Blind Mission: A Thrilling Espionage Novel (14 page)

The page in front of him contained some 50 telephone numbers. He could see by the area codes that they were spread all over Europe. The procedure required him to dial each number on the list and relay a given message. Then, within an hour, he had to report to the center in Tel Aviv on the accomplishment of the mission. During the following two hours, he was to receive return calls from each of those he had contacted – verification of authenticity, he allowed himself to wonder, just as he had been taught in the field intelligence course. When this stage was over, it would be close to 1 a.m. Until 3 a.m. this duty officer would have to try to contact all numbers not reached during the first attempt. After that, he would have to report again to headquarters; then wait for further instructions.

Major Ben-David went over to the small sink in the corner of the room, opened the cold water tap, and filled the electric kettle he kept in the room almost to the brim. He’d be needing a lot of black coffee before the night was over.

*     *      *

Porat snatched up the receiver of the green phone on the second ring. For a moment he wondered what could have caused them to call him on the encrypted line at such a late hour on Sabbath Eve; the only night he could sometimes manage to sit at the table with his family.

“Nahum? It’s Ya’acov.”

“Yes, what happened?” The clashing of plates and silverware made hearing difficult, but the new words were enough to jolt him:

“The bird was flown!”

Five minutes later Porat was sitting in the car of the chief of operations, who picked him up at home.

Before he could settle back in his seat, Nissan had shot the car forward and had begun to speak. “When you asked me to activate Operation Headhunter, I instructed all police units in the country to inform us immediately of any complaint about a lost or stolen passport, especially a foreign one. In parallel, I circulated the names of the missing passports among all the airlines operating in the country and asked them to notify us immediately of any booking in the name of someone on the list.”

“Good thinking,” said Porat.

“Anyway, yesterday evening central district police headquarters received a complaint from a young German tourist named Walter Reichert, who claims his passport was stolen from the safe at his youth hostel, together with a credit card. The reception clerk at the hostel said that a plainclothes police officer had checked the passports of those staying there. When we showed him a photo, the clerk identified the policeman as our man.”

“I’d be thrilled to know where the man is in the present, not where he just was,” said Porat.

The car stopped at a light, signaling for a turn. “In any event, an hour later we learned that a man calling himself Walter Reichert booked a seat on El Al Flight 353 leaving Ben-Gurion Airport at 6:00 a.m.”

“How did he pay?” Porat asked.

“He didn’t use the stolen credit card, if that’s what you mean. He paid cash.”

“That is to say, from the money in the safe-deposit box.”

This time, the anger and impatience in Porat’s voice were directed at his prey and not his deputy.

“Apparently.”  The light changed and Nissan turned right. “In any case, the reservations clerk also identified our bird from the photo.” Ya’acov Nissan swallowed before continuing. “Four of our best people were in the departure hall by 3:30, and eight more were spread around the airport. All of them were waiting for Walter Reichert, but he didn’t show up. One of our people even boarded the flight to Germany and checked all the passengers up close during the trip. Our man called as soon as they landed in Munich. Walter Reichert wasn’t on the plane.”

“So?” asked Porat. “What do you –“

“Wait,” his deputy cut him off, continuing to circle the neighborhood aimlessly. “That’s not the end of the story. We again checked the passenger lists of all the airlines with flights leaving the country today, in the hope of finding “Reichert” on another flight. He wasn’t.”

“So, what’s the problem? The man simply didn’t take a flight. We have to keep looking for him.”

“In Switzerland,” Nissan said, startling him, as he braked to let a group of young partygoers saunter across the middle of the street, in careless disregard of the traffic.

“Switzerland?” Porat asked, his voice rising in amazement. “What do you mean?”

“Walter Reichert wasn’t on a single flight that left the country under our surveillance – but, on the other hand, Dan Greenberg’s name was on the Brussels Airlines passenger list.”

“What?!”

“Yes. We were so sure that we had tracked him down that we dropped surveillance of the other flights and didn’t check for the name ‘Greenberg’. By the time we checked what had happened and reorganized, the bird had flown. The man left for Zurich via Brussels at 1:20 a.m. , more than four hours before the El Al flight.”

The head of the Mossad could not conceal his astonishment, unconsciously letting out a long whistle of amazement. “Do you have the vaguest idea where he is at this moment?” he asked after he had recovered.

“Nine hours have passed since his plane landed in Zurich at 8:20 a.m. and since then more than 22 hours have passed. In principle, he could be anywhere in Europe, or almost anywhere in the world.”

The head of Israel’s secret service adjusted his position on the hard seat and shook his head in wonder. “The man is smart; just as smart as I imagined. Shit! Stealing a foreign passport, booking a flight in the foreigner’s name, and then using his own name – his real name!  -- and leaving Israel in broad daylight. The man has made fools of us.”

“Had he only used the stolen credit card, we would have known the whole move was just a diversion; but the guy made us believe he was indeed about to board the plane using the German’s identity , so –“

“Nissan,” Porat cut off his speculation, “it’s clear to me that the man is tired. He needs to rest, to organize his thoughts. And perhaps, more than anything else, he needs money. I don’t believe there was a significant sum in the safe-deposit box. I’ve got a feeling that our butterfly will remain in Switzerland for the moment. In any case, I want our search efforts to focus on Switzerland, at least at this stage. And something else.”

“What?” Nissan glanced at him.

“There’s an Israeli stage actress named Tova Rom. To the best of my knowledge she’s in Germany right now, perhaps in Austria, on some round of performances. Find her! Find her quickly! When you do, I want six of our people around her, keeping their eyes open. That’s all.”

