Blind Mission: A Thrilling Espionage Novel (2 page)

Dan Greenberg gave a non-committal nod to the driver, hesitated for a full second, then slid onto the seat and closed the door, suddenly enwrapped in the upholstered silence of the big car. The driver swung out into the traffic.

The calmness with which had accepted the unfolding of recent events did not surprise him. He did not feel the slightest fear or even consternation; only a growing curiosity accompanied by a not unpleasant feeling of butterflies in his stomach. He had always been able to take things as they came, and nothing in his experience had ever made him lose his cool. His friends and acquaintances accused him of being indifferent, but he did not feel that way deep inside. He could be considered cold and calculating, even possessed of an iron logic and nerves of steel – but never indifferent. He believed himself to possess an almost brilliant ability to analyze situations, an ability which enabled him to know when to give in, to know when resistance would be counterproductive. There had been times when these qualities had also made him doubt whether he was entirely sane – that perhaps there was something basically deficient in his character, in his personality; but in his heart he knew this was not the case.

The car continued moving towards its unknown destination. As always in such situations, he was reminded of the war: the deep penetration into enemy territory, shells falling and spraying fragments in every direction, vehicles on fire, the smell of burning flesh. He could almost picture the shell crater that had been turned into a casualty collection point: dozens of soldiers lying on the ground without limbs or with their stomachs torn open; weeping screaming, in pain—above them an unceasing, torrential rain and beside them those of their comrades who had remained whole, paralyzed with fear.

In the midst of that tumult, he had been the only one to remain calm, poised, utterly without anxiety. It was as if the situation did not affect him, as if it were not his life that was threatened. He looked around him soberly and critically and understood that he and his comrades were surrounded, and that the rest was only a matter of time. And then he had had an idea. One moment he did not know what to do, and then the next instant a plan had crystallized. A short distance away, near a thorn bush growing in the dust – he needed another minute to finalize the details, then he crawled among the falling shells, the whistling bullets, the smoke of the grenades and cannon. He sensed only his own sweat, the smell of the burning earth, and the passing of precious minutes.

He had felt no nausea when he turned the corpse on its back. Even when he looked into the gray, frozen face, he felt only relief:  it was a normal face, with no special marks. He quickly felt the pocket of the beige safari suit and then – a surge of joy.

The memory was suddenly cut off; someone was speaking to him.

“Put these on, please.” The driver was holding out a pair of very dark sunglasses. As he put them on, he realized they were totally opaque.

He hesitated deliberately, as if he did not understand, waiting until the next intersection. This, he assumed, would help him to remain oriented, even after putting on the glasses. At the same time he stole a glance at the speedometer: they were traveling at about 40 kilometers an hour and the odometer read 56,522.

The light at the intersection turned red and the car stopped. To their right was the Kol-Bo Shalom department store. He put on the glasses. The light must have changed, for the car started forward, turning right. He began counting the seconds silently, trying to maintain a steady rhythm. As he reached 82, the car made another right, and he began to count again. 105—then a left; 128—another left; 41—a sharp right, apparently into a courtyard. He heard a heavy metal gate grinding closed behind him as the car stopped and its engine was turned off. “82 right, 105 left, 128 left, 41 right; 82 right, 105 left, 128 left, 41 right…” he repeated to himself, in the hope that later the numbers would be able to tell him where he was.

“You can take off the glasses,” said the driver, in a tone of command.

A near total gloom met his eyes. He tried to get used to the darkness and to read the odometer, but it was too black. As the driver left the car, Greenberg lit himself a cigarette, with feigned casualness, using the flame of his lighter to illuminate the odometer. They had driven nearly four kilometers since he had covered his eyes.

“Come,” said the driver, “you can smoke inside.”

He lazily got out of the car and slammed the door, deliberately taking his time in order to get a sense of his location. He was in a small underground garage, with space for only two cars. He walked over a rough concrete floor to where the driver stood beside a rusty steel security door, next to which was an electronic panel.

As the driver quickly punched the entrance code, Greenberg added the numbers to his memory. The lock gave a brief hum, then clicked open. The driver beckoned him to follow, and began climbing the cement staircase two steps at a time; looking backward at the top and waiting for him.

Another metal door opened and a strong light glared in his eyes.

*     *      *

The place resembled a small waiting room. A long, faded brown couch took up the length of one wall, and opposite were two folding wooden chairs.

Greenberg did not wait for the driver to invite him to sit, but went straight to the couch. After a moment the room’s other door opened and a tall man appeared. His short, gray hair, solid frame, and stolid face reminded Greenberg of a professional soldier. He gave a slight nod and beckoned Greenberg into the inner room.

He rose from the couch and entered a small, nearly empty, whitewashed room. Other than an old-fashioned black telephone resting on a wall bracket in the corner, there was nothing remarkable in the room. The tall man crossed from the door in measured steps and moved behind a simple desk, pointing with a finger to the chair opposite. Both men sat down almost simultaneously.

The tall man silently opened one of the desk drawers and drew out a black plastic ash tray, which he pushed towards his visitor. He then leaned back in his chair and began to speak.

“You were summoned here because we would like to propose that you join us.”

“Who are you?” Greenberg asked the obvious question, feeling as if he were taking part in a game in which his actions had been planned in advance.

“We’ll get to that question,” the man answered, reaching into the desk again and pulling out a thick, gray, cardboard file. He leafed through the file until he found what he was looking for, then began to read in a dry, matter-of-fact-voice:

“Dan Greenberg, born in Israel, age 41; family status – single; height – 1.75 meters; weight – 70 kilograms; color of eyes – brown; color of hair – brown; shape of face – oval; distinguishing marks – none.”

