Blind Mission: A Thrilling Espionage Novel (27 page)

The first person to recover sufficiently enough to try to impose order on what was happening was a young man named Ted Davis, who was the technician responsible for sound amplification. Later he would receive a medal of honor from the Washington Police Department and a special citation from the American Press Association for what he did. With great decisiveness the young man picked up a microphone, connected it to the public address system, and began issuing instructions aimed at introducing some logic and order into the mayhem.

In the broadcast booths the reporters began to regain control of themselves and to absorb what was taking place. In voices that soon recovered their customary firmness, they tried to explain the course of events to their countries and to draw some logical conclusions from the chaotic scene before them.

From the television set in the prime minister’s bureau in Jerusalem came the voice of veteran broadcaster Ilan Michaeli. “…and while it is still not clear exactly what has happened here and how, it is a great tragedy, terrible and incomprehensible.”

On the live satellite broadcast it was now possible to see American security men striving to push back dozens of press photographers who were trying to reach the dais, in a belated attempt to capture some of the horror on film.

Amidst the tumult, the still stunned bodyguards of the fallen president struggled to clear a path for an ambulance crew bearing folding stretchers and other emergency equipment. But no doctor of experienced paramedic was needed to determine that the three leaders were no longer among the living; there was actually no need for an ambulance at all.

The crowd continued to run amok.  Among those moving about more purposefully were several men wearing special protective vests and helmets; apparently members of an army demolition unit. They scoured the lawn systematically, ignoring the panicked guests, and checked under each bench, chair, and table for additional explosives.

“…It is still not clear what caused the explosion that cut off the lives of these three great leaders,” the reporter intoned, in a voice more characteristic of his coverage at less dramatic events. “In any case, at first glance the impression is that the source of the blast was in the vicinity of the dais. As the examination continues we should have more details. At this moment it is too early to imagine who is responsible for this terrible act. Nevertheless, it is not hard to guess which groups and organizations throughout the world could stand to gain from the perpetration of such an outrage, and which groups among them had the ability to do so; for such an attack required the kind of expertise not available to just any terrorist organization.”

The voice of Ilan Michaeli and the background noise of the screaming crowd were swallowed up by the wails of many sirens, as police, army, and Red Cross vehicles converged on the scene.

In Jerusalem, the phone in the prime minister’s study rang. Because of the unequivocal orders they had given to the bureau director about not taking incoming calls, it was clear to the two senior ministers that the person on the other end of the line must be the head of the Mossad. Meir Gilat snatched up the receiver with uncharacteristic savagery and barked into it:

“Yes, Nahum, what the hell’s going on there?!”

But it was the bureau director’s voice that he heard. “We cannot locate the head of the Mossad,” she began. I’ve managed to find the Mossad director for North America. Would you like to speak with him?”

“Yes; transfer the call, please.”

“Hello, acting prime minister. This is Yitzhak Eitan speaking,” Gilat heard after a short delay.

“Hello, Yitzhak. What happened? What can you tell me?”

“Not much. We have no idea what happened.”

“Where is Nahum?” the foreign minister asked having difficulty understanding why he had to speak with anyone less than the head of the Mossad himself; especially when the man had no answers to his questions.

“We don’t know, sir. Contact with him was lost about an hour ago.”

“Where is his deputy?”

“He’s also disappeared. To the best of our knowledge, he was with Porat.”

“Just a minute; let me understand this. When you say that contact with Nahum was lost – just what do you mean?”

Now a click was heard over the line. The foreign minister and his interlocutor knew well that it was the code computer automatically changing codes at random, in order to ensure the secrecy of the call by making it impossible to monitor.

“We were in radio contact with the director and Nissan, but it was cut off. We contacted all the other units in the area, but none of them could reach the director either. We have no idea about what kind of activity he was engaged in, and until we can follow up some details from various other people, we won’t have a clue that could help us about –“

“Listen, Yitzhak,” the foreign minister cut him off. “You must find out what happened. Try to find Nahum or his deputy. You certainly understand that this must be done with the greatest urgency; I’m giving you two hours. We can’t delay the official reaction of the government of Israel longer than that.