The expression on the face of the chief of operations was one of amazement, but it passed in a second. “No problem,” he sighed, pulling up at his commander’s house.

*     *      *

The very moment Peter Fau entered his apartment and hung his hat on the rack by the door, the phone began to ring. From where he stood, Fau could see the cuckoo clock hanging on the kitchen wall, its hands indicating 2:22 a.m. What the hell! He had just returned from a working dinner with a group of Japanese police officers – a meal that had concluded with an exhaustive round of drinking at a night club for tourists – and his body was aching to crawl into bed beside his wife.

He quickly lifted the receiver before it could complete its second ring, sincerely hoping the members of his family continued sleeping undisturbed. The last thing he needed was a lecture from his wife about the late hours he kept and about his drinking habits.

“Peter Fau,” he said into the mouthpiece, in a tone somewhere between a statement of fact and a question. “Who is it?”

He could not identify the voice, but something in the way the man pronounced his “R” indicated he wasn’t a local.

“I apologize for the hour, Herr Fau, but the matter is urgent and cannot be delayed.”

“What matter?”

“I’m referring to the matter of Herr Wolfgang Fau…”

The cold expressionless voice was silent.

Peter Fau’s blood froze in his veins and the pleasant buss he had felt from the drinking instantly disappeared.  He knew that, sooner or later, the day would come – but now that it had, he was shocked nonetheless. He now knew it was no coincidence that the phone had run precisely as he entered his home.

“I’m leaving immediately,” he said somewhat hoarsely, after a moment’s silence, in the tone of a man accepting a verdict. He tiredly replaced the receiver and then went into his bedroom, sitting on the wide bed. Gently taking his sleeping wife’s hand, he patted it softly and waited for her to awake.

“I’ve got to go out again.”

“Peter –“

“It’s an emergency. I probably won’t be back tonight. Don’t worry.”

A minute later he was already wearing his green cap and putting his arms through the sleeve of his matching, long raincoat, whose epaulets proudly displayed the insignia of a deputy commander in the Swiss Border Police.

He did not know exactly what he would be required to do, though he imagined it would involve keeping an eye on Switzerland’s border crossings. This was the first time he had been called to act; nevertheless, he well knew what was liable to happen if he did not perform as expected. His conscience did not trouble him. The main thing was that his elderly father was in one of the finest old age homes in the city and getting the best care, while he himself did not have to give up any of his pleasures to keep him there. His government salary – although fairly high – was not sufficient to pay for all the expenses his father’s care entailed, even had he wanted to pay for it himself. “They” paid for everything.

He did not know who they were or who was behind them. He had some conjectures; but in truth he did not bother to verify them, and perhaps was a bit afraid of trying to do so. They took care of everything – and were professionals. Among other things, they took the trouble – in case he was asked – to invent a rich relative somewhere in Philadelphia, in the United States, who made the heavy payments. This elderly aunt, he was given to understand, was liable to kick off at any moment. What would happen then? He didn’t want to think about it.

Peter Fau spent the next two hours driving his BMW south on the expressway from Zurich, precisely following the instructions he had been given for making contact.

There were few other cars on the road at that hour. Visibility was poor, and Fau had to use the defroster to keep the windshield clear. He had to use the wipers to clear the outside from spray every time another car passed him. He did not know what was going to happen, how contact would be made, what he would be asked to do – he had only been told to drive.

A flashing orange light penetrated the early morning fog in Fau’s rear-view mirror. It’s probably a road-service vehicle, he thought, dismissing it as he turned up the radio. A female announcer with a pleasantly low voice was just finishing the weather report: “…Temperatures will drop and there will be scattered snowfall in the mountains,” she concluded.

The light in his mirror grew brighter. Now in his side-view mirror he could clearly see a yellow car of the European Automobile Club speeding along in the center lane, still some distance behind.

On the radio, a young male announcer had taken over to present an early program of new wave rock music. Really! Just as he was reaching over to change channels to something more to his taste, his attention was drawn to the left. Turning his head, he was surprised to see a flashing “STOP” sign – the kind used by the highway police – waving at him from the window of the yellow car, signaling him to pull over.

Without understanding why he was being asked to stop, Fau eased off the accelerator and pulled over to the shoulder of the highway. The yellow car stopped just in front of him.

Immediately a man dressed in white mechanic’s overalls got out of the service vehicle and walked towards his car. Fau opened the window and stuck out his head into the cold wind, and yelled at the approaching man: “Hey! What’s up?”

The man in white stepped up with assurance and spoke without preamble. “Good morning, Herr Fau. I hope your father is feeling well?”

The Swiss border officer’s heart skipped a beat. He looked at the man , but could not make out any of his features. The man was wearing a rain hat and giant goggles.

Contact had been made.

*     *      *

The head of the Mossad leaned back on the left side of the conservative brown sofa and crossed his legs. Once again he found himself in the meeting room of the prime minister’s official residence in Jerusalem.

The prime minister sat down beside him, turned to him and began straight away. “I assume that it is clear to you that I’m not at all pleased by being kept in a continuous fog. It is unthinkable that I, as prime minister, not be kept informed – not updated
at all
! It is unthinkable that, ever since I agreed to the idea, you have not reported to me even once what was happening. I remind you – and it’s not the first time I’m doing so – that you are directly under my command. You must change the way you operate – and if not, I’ll have to begin looking already for someone else, someone more inclined to cooperate with his superiors. I hope you intend to involve me more in the present meeting; if not, it would be better for us to stop right now.”