Blind Mission: A Thrilling Espionage Novel (21 page)

“So you believe everything I’ve told you?” Greenberg interjected.

Jennifer smiled. Such an unnecessary question – but such a human one. Yes, she believed him. His story was simply too far-fetched to be untrue. People didn’t take the trouble to look up old articles, find the address of the reporter who wrote them, and come to her with an imaginary, if well-constructed, tale.

“Yes,” she said simply. “Let’s go on. The question is: what do they want from you – or maybe we should define it differently: what do they want to get by using you? I’m sure you’ve already thought about this.”

“I’ve got an idea,” Greenberg answered hesitantly. He slowly reached into his windbreaker pocket and pulled out several photographs and newspaper clippings. He handed the material to her and waited silently while she looked through it. Robbins looked up at him.

“I believe they are trying to use me, to force me, to assassinate the leader of the radical Palestinian terrorist group, Abu-Hatra,” he said.

They both sat silently as the reporter weighed his words. Had her intuition deceived her, and was this seemingly rational person opposite her to be given a place of honor among all those crazies who had tried to convince her colleagues that they had met creatures from another planet or had been hired to murder the president of the United States? But maybe, nevertheless, there was a basis to this strange, but so attractive, man’s claim?

“Do you really think so?” she asked delicately.

“In my opinion, all the facts support this conclusion.”

“What facts?”

“That they did everything – everything, including the murder of two innocent people – in order to get me to the United States. What in hell would they want to bring me here for? The only thing that would justify such an operation – and remember, a plan like this requires an unimaginable amount of manpower! --- is the killing of Abu-Hatra. The terrorist leader arrives in Washington in another few days. Our prime minister is already here, in a vain attempt to persuade the Americans to cancel the conference at the last minute. Nahum Porat – described here as an aide to the prime minister – is actually the head of the Mossad, and has joined him. The three-way summit is supposed to take place next week, and is supposed to include the signing of an imposed agreement between Israel and the Palestinians. I, too, am already here – against my will and against all logic. If someone had told me two weeks ago that I would be here, in New York, telling a crazy story to the investigative reporter who almost uncovered my tracks so many years ago – I’d have laughed in his face and advised him to get his head examined. So you see? The stage is set.”

“You believe this?” Robbins asked, and without waiting for an answer, continued. “Exactly how do you think they’ll continue to use you against your will?”

“I don’t have the faintest idea. I can only suppose that they wouldn’t go to so much trouble if they had a fully developed plan.”

“So; here we come to the main question: What, actually, do you want from me?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps partly to document my distress. I think I contacted you because I wanted … because I was looking for someone who would know about this sort of thing; someone with the courage and sober vision to get to the bottom of things, and who could publish the whole story without hiding a thing. Perhaps, perhaps after I’m no longer around. You understand… I don’t believe they’ll let me stay alive after all this is over. They’ll do everything to make sure I don’t survive. They’ve already killed two; what would keep them from killing me, too? Actually, it would be even easier for them to kill me. You remember I’ve already died in an automobile accident. You are really my life insurance policy now. If you publish this affair in the newspaper and it becomes general knowledge, they wouldn’t dare to harm me, right?”

Jennifer Robbins considered the man opposite her and tried to assess his emotions. He did not seem confused or disoriented, but matter-of-fact. Nevertheless, maybe this in itself was evidence that he was simply disturbed. On the one hand, would he really feel this way if they were chasing him? But on the other hand, did it make sense that this whole story was invented? She knew she had to ask many more questions, to feel things out, to verify details, check dates, and cross-reference data. She had still not worked out a plan of action. For now she was letting herself operate instinctively. Gently, she reached out her hand and patted the back of Greenberg’s hand.

“Perhaps you have another idea of how to help me?”

Jennifer gave him a penetrating look. Obviously, pure logic did not always control his actions. He looked up from the table and straight into her eyes.

“How do you think I can help you?” she asked again. “Come,” she said, rising from her chair.

*     *      *

The doorman at her building welcomed the journalist and her companion warmly. The woman from the fifth-floor apartment handed him the umbrella he had loaned her earlier and thanked him.

