Pursuit (56 page)

He came to the intersection of the Dimona road with the Eilat road and paused, glancing at his wristwatch. Ten o'clock and about a hundred miles to go to reach Eilat, with paved road all the way, and the few checkpoints with no means of receiving instructions to watch for General Grossman and his brown army sedan. No problem; plenty of time to meet his appointment and with nothing in his path. He smiled and glanced almost automatically at the attaché case at his side, and then turned onto the deserted highway and stepped on the accelerator. He wondered how long, if ever, it would be before the fifty pounds was missed. It was an interesting question. Even if it should be missed at once—which was doubtful since as far as he could determine there was no reason to institute an inventory—there would be no reason to connect a highly respected general in the army with its disappearance. If and when the discovery was made, the Jew Brodsky might connect it with his conversation after his trip to Argentina, and he might suspect all he wanted. There would be no proof. His trip to Ein Tsofar that morning? He had made many inspection visits to the facility; it was part of his responsibility. This morning he had simply made one more. And could the Jew Brodsky admit he had put signal bugs onto the automobile of the respected General Grossman? He could not. All he could do was to keep quiet about it. No, there was no reason not to return to Tel Aviv, wait a few weeks, and then put in for his retirement, and leave with Herzl. Nor would he miss Israel. Without Deborah he felt about the country as he had felt when he first arrived: a desolate desert, and the scenes lit up by his headlights as he drove was the proof.

But once he was settled someplace else, he would see to it that the ODESSA man he was about to meet would pay for the death of his Deborah, no matter what it took to locate him nor no matter how long it took. Nor will anything happen to our son Herzl; I pledge you this, he said silently to the picture in his head of his dead wife that never left him. Both things I pledge you.

The celebration in Eilat had moved mainly to the hotels, and as Herzl drove into the small town he could see the lights blazing from the group of tourist hotels beyond the Arkia Airport along the beach. He could picture the excitement, the happiness, the singing and dancing and drinking that was going on there, and he only wished he was a part of it. He had been born the same year the nation had been born, and he never had failed to celebrate each Independence Day as if it were his own actual birthday. But his mission tonight was far too important—that was, if he hadn't miscalculated and made the two-hundred-mile drive for nothing.

He pulled into Hatmarim Avenue and parked between the darkened post office and the brightly illuminated bus station, with the Egged buses angled in like behemoths nuzzling the building for sustenance. Any new arrival in Eilat would have to pass his vantage point, and he was suddenly sure that von Schraeder was heading for Eilat. The brown sedan should be appearing soon. The full significance for the long trip to the town had finally come to him. Somehow—possibly through his old friend Max Brodsky, who had also gone from Buchenwald to Belsen instead of Natzweiler, now that he thought of it—Helmut von Schraeder had learned that his past had been discovered, exposed; Eilat was the most logical point from which to flee the country. Much better than from any Mediterranean port. Five minutes in a fast speedboat and he would be outside Israeli territorial waters; fifteen minutes and he could be across the narrow gulf and on friendly soil.

But not if I can help it, Herzl promised himself grimly, and settled down to wait. From his position he could see the road at the end of the airport runway that led to the beach hotels, all lit up and gleaming in the night; in his imagination he could almost hear the music. Every now and then a car, usually a jeep, would come into view from the long stretch of desert and turn into the road toward the hotel; every now and then a car would appear from the south, coming up, possibly, from as far away as Sharm e-Sheikh to join in the festivities. But in general traffic was very light; most people had already arrived for the celebration hours before. Herzl consulted his watch; it was eleven-thirty. He had been here ten minutes. Could he have been wrong? Had the other man stopped somewhere else, or had he turned north when he came to the Eilat road? But why drive through Dimona to reach the Eilat road and then turn north? It made no sense. No, his man was headed for Eilat and an attempted escape across the gulf. Any other conclusion was not to be considered.

