Blind Mission: A Thrilling Espionage Novel (4 page)

Dan Greenberg stood frozen in place. “Good God,” he murmured. He felt the color drain from his face and with his sleeve mechanically wiped the sweat that had suddenly broken out on his brow. He continued to stand there without moving for a long moment, staring at but not seeing the young girl who stood before him, his thoughts racing.

“What’s the matter, Dan? Do you feel all right?” the girl asked in concern, reaching out a hand to support him.

Then suddenly he remembered, and understood.

No! He hadn’t forgotten his wallet in the apartment, and not in the café or anywhere else. That woman in the street…something in the way she shoved that baby carriage in front of him had drawn his attention even the moment it happened. Now he knew what had bothered him: she hadn’t been walking, but had simply been standing there, waiting for him to get out of the car! And the forceful way she has pushed the carriage, at the very moment he passed in front of her, as if she had been waiting for him…and the man who collided with him a second later…knocking into his shoulder with unexpected force…it was then, yes, then that they had lifted his wallet!

The events of the day, like the scattered pieces of a mosaic, came together in his mind in one terrible picture. The way his car had disappeared…the phony registration at the police station…the registry at the Interior Ministry…his bank account…and now – his apartment. He could not believe such a string of events was coincidental. But the occurrences he had been caught up in since the morning were like something from one of the spy novels he loved to read.

“Dan! Should I bring you a glass of water?”

The voice of the girl, who was still supporting his shoulder, brought him out of his thoughts. He absentmindedly leaned back against the coolness of the wall, for the first time feeling the cold sweat dripping down his back. The wet sensation jolted him back to reality. He suddenly felt nearly overcome with a wave of fear; and not just any fear, but the worst of all – the fear of the unknown, a fear in which he did not know or whom to be afraid of.

Only then did he look up and acknowledge the presence of the girl standing there, still eyeing him with concern. “It’s all right, everything’s all right,” he assured her, enlisting all that remained of his self-confidence to sound positive. “I just got a bit dizzy, probably from the heat.”

They exchanged a few pleasantries as they said goodbye (“And who’s going to ask me for a cup of sugar in the middle of the night?” he joked). Then Greenberg took the elevator down and walked outside into the blinding sunlight.

*     *      *

The humid heat only intensified his aggravation as he stood waiting for another overcrowded bus, which never seemed to arrive when he was in a hurry. He waited for nearly a quarter of an hour, shifting his weight from one foot to another and feeling the seat drip from his back and neck, making his shirt collar stick to him. When the bus finally came, the incessant babbling of his fellow passengers and the driver’s blaring radio threatened to drive him out of his mind. He tried to connect the day’s events in some logical order, but in vain. Things seemed to be unfolding too quickly to make any sense.

When he finally managed to slip into a vacated seat, he remembered the envelope he had found in his mailbox. Taking it from his pocket, he frowned with surprise to see it was from his company. It was unusual, for he could not remember ever receiving something from the company other than by internal mail.

Greenberg gently inserted the key to his former apartment under the envelope flap and worked it open. He spread open the letter and, as he began to absorb its contents, caught his breath. Unbelievingly, he read the short sentences over and over. The dry, businesslike style caused the blood to drain from his face. The economy of statement did not allow him to understand what motive lay behind it. Once again, he vainly searched his mind for some logical explanation. Despite the fact that his job was just an additional aspect to the deluge of problems suddenly surrounding him, the letter was a considerable shock. The force of his anger and alarm made his blood surge through his veins. He felt his nerves stretched to the breaking point. He stood up and took out some of his rage by grabbing the stop-signaling cord and fiercely ringing the bell three times.

The only working public phone he could find was on the corner of a noisy intersection. He loosened his spare telephone token from his key ring and inserted it in the phone, as he closed the glass door with his other hand, in an effort to reduce some of the clamor.

It was exactly 1:45. The telephone at the other end rang again and again, and Greenberg was about to return the receiver, when the familiar voice of the receptionist came on the line: “RSM Elevators and Electric Drive Accessories, good afternoon!”

“Hi, Yael, this is Dan. Please get me Amos.”

“Mr. Gilboa is not in,” came the dry, officious answer. Mr. Gilboa? She didn’t ask him how he was, as she usually did, or express surprise that he was calling in so late in the day.

“Oho, Mr. Gilboa…” Greenberg tried to inject a humorous tone. “Do you know when he’ll be back?”

“No, he didn’t leave a message.” The girl seemed to hesitate, as if trying to evade something. “I’ll tell him you called,” she said finally.

Something in her tone of voice sounded strange to him. He also knew it was not the manager’s custom to leave the office during working hours. He thanked her and hung up, then waited.

After two minutes had passed, he redialed the number. He couldn’t help feeling a bit foolish at what he was about to do, but his need to know was too strong. He had to find out.

“RSM Elevators and Electric Drive Accessories, good afternoon!”

Where does she get the strength to repeat that unchanging refrain over and over, and always so pleasantly? Greenberg thought. He partially covered the mouthpiece with his hand and deepened his voice, changing its rhythm at the same time.

“How do you do?”

The next second was crucial: would she recognize his voice, and if not, what should he say? From his experience as a salesman, he knew there were four things that could get a man’s immediate attention: money, health, power, and women. He discarded the last category immediately, while the first and third seemed unnecessarily complicated.

“This is Dr. Immanuel Regev,” he said finally, with a tinge of urgency in his tone. “I must speak with Mr. Gilboa without delay.”

“Right away, sir!” came the reply, as expected. There came a moment’s silence, then a click as the call was transferred.

He heard the familiar voice answer, sounding a bit surprised: “Hello? Gilboa here!”