“Henry Richardson, Robert Scott; my cousin from Australia,” she introduced the two to each other.

The doorman shook hands with the graying, well-built man and said, “Pleased to meet you. I’ve always wanted to visit your country. Maybe one of these days…”

“Just be careful there, mate; you might die of boredom,” Greenberg responded with the appropriate outback accent.

Jennifer could hardly keep from laughing at his performance. “Come on,” she said, pulling her adopted cousin toward the elevator.

Her apartment did not surprise Greenberg, but was amazingly close to what he had imagined. He unconsciously felt he had reached a safe harbor.

Jennifer Robbins cast him a brief glance of inspection. “You’re tired.”

He made no protest.

“Go to sleep,” she ordered.

Greenberg did not wait for her to beg him. He caught the towel bathrobe she tossed to him and went into the bathroom. A few minutes later he had slipped between cool, fresh-smelling sheets in the guest-room bed. Pulling up the blanket, he stretched in satisfaction and let his muscles go limp. He felt as if he were floating in the sea, borne by the waves. More relaxed than he felt in a long time, he let his mind drift beyond reality and fell at once into a deep sleep. For the first time in many days, and for no logical reason, he felt utterly safe.

Jennifer Robbins stood leaning against the doorway of her guest room and watched the sleeping man. Even with his eyes closed, his face radiated a surprising contentment. She crossed to the large window and closed the curtains. Then she tiptoed out of the room, softly closing the door behind her. A strange feeling passed through her, causing her to run her fingers nervously through her long hair.

“What the hell,” she muttered, not understanding the meaning of her sudden unease.

“Let’s say we succeed in finding Porat, even killing him. Who’s going to guarantee that exactly the same mission won’t be given to the one who comes after him? How do I know my life will go back to normal, and I won’t have to worry that someone is following me?”

“Just until a new Mossad director is chosen –“

“Don’t’ make me laugh. The Mossad isn’t a political organization. I’m sure a contingency plan is on file in case the present head of the Mossad dies in office. Not only that, but it’s reasonable to assume that his deputy is briefed on at least some of the details. Within a few hours of Porat’s death, the whole thing will be running normally again.”

Greenberg had been speaking quietly, but his eyes focused on Jennifer were full of determination. The two were sitting side by side at her small kitchen table, sipping herbal mint tea (she was addicted to it) and talking.

“But Dan,” she said, passing a hand through her hair, “what about your political views –“

“There’s no connection between my present decision and my political views,” Greenberg said. “It’s not politics that interests me at the moment, but my private life. I’m not willing to die for the lunacies of politicians – and I have no doubt that, at the end of the road they are leading me on,
death
is waiting. But if that’s the case, then I have news for them. At the end of the road I am leading
them
on, death is also waiting.”

Jennifer looked at him for a long moment without speaking.

“Okay,” she signed finally. “Not that you asked me, but if you did – I’d say that you’ve convinced me.”

“I’m glad,” Greenberg said, touching her lightly on the hand, “really glad.”

Something in that light touch between them, sitting at the kitchen table, caused the experienced woman to shiver; she had one ex-husband and not a few love affairs. The fact that he had convinced her – the paragon of rationality – of the inevitably of such a crazy decision, and the feeling that he was capable of carrying it out, captivated her. She entwined her fingers with his.

That evening the two did not hurry to turn on the light, after the sun had set behind the skyscrapers of New York.

*     *      *

“Hello, may I speak with Mr. Williams?”

“Speaking.”

“Good morning. This is Joel Dayton, Jr., of the Secret Service, executive security division.”

“Yes, sir, how can I help you?”

“I understand that your station received the contract to broadcast from the White House on the 23
rd
of the month, correct?”

“Certainly.”

“I assume you intend to employ the services of a particular company for sound amplification at the event.”

“Correct.”

“In that case, we have to know the name of that company, for security reasons, of course.”

“As usual, it’s Natural Sound. We’ve worked with them for almost 15 years straight, and –“

“Yes, I know. In any event, I had to confirm it. I’d like to make a note of the site manager’s name at the event…”

I assume it’ll be Paul Robinson, their chief engineer. He’s always the one in charge at big events like this.”