He was concentrating so hard on trying to find a flaw in his logic that he almost missed the brown sedan when it passed Hatmarim Avenue; he woke up and pulled into the main road to see the sedan pass the cutoff to the beach hotels and continue in the direction of the old port. He turned on his headlights and followed. The car ahead seemed to be in no hurry; Herzl dropped back and held the same speed. He had no idea how far he would have to go, but he knew that as soon as the car ahead made the slightest attempt to get near a boat, he was going into action.

In the brown sedan, Benjamin Grossman was relaxed. He had made the trip down through the desert with ample time to spare; once the delivery was made he might even consider putting up at one of the beach hotels and joining the celebration there the following day. Possibly even call Herzl and have him come down to join him. He had stopped several times on the long trip to make sure he was not being followed, and now he was certain of it. Nor had he been bothered at all at the several military checkpoints that he had passed, although he was sure that Brodsky would have contacted them if there was any way he had been able; but there were no telephones out there, and the soldiers he had seen at the checkpoints had not even bothered to come out of their shacks as he had passed. Probably all thinking how badly they had been treated to be assigned this lonesome duty on a holiday such as this one.

He passed the Arkia Airport and drove toward the old port. The lights of a car that was now behind him meant nothing; someone driving to one of the two hotels across from the diver's club, or some poor devil heading down to Sharm e-Sheikh, and if it was the latter he didn't envy the man; he himself had had enough desert driving that day.

At the underwater observatory he slowed down to set his mileage meter, and then went on. It was ten minutes to midnight, giving him plenty of time. He felt a bit proud of his timing; he would arrive almost to the minute. Not bad after over two hundred miles of driving on roads that at best could be said to be paved, but that was about all.

At the proper point he left the main road and started along the sand. As the ODESSA man had said, it was hard and bore the weight of the heavy car, even though he could feel the car drag a bit as the wheels sank in a few inches. Still, he could now understand why he was completing his journey on the beach; the main road cut away from the water's edge at the point he had left it, disappearing behind high cliffs. Two miles to go. He began to accelerate and then reduced his speed again as the wheels began to dig in more at the higher speed. And then suddenly he frowned in alarm. The headlights that had been following him had also swung from the main road at the point he had and were following him on the sand!

Could it be that the ODESSA man had been waiting for him in Eilat and was just now coming to the boat? That didn't sound like the ODESSA man, arranging to leave behind a car to be found. He stepped on the accelerator once again, but the car behind him was apparently lighter and sank into the sand less, because it was also accelerating and was overtaking him. In the distance Grossman could now see the dock and the small speedboat waiting at the point where the beach ran out and the cliffs dropped abruptly into the sea; but then his attention was taken by the car that was now beside him, and now was drawing ahead, as if it were a race. Grossman slowed down, reaching for the revolver under the dash, and then suddenly had to slam on his brakes as the other car slewed in front of him, scattering sand. The two vehicles shuddered to a halt, almost touching, their wheels dug into the sand. It was only then that Benjamin Grossman recognized the car and the young man climbing down and walking in his direction. He got out, staring in total surprise, his briefcase in one hand, the revolver dangling idly from the other.

“
Herzl
? What are you doing here?”

“Von Schraeder—what are
you
doing here?”

Grossman felt the shock almost physically; the blood left his face, leaving him momentarily dizzy. “Von—?”

“Don't lie to me. You're Colonel Helmut von Schraeder.” Herzl's voice was harsh with tension. “How did you ever become Benjamin Grossman?”

Grossman was still in shock. “I don't understand—”

“What don't you understand? How I discovered who my great father was? How I worked so hard to prove my distinguished hero father was the Monster of Maidanek? I found out because you changed your face, but you never changed mine. That was your mistake, von Schraeder. You should have had plastic surgery done on me when I was a child.” Herzl's voice was trembling now that he was actually pouring it all out to the ashen-faced man before him; all the frustrations of all the days since his discovery were in his bitter voice. He found himself fighting tears. “I found out because you used to wink at me first with one eye and then with the other when I was a child. I found out because you fell out of a tree when you were eight years old. I found out because you couldn't roll up maps properly on the hood of a German army jeep in Poland thirty years ago …”

Grossman was slowly getting a grip on himself.

