Pursuit (54 page)

And who was really being under surveillance, his father or himself? It was very suspicious being a prisoner in his own apartment, told not to leave when his father came and went whenever he wished and with no indication that he could see that there was any surveillance there at all. And also the business of the telephone being tapped; von Schraeder could stop anywhere he wanted and make as many unrecorded calls as he wanted, but every word Herzl spoke into the instrument was being picked up. Three times in the past week he had picked up the telephone to call Munich and try to reach Miriam Kleiman, and three times he had hung up just as the overseas operator came on the line. Whatever he had to say to Miriam—and he had no idea of what that might be, especially under the circumstances of his parent's past—was certainly not to be said with someone with earphones on in a little room somewhere listening to every word.

Herzl sat in his room, trying to read, and then gave up. He looked at his wristwatch. Eight o'clock. God, how that day had dragged! His father had confirmed Max Brodsky's instructions as to the necessity of his not leaving the apartment, saying it would all be over in a few weeks, but those few weeks were about at an end. And, besides, his father was not to be trusted, and very possibly the same was true of his Uncle Max—

He became aware that he was being scrutinized and he looked up to see his father standing in the doorway of his room, his attacheé case in hand. The general had changed to civilian clothes and was smiling at him in a strange manner.

“I have to go out,” he said. “I may be gone all night. But I'll be back as soon as I can. It's nothing to worry about,” he added.

He came and put one arm around the stiff shoulders of his son, squeezed him once with affectionate camaraderie, and walked from the apartment quickly, closing the door behind him. Herzl stared at the telephone, wondering if he should call. But he knew he would not. Only one person he knew could truly be trusted, and that was himself. Besides, he had started the investigation into the past of von Schraeder-Grossman, and that investigation was not finished. He walked to the window, staring down into the street as the general emerged from the front of the building and walked to where his car was parked in the street.

Then Herzl ran for the basement garage and his own little sports car.

“The general's left in his car. He's driving.” The little square box on Brodsky's desk imparted a metallic tone to the speaker's voice.

Brodsky sighed. Whatever was in prospect was at work.

“Trail him,” he said, “but not too close. Not even in sight. He may have noticed you during the week.” He had given up all pretense of his men protecting the general; at the moment he didn't much care what his aides thought as long as they followed their orders. He just didn't want to lose the man. “The signals are coming in clearly?”

“Like a dream,” Michael said. “The radio-direction finder is working perfectly. We could follow him blindfolded.”

“Just don't lose him.”

“We won't.” There were several minutes of silence. Then, “He's on the Lod road. He's leaving town.”

In his office Brodsky stared at the map of Israel pulled down on the wall, his pulses quickening. The chase was on; its success or failure could be vital to the security of Israel, to his future, to the life of Herzl and possibly many more people. He studied the map. The Lod road led to the Ben Gurion Airport, but it also led to Jerusalem with a turnoff at Ramla, and it could also lead to Ashdod, cutting west beyond Gedera, or it could even lead to Ashkelon or Gaza on the sea. It could lead to just about anywhere in southern Israel, or Grossman could be simply leading them in the wrong direction as a precaution against being followed before losing his pursuers and turning to the north. All they could do was wait until a further turn might give a better indication of his end destination. And, of course, not lose him.

“He passed Ramla heading in the direction of Gedera,” the tinny voice said. “Sir, we might be able to come in closer with all this traffic. I doubt he would notice us—”

“Stay well back out of sight!” Brodsky said irritably. “That's why we hung all that electronic gear on the car!” He wished now he had chosen to go with the pursuit car; sitting in his office and merely waiting for reports was damned irritating.