“That’s reasonable, I guess. Okay, I thank you for your cooperation.”

*     *      *

“Natural Sound, good morning!”

Good morning. This is Jeffrey Hammond from NBC. May I speak with Mr. Robinson, please? …Of course, I can hold.”

“Hello, this is Robinson.”

“Good morning , sir. This is Jeffrey Hammond from NBC. I don’t think we’ve met. I’m the assistant producer for the broadcast that’s supposed to take place at the White House on the 23
rd
–“

“Yes, yes, nice to speak with you. How can I help you?”

“Well, I’d just like to know what type of microphones you’ll be using for the broadcast. You see –“

“We generally use Shure SM-57s. Why do you ask? Is there a problem?”

“No, not at all. We just wanted to know if you’d have any objection if we sent you some brand of new ones. You understand, this broadcast is very special and we wouldn’t want to take the slightest chance  –“

“Sir! I’d appreciate it if you were to leave the professional considerations to us. I can assure you that the reliability of our microphones is unquestionable.”

“I’m sure of that. Nevertheless, I’d feel much more relaxed if –“

“Our equipment is checked very carefully, and there is no reason to suspect –“

“Look, I’m just the assistant producer. I wouldn’t want –“

“In that case, give me the producer!”

“Yes, certainly, certainly…”

After a moment, a deep gravelly voice came on the line.

“Art Bono speaking. I’m the producer for the broadcast on the 23
rd
–“

“Yes ,yes, I know what broadcast you produce. What’s the problem that you don’t trust our microphones all of a sudden?”

“Really, that’s not it at all, not at all. But tell me something – what do you care if you get a gift of four top quality mikes?”

“Are you telling me that we get to keep these microphones?”

“Certainly.”

“Well, if you insist –“

“I thank you. I’ll send you the mikes this week. How many do you need?”

“Wait a second, let me think….Three. Three are enough. Actually, with the reserve mike we always keep on hand – four.”

“Thanks very much.”

Dan Greenberg hung up the phone and took a deep breath. Then he got up and went into the small kitchen. He could use a glass of water after that last gravelly-voice impression.

*     *      *

Not far from Broadway and 42
nd
Street, about in the middle of the block, is a place of business that has acquired a worldwide reputation. Eight steps lead from the street to the showrooms, which might seem extremely strange to a civilized person. One makes his way along the narrow passageways among hundreds of shelves, stopping to burrow in heavy wooden crates, while taking care not to knock over one of the heavily laden hangers. The feeling derived in doing so is as if one was passing through the entire course of human history; crossing continents and spanning seas in a split second, encountering distant cultures and exotic peoples, all the while borne on the wings of imagination and nostalgia.

This place which Dan Greenberg had found through the Internet, supplied the costumes of most of the theaters on Broadway and much of the film industry on the east coast, as well as serving the needs of partygoers who sought some particularly unusual attire. The vast halls were a place of pilgrimage for actors, directors, and producers from all over the world. The display areas were divided into sections by subject and period. During his search Greenberg found, among other things, costumes for several dozen Sikhs, Roman legions, London bobbies, Nazi SS officers, and desert-robed Arabs – all of them neatly folded. Here and  there he also encountered the original costumes of famous musicals from many years ago.

It was not surprising, therefore, that a request by a man presenting himself as Mr. King – a high school teacher who, in his spare time, ran the school drama society – did not arouse any curiosity: three wigs in different styles and colors, two moustaches, special sponges for thickening cheeks, square shoulder pads, and a sponge stomach-extender. On his way to the cashier, Greenberg added some tubes of basic makeup and, in a moment of weakness, a delicate scar painted on a special skin-toned band-aid, and two beauty marks.

*     *      *

The gigantic toy store, which spread over several floors in a building, was famous for its selection and was also the biggest store of its kind in the area. A fatherly looking salesman sauntered over to the customer who had just arrived in the hobby section.

“How may I help you, sir?” the man asked with a smile that did not quite reach his eyes, which appraised the customer through the thick lenses of his glasses.