*     *      *

Dan Greenberg jumped from his seat in terrible bewilderment. He did not understand what had happened; his head was spinning with possibilities, which he immediately discarded one after the other. Panic threatened to overwhelm him. His hands began to shake, he felt dizzy, and the blood pounded in his head. He staggered into the bathroom and splashed cold water on his face. A sudden spasm in both knees made him feel he was losing control of his body; a feeling that increased as more wild trembling seized him. What will I do now, he asked himself, how should I act? Slowly his thoughts settled on his only life boat. Struggling to regain control over his trembling, he went down to a public phone in the lobby and dialed the classified department of
The New York Times
, using his second credit card to place a for-sale ad for a six-week-old German shepherd.

Jennifer, Jennifer Robbins. They would sit together and try to understand what had happened. Together they would try to analyze the event. Yes, he had planned an assassination – but …but he had not pressed the detonator button. No, it wasn’t him!

Jennifer Robbins sat on the black sofa, her freshly showered body wrapped in a towel, and stared at the television screen. For a second she did not absorb what she saw. The next second a scream of terror started to form in her throat, but some inner strength enabled her to stifle it. Later she remembered in detail why she had decided not to scream. At that split-second, she had said to herself: I’m not at home; I’m at a hotel in Cape Cod, where I’m registered under the name of Helen Carter; a scream is liable to be heard in the hall or at the reception desk one floor below; questions might be asked; and even if anyone might scream at such a tragedy, my privacy might be compromised, my identity might be uncovered, and then…my life might be in danger.

The scenes on the screen became more and more gruesome. The president had now been placed on a stretcher and an intensive-care team as carrying him from behind the dais. The white sheet covering his face left no doubt as to his condition. Jennifer trembled.

Only now did she feel the pain she had caused herself when she held back her scream by biting down hard on her balled fist. The sharp pain in her right hand helped focus her mind. She concentrated totally on the screen in front of her. I should have been there, the professional in her said; I – should—have – been—there! She now tried to glean from the picture tube any detail that could shed light on the events. Something was bothering her, and she tried to understand what it was. Somewhere deep in her consciousness
she knew
this would happen. But an important question remained unanswered. Had
he
done this? Jennifer Robbins instantly demanded the answer from herself. Had Dan Greenberg lied to her, and actually plotted to kill the three leaders? All the threads led to him, but there was something that prevented her from convicting him. She did not know what it was, but knew that she had to resolve it for herself. One thing she did know without a doubt: she was frightened. Could she now confront him and find out? Would they meet? Did she really
want
to see him again? Yes. She had to, she must know!

Jennifer grabbed her purse and searched inside till she found the paper with the format of the ad that Dan had dictated to her in the coffee shop in New York. She would find him. She was now the only person he would want to see, if he indeed wanted to see anyone.

“And if it was him,” she asked herself aloud, “why on earth did he do it?” The journalist in her could not help from seeing this as one of the most important stories in the history of journalism, and without a doubt the most important story in her life.

Jennifer Robbins left the hotel on foot and walked till she found a pay phone. Using the credit card Dan had given her, she called
The New York Times
and placed her ad.

*     *      *

All night long Jennifer remained restlessly awake, her racing thoughts allowing her no rest. When she returned to the hotel the evening before, she asked the receptionist where she could buy the early edition of the
Times
. The woman checked for her: it arrived in the next town by bus at 6:15. Jennifer ordered a wake-up call for 5:30 and a cab for 5:45.