Very nice, thought Greenberg disparagingly. So far he hasn’t said anything you couldn’t see just by looking at me.

“Present occupation – sales manager; other occupations – electronics technician, tour guide; hobbies – photography; languages – fluent in English, French, German, and Hebrew, partial knowledge of Italian; length of military service – three years; military specialties – anti-terrorist and self-defense techniques.”

How the hell does he know all that? Greenberg wondered. Did he have access to my army file, perhaps as a former senior officer? Greenberg began to feel uneasy.

“Personality characteristics – cool-headed, able to lead, quick-witted, imaginative, consistent, has personal charisma and a rare ability to form social rapport quickly; special comments – has phenomenal memory.”  The man closed the file.

“Is that all?” Greenberg asked, nodding ironically at the bursting file.

“All the rest doesn’t concern us,” the man replied easily. “And now that we’ve had a little chat about you, I’ll present us to you, in full confidence of your ability to keep a secret.”

The man paused and Greenberg looked straight into his eyes.

“We belong to an organization which you must have heard about recently,” the man continued, “The Rising.”

The Rising, thought Greenberg, without surprise. I should have known. The ridiculous way the meeting had been arranged, and the way the “boss” had conducted it so far, smacked of a novice terrorist organization drawing its inspiration from the movies. But the no-nonsense manner of speaking of the man opposite him – was the organization staffed by a core of tough ex-army officers? It was conceivable, and not unreasonable. For the abrupt change in Israel’s relationship with the United States had been accompanied by a worsening of the economic situation beyond all recognition: during recent months hundreds of thousands of people had learned the meaning of the term “below the poverty line;” the number of jobseekers was growing from day to day; while the country’s various welfare bodies were able to provide the needy with less and less support. In such a situation, there might be nothing easier for many than to be swept towards violence! Indeed bombs had recently been planted in several Arab markets and thoroughfares, while leaflets were distributed signed by the organization calling itself The Rising. In a country of scores of thousands of reserve officers, there was actually no reason why some of them could not serve as the core of such an underground. Already during the ride here, Greenberg had tried to prepare himself for some kind of eventuality like this – though he had not actually thought of The Rising. Nevertheless, now that it had been mentioned explicitly, he experienced a certain shock. Why? He had no logical explanation.

“Why me?” he asked finally. “And why now?”

The tall man’s lips twisted in an ironic smile. “How should we describe it? The right attributes…. A good personal background…. I’m referring to certain events in your past that, because of which, we feel –“

Greenberg felt a mounting rage. Despite the casual manner of speaking, it was clear to him that the man knew what he was talking about – and wouldn’t hesitate to exploit the painful wound. He instantly relived those terrible moments. He could almost hear the voice over the loudspeaker at the giant electronics plant where he used to work: Dan Greenberg, Dan Greenberg, report to the general manager’s office; Dan Greenberg, Dan Greenberg…” He remembered how he had walked to the office, where he was met by a waiting policeman, and a doctor and a nurse dressed in white, and they told him of the tragedy in a few cautious sentences. His face had remained impassive; only his hand had jumped for the second it took to absorb the fact that his parents, his sister, and her two-year-old son had been killed by a bomb planted in a handbag left at a downtown café. The news bulletin an hour later described it as a terrorist act. Radio Monte Carlo had broadcast from Beirut that a faction of the Radical Front for the Liberation of Palestine had claimed responsibility.

Greenberg could still remember how his eyes had remained dry and burning even as he had stood before the open graves. He had felt a certain distance, as if a screen separated him from everything else – silent, held in check, motionless. He had felt no desire for revenge; only pain that threatened to burst forth and a deep emptiness.  At that moment he would have given anything to be able to cry – to cry for once with all his heart. And all the handshaking – dozens of hands without faces – and the meaningless words of comfort trying to penetrate his consciousness, the sound of weeping from every side, and the defense minister exploiting the event in order to prattle at the graveside about the need for a response… When the ceremony was over and people began to leave, only he had remained standing frozen in place, staring about in numb bewilderment. Only his eyes moved: from the wreathe of flowers to the gravediggers finishing their work, and from them to the rabbi as he walked away.

He had no recollection of what happened to him during the days that followed. He could not recall how long he had driven aimlessly around in his car, on a road that had no beginning and no end, staring at the gray-black asphalt and listening to the monotonous murmur of his tires on the road surface.

For a split second a deeply buried memory flashed in his mind of a crowded room in a nameless roadside inn. The memory faded. His fingers, which had been digging into the wooden arm of his chair, relaxed.

“What exactly are you proposing?” he finally asked the tall man.

The man shifted in his seat, and Greenberg interpreted the action as an expression of unease. “You understand, of course, that I cannot go into detail at the moment. We’ll have to put you through some tests – mainly psychometric – and afterwards you’ll undergo some training in the field we decide upon as your specialty.”

“And if I’m not suitable?”

“Don’t worry. With qualities like yours, and considering the range of our activities, there’s no such danger.”

What arrogance, thought Greenberg to himself. “Thanks,” he said firmly. “It’s a flattering offer – but I think I’ll have to turn it down.”

The face of the tall man remained frozen. No doubt he’s experienced in such things, thought Greenberg; if I didn’t know he was disappointed, I might have thought he was pleased. “All right,” the man said, standing up.

He did not offer to shake hands. Instead, he bent over the desk and scribbled something on a piece of paper. “Here,” he held it out to Greenberg, “in case you change your mind and want to reach me. This is the number. The name is Zvi.”

Greenberg took the paper and glanced at it, before folding it and putting it into his shirt pocket. The tall man came out from behind the desk and walked him to the door.