Greenberg saw his opportunity and advanced to the counter. “Excuse me,” he began. “My car –“
Before he could complete his sentence, the sergeant had shoved a form to him.
Twenty minutes later, he watched intently from over the counter as the officer quickly typed the details he had listed on the form into a computer terminal. He knew from rumor that finding a stolen car in Tel Aviv was no easy matter. Who knows, by now his three-year-old Audi 4 was probably over the Green Line, being dismantled for parts in a Palestinian chop-shop. He resigned himself to the thought of most likely having to be a pedestrian for the next few weeks. The very thought depressed him.
After a moment, the requested data streamed from the computer printer. The sergeant casually ripped the sheet from the machine and glanced at it, then a puzzled look came over his face. “What the hell, is this?!” he murmured to himself. He looked at Greenberg and said, not without a measure of impatience, “According to this, sir, your car was taken of the road for safety reasons, after being severely damaged in an accident three days ago. It was declared a total loss.”
It took Greenberg about 10 seconds to digest what he had heard. “That can’t be!” he exclaimed. “I’ve owned that car for almost three years and it’s never been in an…”
“One moment, sir” the officer cut him off. ”There could easily be a mistake. Do you have the registration with you?”
“Of course.”
Greenberg reached into his back pocket – his wallet was gone!
He quickly retraced his moves since leaving home, while continuing to pat his other pockets in vain. The café. He had probably left it at the café.
“Kept the registration in the car, eh?” the sergeant smirked, shaking his head. “It’s always the same story. People won’t learn not to leave valuables in the car, especially not documents – “
“No, no,” Greenberg protested. “The papers are probably in my – “
“Sir,” the sergeant cut him off, “without the registration I have no way of checking. As far as I’m concerned, the car with the number you gave me doesn’t exist!” With a shrug of his shoulders, he turned to an elderly woman standing behind Greenberg. “Yes, how can I help you, ma’am?”
Greenberg turned and walked outside.
* * *
The female clerk at the Interior Ministry counter was about 25 and, in Greenberg’s estimation, wore too much makeup. He slipped his completed application forms through a slit in the greenish-tinted glass barrier, along with two passport-size photos that were still damp. The clerk took the forms, then scanned the computer screen for a moment and then looked up at Greenberg with what seemed to him suspicion in her eyes.
“What’s the problem?” he asked.
“No problem,” came her unconvincing reply. “Would you please go to inquiries, Room 51? There seems to be some problem in the registry. It’s down the hall, on the left, right after Information – second door on the right. I’ll tell them you’re on the way,” she concluded, and with unexpected efficiency, picked up the phone.
A metal frame engraved with the number 51 was fastened to the left of a dark green door. In the space usually reserved for the name of the clerk inside was written a single word: Inquiries. He knocked once and went in.
The middle-aged woman sitting behind a simple office desk looked up at him as if she had been awaiting his arrival and motioned for him to sit down. Her blue rinsed hair was immaculately coiffed and her eyes were hidden behind fashionably tinted glasses.
“Just one more moment, sir,” she said. “The material in your case should arrive from the archives in just a minute.”
Indeed, she had barely finished speaking when a messenger boy entered the room carrying an armful of files, most of them to be delivered to other offices. He stood next to the woman’s desk and waited patiently for her to pull the wanted files from his pile.
“But wait a second…” the woman murmured to herself as she opened a file.
As a look of puzzlement spread over the woman’s face, Greenberg leaned towards her and began employing a skill he had developed as a youth: the ability to read upside down. His eyes quickly scanned the lines of type and their content jolted him into a sudden dizziness. On the desk in front of him, at arm’s reach, was a death certificate – with his name on it!
No, there was no mistake, and it wasn’t his imagination. It was not some other Greenberg, a common enough name: the personal details were entirely correct. Date of birth, place of birth, parents’ names – all of these were right.
Beyond the shock it gave him, the meaning of it all gave him a sudden twinge of fear. Under the heading “Cause of Death” was listed a medical term in Latin. But the following sentence, written in plain language, was something he could understand: skull fracture. The cause: automobile accident. In the upper left-hand corner of the document there was a date: three days ago. Estimated time of death: 10:30 a.m.
When the woman recovered, her reaction was businesslike: she pulled another official form from somewhere and Dan Greenberg, armed with a list of the documents he needed to correct the registration, was asked to return to her office in a week.
* * *
“I’m sorry, sir, but I can’t help you,” the teller said, languidly chewing her gum.