He swiveled his chair, staring from the window out over the lights that sparkled from the sprawling city. I should be down there celebrating with the others, he thought sourly, instead of trying to find out what my old friend Benjamin Grossman is up to. I only hope it isn't what I think it is, because if anything goes wrong and he gets away with anything, I should be taken out and shot for not having dragged him in in the first place, sufficient proof or not. But we have to catch him with the goods; otherwise he'll continue to be a hero in Israel and continue to have endless chances to harm us. And I'll end up, as his accuser, in jail as an accomplice to our enemies. No, we have to catch him in the act, or with the goods, and we'll never get another chance like this one. Ben was in a panic when he told me of that meeting in Buenos Aires; he had to be to tell me what he did. And he must have hated himself the next day. But he needed protection for his family.… Brodsky shook his head in disgust. Protection! That was great protection I gave Deborah.… Let's not dwell on that!

Or am I totally wrong? Is it possible that Herzl's information is wrong, or that we are putting the wrong interpretation on it? Could it really be just some monstrous coincidence? After all, I've known Benjamin Grossman for almost thirty years; could he have been von Schraeder all that time and I not note it? The time we spent in the camps, our travels together from Germany to Italy and then to Israel, his saving us all when that gunboat stopped us when we arrived—would I not have known if he were a Nazi? Would I not have felt it? At that time in the Zion Films projection room, it seemed incontrovertible that Grossman was von Schraeder, but here, now, at this moment, it did not seem possible. The Mossad agent I sent to Europe to search for fingerprints or other information about von Schraeder has gotten no further in almost two weeks than Herzl did in a few days. What I should have done, of course, he thought, was simply to confront Ben, face to face, and ask him to give me an explanation. But if he were innocent of the monstrous charge, he would have no explanation, other than to say it had to be a gross coincidence. And if he were guilty? He certainly wouldn't admit it—

“He didn't turn at Gedera, he went straight through—” There was a degree of puzzlement in the metallic voice. “That leads to secondary roads, I think. Wait—” There was a pause as the agent checked his car map. “That's right. The road splits into two secondary roads, short ones. They both end up at the Ashkelon-Latrun road.”

In his office Brodsky left his chair and was studying the wall map. The microphone on his desk picked up his voice, relaying it to the men in the pursuit car.

“It's also the shortest road to Kiryat Gat and Beer Sheba,” he said, and added to himself, and also to Arad and Ein Tsofar. Let's just hope that's not where he's heading! “We'll be able to tell more when he comes to the Ashkelon-Latrun road. Just be careful when he hits those secondaries. Stay well back. There'll be less traffic there.”

“Tonight? Less traffic?” said Michael in the trailing car with disbelief. “Tonight there's traffic everywhere. Why aren't they all home watching television, or in
shul
where they belong? I know, it's Independence Day, don't tell me.” He added, suddenly realizing to whom his remarks were being broadcast, “Sir!”

“Just stay back,” Brodsky said, unimpressed by the other's evaluation of the traffic problem. “Don't take the slightest chance of being seen.”

“No, sir, we won't.” There was a pause. Then, “Hey! Take it easy! You want to run up his tailpipe?”

Brodsky stared at the speaker. “What was that supposed to mean?”

“I was talking to Ari, Colonel. He's driving. The general must have stopped, the signal's steady. It was getting louder; we're stopped too, now. Maybe he's got a flat. Maybe something's wrong with the car. Do you want us to get closer and see?”

“And do what? Help him fix it?” Brodsky said sourly. Good God! All the signals for disaster were ringing in Brodsky's head; it accounted for his unusually savage tone. “You stay where you are. You're still receiving?”

“Yes, sir. Steady as a rock. He's stopped up ahead.”

“How far from you?”

“I'd say about a mile, sir, from the strength of the signal. Say half a mile from the fork in those secondaries. He's parked, sir.”

Brodsky studied the map with a puzzled frown. The place where Grossman had stopped was about halfway between a place called Hatzor Ashdod and a tiny village called Kfar Akim. Brodsky knew positively there was nothing of a security nature anywhere in the vicinity. So what was Grossman doing there? Maybe he really did have a flat tire; or he may simply have stopped to relieve himself. He spoke up for the benefit of the desk microphone.

“How heavy is the traffic?”