In the meantime she packed. She had to be ready to move. Her nerves were stretched to the breaking point; but as usual when she was under pressure, she felt no fatigue. On the contrary, some inexplicable strength surged through her body. This time, however, it was not professional curiosity that motivated her, but fear. Fear of what? Of him? Of those who were following him? The reason she had to look at the paper as soon as possible was simple: if Greenberg had placed an ad in the paper to enable her to find him, fine; but if he had not, then the ad she had placed would reveal her hiding place. If he were indeed the assassin, what was her life worth if he wanted to silence the only one who knew whose finger had pressed the button?

The bedside phone rang. Jennifer zipped her suitcase closed and lifted the receiver.

“Ms. Carter, your cab is here,” the night clerk informed her.

Jennifer went to the window and moved the curtain back slightly to look out. A yellow taxi was pulled up at the hotel entrance. The dawn was just breaking. She looked down the hotel drive; no strange car was lurking. At that moment she realized how during the last 24 hours her reactions had become those of a hunted animal. Slowly and quietly she left the room, locked the door, and tried not to make noise as she descended the squeaky wooden stairs.

*     *      *

When the taxi brought Jennifer back to the hotel from her early morning excursion it was after 6:30 and fully light. As it pulled up to the entrance she looked in her purse for the fare, while calculating the size of the tip.

She barely stepped into the small lobby when the reception clerk called her name excitedly.

“Ms. Carter! Someone’s been calling for you on the phone; his name is Jones. He’s been calling about every 10 minutes since you went out. He asked when you were coming back and I didn’t know what to tell him! Anyway, he said he would keep on trying till you got back. He should be calling another two or three minutes!”

“It’s okay,” said Jennifer soothingly. “I’ll take it in my room. Thank you.”

She heard the ring just as she reached the top of the stairs. She ran to her room, pulling out her key from her jacket pocket as she went. Through the door in a second, she slammed it behind her and dived across the bed to snatch the receiver from its cradle.

“Jenn?”

“Yes,” signed Jennifer.

“Jenn, it wasn’t me. I don’t know what happened. I meant to do it, yes; but it wasn’t me, I –“

“I know,” said Jennifer; for indeed, now she did. “I know.” A sense of relief swept over her entire body. All her muscles relaxed, and now she felt tired. Her cheeks were wet with tears.

“Jenn, are you there?”

“Yes, I’m here,” she sighed.

“Good. How much time do you need to get to New York?”

“If I leave now, seven hours at the most.”

“Great. Tell me, do you feel like Chinese food?”

“Definitely.”

“There’s a restaurant in Chinatown, at the end of Mott Street, the corner of –“

“I know it; sort of a touristy place.”

“Exactly. It’s one of my favorite restaurants. Shall we meet there at 2:30?”

“It’s a date.”

*     *      *

“No,” insisted Dan, “that wasn’t my plan. I only intended to kill two –“

“Two?! You only told me about one.”

“Right, and even that one you found hard to digest. How would you have reacted if I had told you everything?”

Jennifer considered the question and was forced to concede that he was right. Actually, it was amazing that she had ever given refuge to someone who was planning to murder
anyone
. And now? After not one, and not two, but three people? She now discovered, to her further dismay, that she was not revolted. Was this only because he claimed that he had not done it after all?

“I don’t understand what happened,” Dan said earnestly. “When I sat in my hotel room in Washington and watched what happened on the television, I thought about every possible technical fault that could activate the system; but it is simply not possible that it was a malfunction. When I designed it I used five different transmitters, each of which operated on a different frequency –“

“If that’s the case, how did you intend to activate them all at once?” Jennifer cut him off, trying to hear him over the Chinese music that flooded the restaurant and reaching across the table for the bottle of wine.

“Don’t you understand? I had no intention of activating them
together
!” Greenberg shouted. “I intended to use only one transmitter. I did plant explosives in all three microphones on the platform, and in a reserve one – but I marked the microphone specially, so that later, during the broadcast of the ceremony, I could identify the one I wanted and at the right time activate only that one!”

“But you said you had five transmitters, and that you planned to kill two men, not one!”

“Right; I planted the fifth charge in the car belonging to the head of the Mossad. Him I intended to deal with later, separately.”