For a long while the two men discussed the merits of a whole range of radio-controlled model planes and race cars. Whenever there was a pause in their discussion, the salesman filled it with innumerable technical data and explanations. While the man might have been a true bore, one thing was clear: he knew his subject. Dan Greenberg listened to the explanation with only one ear. The only detail that really interested him was the control unit’s operating range. It took him nearly an hour to choose the item he wanted.

“Certainly, certainly, sir,” the smile never left the salesman’s lips. He took the colorful cardboard boxes and laid the bounty on the counter – three model plans and two miniature cars, all radio-controlled – he heartily wished his customer much enjoyment. “I’m sure I’ll see you again, sir,” he said.

Greenberg was less certain.

*     *      *

He sat on the steps of St. Paul’s Cathedral reading a newspaper. It was 11:30 a.m. on a clear warm day – very warm, actually, and suffocatingly humid: typical New York weather for the season. The streets were still no overly crowded, but he knew that in another half an hour people would be streaming by from every side, as hundreds of thousands of workers took their lunch break all at once. His eyes moved back and forth, his body tensed like that of a hunter waiting for his prey.

And the prey arrived. Just after 12:15, the two foot patrolmen passed in front of him. He folded his paper and stood. Slowly, like a cat stalking a tasty meal, he descended the five steps to the sidewalk. Slipping the folded paper under his armpit, he set off after the policeman. Given the weather conditions, he estimated he would not need more than two hours to carry out his plan.

He stepped silently behind the patrolmen, his eyes fixed hypnotically on the billy clubs swinging in unison from their hips. Within half an hour he had mastered their style of walking and could have given a detailed description of their back sides, had he been asked to do so. One of the policemen was taller than average and heavily built. He was not young, and his extra weight caused him to shift heavily as he walked, not unlike the prow of ship making way. The second was much younger than his colleague, as well as thinner, and his movements were the flexible ones of a man who worked daily to keep in shape. The collars of their uniform shirts were stuck to their necks and dark sweat stains spread from their armpits. The older one would stop from time to time to wipe the sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief.

Greenberg continued to follow them at a steady pace. The mid-afternoon crowds provided him good cover but also blocked his way at times, forcing him to push his way through to maintain his stalking distance. The heat increased, along with the humidity. The two policemen were now not far from where the glorious Twin Towers of the World Trade Center once stood, and appeared to be heading straight for one of the nearby skyscrapers.

A blast of fresh cold air greeted Greenberg as he followed the officers into the cavernous lobby.

“Hey, Roy,” the heavy cop called to his younger partner, “I’ve got to take a leak. You coming?”

“No, I’ll wait for you here.”

Roy sat down on one of the many wooden benches scattered throughout the lobby, stretching his legs in obvious enjoyment, as his partner walked over to the bank of elevators and entered a car that was waiting empty, its doors wide open. Greenberg hurried to follow him inside, then turned and faced the front standing behind the patrolman; who was studying the name plates beside the floor buttons.

The cop finally pressed a button. Greenberg paid no attention to which floor; it was unimportant. In another few seconds he would have to act – and quickly.

As the doors began slowly to sigh closed, Greenberg prayed for an instant that no one else would try to enter the car! He added to the prayer the hope that the cop would not turn around, but would continue to stand there with his back to him for at least one more second, just until the door closed.

The doors clicked shut and the car began to rise, with the officer remaining unmoving. Without hesitating, Greenberg entwined his fingers and clasped his hands together, his arms outstretched. Then swinging his body a little to the right, he suddenly snapped it back forward; the massed weight of his hands acting like a sledgehammer, which he aimed straight into the patrolman’s kidneys. The officer crumpled into a heap without a sound. Greenberg was certain the man didn’t know what had hit him. Just to make sure he stayed out, Greenberg extended his hand and rabbit chopped the policeman in the side of his neck. He then stood above the unconscious man and quickly unholstered his serve revolver. For a moment he hefted its weight and remembered the feeling of a similar weapon when he worked as a night watchman as a student. He shoved the gun into his belt and covered it with his shirt, hoping with all his might that no one would be waiting for the elevator when it stopped.

As another precaution, Greenberg took the officer’s hat, holding it between his fingertips to avoid leaving prints, and prepared to rush from the car with the hat hiding his face, if there was a need to do so.