“Amos, it’s Dan!”

At the other end, Greenberg heard a gasp. When the manager finally spoke, each syllable was distinct.

“Mr. Greenberg.” Dan started at the official form of address – they had always been on a first-name basis. “I don’t know what you want. As far as I’m concerned the matter is finished, and I have no desire to have any further negotiations with you. I think I’ve made myself clear.”

“What matter? What are you talking about? I don’t understand a thing!”

“You understand quite well,” the man said, trying to restrain his forcefulness and maintain the officialism of the conversation. “Don’t play dumb. Stupidity isn’t one of your qualities. I only hope the check doesn’t inconvenience you. If so…”

“What check? What are you talking about?”

“Really, Mr. Greenberg,” the words rolled out, “don’t tell me you didn’t get the check!”

Dan’s fingers searched inside the envelope again – and indeed there was something else there in addition to the letter; which he had overlooked in his anger. He quickly unfolded the piece of paper and spread it open on the glass wall of the booth.

Four lines detailed the various payments due him for the previous month’s work. Stapled to the bottom of the printed document was a check. On the back, under the line for his endorsement, was a printed statement that his cashing of this check represents the severing of any possible connection with his employer.

“Now-now I see,” mumbled Greenberg. “But why? What does this mean?”

“Look, Mr. Greenberg,” the voice began roughly. “Let’s get things clear, once and for all. I had hoped our relationship was based on friendship, respect, and mutual trust, but you… You have violated this trust.” The man hesitated, then resumed, choosing his words carefully. “I wouldn’t have any grudge against you at all, had you come to me yourself, looked straight in the eye, and told me you’d decided to quit. Just the opposite: it would be very reasonable to assume that I’d try to convince you not to go, and tell you how I’d expect you to really advance in our company. But the way you did it – behind my back, without saying a word – is just a bit more than I can take.”

“Gilboa!” Greenberg roared into the receiver, startling himself at the loudness of his own voice. “Who said anything about quitting? Where did you get such an absurd idea?”

“Really,” the voice at the other end of the line tried to remain calm, “I don’t want to lose my temper. I’ll say just one thing: I have the information, confirmed facts, the evidence, if you will – “

“Evidence? Evidence of what?” Greenberg cut him off. “Gilboa, you head a pretty big organization, you must have lots of information. What kind of ‘confirmed facts’ are you talking about?”

The voice at the other end growled back. “You don’t expect me to tell you my sources of information, do you? Besides – “

“Of course I expect you to!” thundered Greenberg.

“And besides,” Gilboa continued, “what makes you think I should accept your version, as if my information weren’t correct?”

“Because I’m telling you so!” came Greenberg’s bitter reply.

The other man remained silent for a long moment, as if hesitating. “Look, Dan,” he began, his voice seeming to waver, “if you really want to know, the whole thing never would have happened if you had taken some basic precautions. To tell you the truth, now that I think about it, I can’t help but be amazed at you. If you had only not used the office to write that letter you sent to that American company, Elevators of the Future” or whatever you call it.”

“What letter?”

“Really, Dan. The letter in which you confirmed the terms of your new employment, starting next month. You know at least three other people have access to your computer terminal.”

Greenberg froze. “My God,” he whispered to himself. “My God!”

“Dan?” The voice form the receiver jolted him from his thoughts. He instinctively felt he had to end the conversation. Whoever had set this up was no amateur, and wouldn’t let him get away so easily. He cast a nervous glance up and down the street, but failed to see anything unusual.

“Hello! Dan!”

While still watching the passing throng, Greenberg reached out and pulled down the receiver cradle with his free hand, ending the call.

But why, he asked himself over and over, trying to analyze and to understand the events of the day, to what purpose? There must be some kind of reason. Something he could not define kept troubling him. What now, he asked himself, what next?

The sound of the dial tone drew Greenberg’s attention to the receiver he still held in his hand. With a slight start he quickly dropped it into the cradle, letting go of it as if it were a hot object. He looked at his watch and saw it was 1:49. He sighed in relief. His call had taken exactly two minutes – not enough time to trace the call and listen in. If so, then they (and who were they?) still didn’t know that he knew. So much the better – at least until he decided what to do.

His mind worked feverishly. How were they expecting him to act? He should probably do the opposite of what they thought he would. But what the hell did they want?

His feeling of relief evaporated as quickly as it had come. He furrowed his brow in concentration till he felt the blood pounding at his temples. For the first time in his life, he felt his hands tremble. A sudden chill ran between his shoulders and down his legs.  His knees knocked together. Who were they and what did they want from him? Why? Dear God, what do they want from me?

All at once he realized that this was exactly what they – whoever they were – expected him to feel. They wanted him to lose control, to act emotionally instead of logically, to… To do what?

Again Greenberg felt a mounting wave of anger, but checked it. No! He would not let anger rule his actions. He had to think, to quietly evaluate the situation. He had to weigh his steps with the greatest care, and for this reason he had first to evade Them. And in order to evade them, he first had to find them. Then he would know exactly who was following him.

Instinctively he decided that he had to act naturally, and not do anything that looked strange. Only that way, he thought, would he succeed in dulling their awareness. Then, at the moment of his choosing, he would act.

Greenberg smoothly left the booth and set off down the street, his outward calm belied by a heaving chest over a pounding heart. He had to enlist all of his willpower to hold his feelings in check. Walking with a steady pace and trying to slow his breathing, he scanned the street.

There: A late-model, blue Fiat parked ahead of him on the other side of the street. Two young men sat inside talking, occasionally casting a casual glance his way. Casual glance?