the entire morning planning his next move. He had come to the conclusion years before that it was easier to do something according to a well laid plan than without one. He estimated that there were two problems he had to deal with: the car, which he had to get rid of quickly; and his route out of Holland. By the time he said goodbye to Laura that afternoon, he knew exactly what he had to do.

The two young Australians who bought the car after much hesitation and some tiresome bargaining were planning to leave Amsterdam that night for a road tour of Europe. Greenberg felt genuine relief: the car’s trail would be lost forever. The two hours he had spent in front of the city’s largest youth hostel had borne fruit. While he could have easily gotten rid of the car at any of a dozen used car lots, he feared this would have left a trace that, with a little effort and initiative, could have led to the car’s whereabouts – and if so, perhaps also to his. Now that the car would be traveling all over Europe, finding it would be all the more difficult.

After he had handed over the keys to the Australians, Greenberg spent the rest of the afternoon visiting several sporting goods stores in the center of town. He spent nearly three hours going from store to store until he found what he was looking for: a yellow plastic raincoat with a matching hat, the kind worn by trout fishermen, and a pair of black rubber boots. At a photography store he purchased a used camera with a large and impressive lens.

At 6:45 that evening, a few minutes before closing, Greenberg entered the main office of KLM in downtown Amsterdam and inquired about the cost of a ticket and time of the next flight to Canada.

“We have a direct flight to Toronto leaving at 13:30 tomorrow,” said the ground stewardess as she tapped the keys of her computer terminal. After a few seconds’ wait she continued: “There are still a few seats open. Shall I book you?”

“No, thank you,” Greenberg replied. He turned and walked out to the street.

*     *      *

At exactly 1 p.m., shortly after the last of the passengers had already seated themselves comfortably in the KLM jumbo, when the stewardesses were already busy checking the locks on the overhead storage compartments and the captain was waiting for clearance to taxi from the control tower, a young businessman arrived in a rush at the Schiphol KLM counter, panting from exertion. In one hand he held a large case and in the other a document case. Without saying a word he withdrew a packet of bills with the exact price of the ticket and asked if he could still make the plane just leaving for Toronto.

The reception stewardess quickly typed a query into her terminal and at the same time shot several fast words in Dutch to the operations officer standing behind her. He immediately pressed the button on his walkie-talkie and ordered the ground crew to hold the removal of the last stairway to the plane. A special stewardess was assigned to the last-minute passenger and she quickly escorted him through the maze of corridors that branched off without apparent logic. The policeman at border control smiled at the stewardess and nodded towards her approvingly as he raised his eyebrows. He did not even glance at the passenger she accompanied.

Greenberg’s earlier assumption had been proved correct: no delays interfered with the embarkation of a passenger who arrived at the last minute and has an appropriate escort.

Inside the aircraft the stewardesses had already completed the pre-flight checks. Here and there they had to remind a passenger to fasten a safety belt, to tighten it, or to straighten a seat back. The stewardess in charge of the forward part of the cabin left her other activities and accompanied the late arriving passenger to his seat.

He had no sooner tightened his seatbelt when the engines roared and the plane surged forward.

*     *      *

It was 1 a.m. and Joachim Van der Hoff had a problem.

The 46-year-old man had no idea that exactly the same problem was shared at precisely the same moment by Emilio Solo in Italy, Gunter Krauss in Germany, Pierre Gauthier in France, Tommy Grey in Britain, and many others. Actually, he did not even know of the others’ existence.

Joachim Van der Hoff was the deputy manager of the KLM computer department. The others served in similar key positions in the computer operations of international airlines. Ever since the beginning of international air terrorism in the late 1960s, the heads of Israel’s espionage service had taken certain preventive measures in an attempt to fight the phenomenon and to frustrate as many of the lethal attacks as possible. El Al planes were manned by specially trained security guards, and the airline’s counters and offices were similarly protected throughout the world. Meticulous security checks –including luggage and body searches – were carried out on passengers going to and from Israel; electronic devices were used to screen for possible explosives and other sophisticated methods were developed to fight terror.