“If that’s the case, then how did all the transmitters operate at the same time?”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you: I have no idea! I simply don’t understand. Somebody had to know all five frequencies, then wire the system into one switch and –“

“But that’s impossible, right?”

“Right.”

Jennifer considered the matter. “I don’t understand it either,” she said finally. “We’ll probably never know the answer.”

The two beckoned to the waiter and asked for the bill. As they finished their last sip of wine, it arrived on a small silver platter; on top of the bill were two fortune cookies. Greenberg pulled the check from under them and looked at it, then reached into his jacket for his wallet. Suddenly his face froze, and if suddenly drained of blood.

“My God!” he exclaimed. “Why didn’t I think of it before?! Of course!”

“What happened? What are you talking about?” demanded Jennifer.

“That’s it; it’s the only possibility!”

“Dan, what are you talking about? What’s happened?”

“The bill,” Greenberg said, pointing to the restaurant check. “The itemized bill…”

“What’s wrong with the bill?” Jennifer demanded, beginning to lose her patience, as she snatched it from Dan’s hand.

“Not this bill,” Greenberg said slowly.

“Which?”

“I bought the remote-control units from which I built the radio-controlled detonators at a toy store. Originally, these transmitters and receivers belonged to radio-controlled race cars and airplanes. Those who were following me apparently found the itemized bill of sale – perhaps when that man was waiting for me in your apartment. It’s reasonable to assume that, alongside the amounts charged, the product codes were also listed. They could see what I bought, and then bought exactly the same things!”

“And then – they understood what you were going to do with what you bought,” Jennifer said, understanding.

“Yes. They drew the single possible conclusion. But…but…” he continued after a slight pause, “they didn’t know which transmitter belonged to which microphone. I marked them so that I could identify them, and know exactly which one to activate –“

“And you intended to activate only the one in front of your prime minister,” said Jennifer, slipping unconsciously into her professional manner.

“Yes. He was the one who gave the orders; he was the one who sent them all after me; he was the one who could have brought about my destruction. I had to destroy him first – so that no one would know…so that I could get my life back.”

“But they didn’t know which transmitter was matched with which microphone, so they activated them all at once,” responded Jennifer.

“Exactly. My God, Jennifer! There were four microphones, and I also planted the fifth charge. They must have set that one off also!”

Greenberg lurched up from his seat and charged over to the corner of the restaurant by the entrance, where there was a newspaper vending machine. He found the correct change in his pocket and slipped it into the slot, then lifted the lid and extracted the paper. Back at the table, he began to turn the pages while scanning quickly.

“Dan, would you please explain finally –“

Greenberg stopped turning. His eyes moved slowly down the big page, reading an article line by line. Then a weak voice came from him, saying in wonder, “They blew themselves up.”

“What? What did you say? Would you please make sense?

The anger in Jennifer’s voice brought him back to reality. With some hesitation, he began. “Jennifer, I had five explosive charges. Three of them I placed inside the microphones that were on the platform, the fourth was in a backup microphone, and the fifth – in the car of the head of the Mossad. I found it in Washington after I followed one of his agents. That was the man who tried to recruit me – back then, a million years ago, in Tel Aviv. I came to the conclusion that this man and my prime minister were the two people responsible for my situation, and therefore I had to destroy them. And now it seems that they destroyed themselves!”

If so, how many people lost their lives in the explosions? Dan Greenberg pointed to the newspaper and Jennifer reached for it and turned it around to face her. She read the article Greenberg had indicated.

“Two persons were killed when a late-model Chevrolet station wagon blew up yesterday at apparently the same time of the White House explosions, some five blocks away. An equipment container of the NBC Television network, which was standing outside a mobile broadcasting unit at the White House, also exploded. FBI investigators are trying to establish whether the three events are connected. The two bodies found in the wreckage of the car were mutilated beyond recognition by the blast, a fact that is hampering the investigation.”

*     *      *