“Herzl, you don't understand—”

“I understand you murdered almost a million people at Maidanek. How could you shove them into gas chambers—?”

“Herzl, Herzl! I was under orders. If you had been there, in my position, you would have done the same—”

“You're a liar!” Now the tears came. Herzl shook his head violently to clear his sight. “It isn't true! It's a lie! You're a liar!”

Grossman sighed. “I hope you never find out …” He stared at Herzl and shook his head. “What a pity you had to find out! What a stupid tragedy! I had such hopes.… Now I will have to go with the boat. Now I'll never know my grandchildren …”

Herzl moved in front of him, his face determined, the tears gone, leaving streaks on his face. “You're going nowhere, von Schraeder. You're going on trial for the murders you committed. You're going to hang, von Schraeder, as Eichmann hung.”

“No,” Grossman said gently. “I have to go. Please, Herzl, don't try to stop me.”

He walked around Herzl, starting for the waiting boat. Herzl turned and tackled him, bringing him down to the sand. Grossman dropped the attaché case and revolver and swung about, breaking Herzl's grip, struggling to his feet. Herzl came to his feet as well; the two men faced each other, both about the same size, Herzl younger and stronger, Grossman still in excellent condition and with far more experience at fighting. The tableau held for only a second and then Herzl was on top of the other man and the two went down, rolling over and over in the sand.

On board the speedboat Hans Richter stared in speechless disbelief. What on earth was the matter with von Schraeder? Richter had no idea who the other person was or what he was doing there, but the briefcase held the promise of the material he had been assigned to pick up, and von Schraeder had a revolver but the idiot was making no attempt to use it! With a muttered curse, Richter picked a revolver from the weapons rack and started to jump from the boat, determined to end the matter once and for all, but at that moment Grossman rolled over, his hand fumbling in the sand, coming up with the dropped weapon. He reversed it and brought the butt down on his son's head with force. He came to his feet, panting, looking down with pained eyes at the unconscious boy; then he bent down, kissed Herzl on the head, picked up the briefcase, and ran for the boat.

His path was suddenly lit by the sharp glare of spotlights from the sky and the two men at the boat could hear the whir of rotors as the giant helicopter slowly began settling to the sand near the fallen boy. Richter dropped the gun he had with a curse, picking a grenade from the weapons rack instead. Grossman reached the boat at the same time, jumping over the rail, putting himself in front of Richter. He was furious.

“What are you doing? That's my son out there!”

“That's a helicopter full of Jews out there, you madman!” Richter said coldly, and pulled the pin. He brought his arm back in a practiced motion to throw the grenade toward the helicopter and the men who were pouring from it, when Grossman grabbed his arm, dragging it down viciously with all his force, pulling it and Richter into his strong arms. A sudden picture came to him of Buchenwald, then in the hospital at Belsen; at least he would not die of typhus a third time. The picture disappeared as quickly as it had come. The last and final thing that Benjamin Grossman had the pleasure of seeing was the sudden look of animal terror on the face of the man who had killed his Deborah.

Then the grenade exploded.

“Egged buses,” Brodsky said, his tone blaming himself for his stupidity. “I should have thought of them at once. They cover the country from one end to the other, in all directions and on every road. Most of them have two-way communication with their dispatchers; those few that don't still stop at places where they can be given messages and relay any information they get. They drive faster than almost any car, and to flash their bright lights to pass and check a license plate at night—a license plate of a brown sedan—is the work of a second or two.”

Chapter 8

Colonel Max Brodsky gave the eulogy at the funeral of Brigadier General Benjamin Grossman while Herzl sat in the front row staring blindly at the casket that contained what had been collected of his father's body.

“My very dear and close friend, Benjamin Grossman,” Brodsky said, “a dear friend and warm comrade to so many of us here today, has been a hero for all the years he lived in Israel. His contributions to the defense of his beloved land need no repeating here. In his rise to the rank of brigadier general he gave constant proof of that heroism time after time; his men loved him as well as respecting him.”