“What?!” exclaimed Greenberg, who had not expected anything more than the usual bureaucratic runaround, but now felt as if he had been slapped in the face. “I don’t think you understand. This morning my credit card was stolen, and all I want to do is report the theft and get a new card, and withdraw 200 shekel in cash!”
“Sir,” she said, popping her gum, “that’s just impossible!”
“But…”
“Just a moment, I’ll get the assistant manager,” she said, getting up and going back into the recesses of the bank. The woman waiting in line behind Greenberg grumbled at the delay. After about five minutes the teller returned, accompanied by a conservative looking man wearing a gray suit and tie.
“Come with me, sir,” said the assistant manager, a man Greenberg recognized by sight, but had never met.
Greenberg followed him behind the counter, but to his surprise, the assistant manager did not conduct him to his office. As soon as they were out of sight of the customers waiting in line, the man stopped abruptly and turned to address him.
“Mr. Greenberg,” the man said, clearing his throat. “You of course understand that, no matter how much I might want to do so, I cannot authorize a cash withdrawal. You also cannot receive a new credit card. I certainly understand your situation, but regulations, are you surely know – “
“What’s the problem? What’s wrong? People lose credit cards every day. I’m not the first and surely not the last. What the h…what in the word is the problem?” Greenberg decided this was not the time to begin cursing.
“Sir,” the assistant manager said, trying to sound more assertive, “under the existing circumstances, I cannot – “
What ‘existing circumstances’? What are you talking about?” asked Greenberg, cutting him off.
“Well, sir, you know as well as I do that, without a doubt, your account is well overdrawn, much more so than usual, to be exact. Under these circumstances, I do not have the authority to approve a larger overdraft – to my regret, of course. With regard to your credit card, you may put in a request; but when the company asks us for a statement of your account, you must understand there is no chance you will get the card.”
“Just a minute! Are you telling me that you’re not going to let me withdraw money from my account?”
“As long as the computer shows that your account is so heavily overdrawn.”
“But that can’t be right! I’ve always been careful not to have an overdraft.”
“Mr. Greenberg,” the assistant manager began with a look of distaste, “of course there may be some mistake, or some misunderstanding. I would suggest we examine the matter again tomorrow, when the updated print-outs arrive. P
erhaps a clarification will arrive even sooner – maybe even this afternoon.”
“In that case, I’ll come back this afternoon,” Greenberg yielded.
“You had better call me first, sir” said the assistant manager.
“Yes, I understand,” Greenberg replied bitterly. “I understand.”
* * *
At about 12:30 p.m. Greenberg managed to escape the hot, sweaty, noisy, crowded stink of the bus where he had stood for the past 40 minutes. He shoved his way through the press of shopping bags and unyielding shoulders and got off at a stop near his home, a large apartment building in the upper middle class section of north Tel Aviv. He stood still for a moment, breathing deeply and thanking God the exhausting ride was over. He could not remember the last time he had ridden a bus, but now that all his money amounted to the dwindling few bills in his pocket and some change, he could not afford to take a cab.
He paused in the entrance hall to extract a folded envelope sticking out of his mail box. Just as he pressed the elevator button, he decided on second thought not to wait for it, and quickly took the stairs to the fourth floor. As he mounted the stairs, he could still feel the sway of the bus in his legs.
He pictured his snug bachelor’s apartment and where he would look for the papers he was now almost certain he had left behind, perhaps in the drawer of the little table by the door. He quickly approached the door, his key ring in hand.
His key would not move in the lock. The sophisticated cylinder stubbornly refused to turn.
Startled, Greenberg held the coded Swiss key up to the light. Perhaps it had become bent and therefore wouldn’t work? Seeing that nothing appeared to be wrong with the key, he carefully reinserted it and tried to turn it. Nothing.
Losing his temper, Greenberg grasped the doorknob and threw his shoulder fiercely against the door. It remained unmoved, but the sound of him smashing into the door echoed in the empty hall. The pain spreading through his shoulder distracted Greenberg from the sound of the door opening behind him.
“They’ve already managed to change the lock.”
Greenberg jerked his head around. It was Dana, the student who lived in the opposite flat. She would exchange greetings with him and occasionally borrow something, but that was the extent of their relationship.
“Excuse me? What did you say?”
“The new tenants – the ones who moved in this morning. They seem like nice people. Did you forget something? But that’s not what I wanted to ask you. Listen, the people you hired to move your stuff worked like crazy. They did it so fast – an hour, hour and a half, and it was all packed. You must give me their phone number. A friend of mine has to move in another two weeks, and I’d like to recommend –“
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 i
t 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…”
Blind Mission: A Thrilling Espionage Novel Page 3