“Heavy, sir, even here and even at this hour. I never saw it so heavy. Everybody and his uncle is out tonight. I'm sure we could get a lot closer to him—”

“Stay where you are!” Brodsky was thinking furiously. “If the car doesn't move in the next five minutes, get going again. Pass as if you were part of normal traffic. See if he's inside. And report!”

“Yes, sir. Five—
sir
!”

“What?”

“The signal stopped!”

“What! Both?”

“Yes, sir.” The agent was shocked. “I switched on the auxiliary at once, sir. Both units are out.” There was a very brief pause. “Sir, do you want us to try and follow him visually?”

Brodsky stared at the speaker on his desk, his mind running through possible scenarios, even as he silently acknowledged that Grossman had led his pursuers into a spot from which it would be virtually impossible to trail him without electronic aids. They were far too distant to catch him, and there were at least six roads going in different directions he could take from within a mile or so of where he was—or, rather, from where he had been when he had managed to dismantle both of the signal broadcasters. Damn! One would think, or at least hope, that with two distinct and separate electronic systems, the man might not have discovered one!

“No,” he said slowly, “you'd be wasting your time. Come back in.”

He studied the map and then made up his mind. He had always feared the possibility that the ultimate direction of Grossman's defection might be the material or the secret at Ein Tsofar; he remembered all too well the help that Benjamin Grossman had given in the construction of the facilities at Ein Tsofar. Certainly from the point where Grossman had last been located, a move into the direction of Ein Tsofar was very possible. If that was his destination, the man would still have almost an hour and a half driving time to reach the old kibbutz. If he were wrong and Grossman was heading someplace else—

He clicked his intercom for the night receptionist.

“Notify all checkpoints in the country,” he said, his voice expressionless. “They are to report the passage of a brown army sedan, license plate number AR 436 T. They are not to stop or interfere with the car or its driver or to indicate any interest in it; merely to report its passage and the time of its passage to this office. You will then relay any such reports to me at Ein Tsofar. Repeat.”

The receptionist dutifully repeated the instructions word for word, reading from her pad.

“Good. Now order my car,” Brodsky said, “and call the airport. I want a helicopter waiting on the pad when I get there in half an hour.”

He hung up and came to his feet heavily. The problem, of course, was that Grossman might well be taking roads where there were no checkpoints; since the 1967 war checkpoints had been sharply reduced. And a further problem was that not all checkpoints had communication equipment either to receive or to send; they were usually little shacks to which a soldier would be assigned, dropped off in a jeep and picked up in a jeep, and which was merely for the stopping of suspicious-looking cars for illegal arms or contraband—and they would scarcely find an army car driven by an army general to be suspicious.

Benjamin Grossman smiled to himself grimly as he got back in the car and stepped on the accelerator. Did the Jew Brodsky really think he was dealing with children or idiots? He had located the signal producers long before the ODESSA man had come on the scene. Good God! Did they all think they were dealing with children or idiots? All right, he had made a mistake by going to the Jew Brodsky when he first came back from Argentina; he had been exhausted. But his brain had begun to work again in a short while. He had simply put himself in Brodsky's place. Certainly surveillance would have to be placed on a man who had met with ODESSA agents and refused to disclose what their demands had been; and it would obviously have to be the type of surveillance that would cover the condition of a car being driven at night. And that meant a bug. And if that one might be located by a suspicious general named Grossman, obviously the answer was a second bug, better concealed.

He turned into the road for Kiryat Gat, humming lightly to himself, for he was sure there were no voice pickups in the interior of the car. He had searched for them carefully, and he was sure that the man from ODESSA, whatever his name was, had done so as well. His hum faded, replaced by bile in his throat. Whoever the man from ODESSA was, he undoubtedly was the person who had handled the delivery of the explosive that had killed his Deborah. Well, once he was certain that the threat had been removed from Herzl, then he would find this man from ODESSA, whoever and wherever he might be, and he would also find Schlossberg and Mittendorf. The Jew Brodsky wanted to know how to reach these men for his purpose? Well, for once he, Benjamin Grossman, would do the work of the Jew Brodsky, and maybe even take care of the Jew Brodsky, for dessert.