Chicago. Now Greenberg knew his destination. Pressed in among the group members, he stood in line with them and bought a ticket to Chicago. He blended in perfectly with the tourists, without drawing any attention to himself.
During the long ride to Chicago, Greenberg remained tense; the ceaseless yammering of his fellow passengers only serving to drive him nearly to distraction. He knew that the moment the authorities discovered that an unknown person had crossed the border at Niagara Falls, this fact would likely become known to those who were searching for him. They would then probably step up their scrutiny of the airports and bus terminals in Washington and New York, the two cities in which he was likely to show a special interest. He could not afford to make a mistake, but had to remain constantly alert and not lose his concentration for even a second.
At 8 p.m. the bus pulled into the Chicago Greyhound station. Without a pause, Greenberg went over to the ticket counter and bought a seat on the next bus for Newark, just across the New Jersey border from New York City. He chose this indirect route on purpose in order to avoid arriving at Manhattan’s Port Authority Terminal, where there was likely to be someone waiting for him. It would be best to arrive in Manhattan by local bus.
It was 6:20 a.m. when Greenberg emerged from the Newark bus terminal and walked down the street looking for a cheap hotel. At the first one he found, he had no qualms about registering under a fictitious name and immediately went up to his fourth floor room and fell into a deep sleep.
At three that afternoon, after showering and shaving, he settled his bill and ate a very late breakfast at a cafeteria near the hotel. He then went across the street to a parking lot, where he pretended to search his pockets for his car keys while moving down the row actually looking for a car that had been left unlocked.
It did not take him long to find one: a white Cadillac, almost new, with red leather upholstery. The driver’s side rear door was unlocked. He opened it and reached inside to unlock the driver’s door. Seconds later he was behind the wheel. Searching quickly, he soon found the trunk release button; he pressed it and got out of the car. Looking into the carpeted compartment for something he could use to break the ignition lock, his eyes came upon a small vinyl tool box which contained the tool he needed.
Ten minutes later Greenberg was driving down the expressway towards New York. He was very pleased with himself. No one would be waiting for him at the end of this road.
* * *
The skyscrapers looming before him across the water brought back to Greenberg a memory of the days when he had accompanied a group of Israeli tourists, some 20 years before, on a summer job while he was an engineering student at the Technion. He could almost hear their exclamations of wonder at seeing such architecture for the first time; an almost incomprehensible sight for people used to buildings at the most a dozen stories high.
The white Cadillac glided into the Lincoln Tunnel and the magnificent spectacle was lost to view. Greenberg knew well where he would find himself when the car emerged from the tunnel in the heart of Manhattan. He also knew exactly where he was going. He vividly remembered the location of the small and spotless boarding house run by a Chinese woman, Mai Ling, with whom he had become friendly more than 10 years before, when he took part on an international tour for professional guides held by the French Tourism Ministry. Their liaison had been brief, but the kind that is not quickly forgotten. He also knew that her house was not registered anywhere nor under any municipal supervision. It was known by word of mouth among the residents of Manhattan’s Chinatown and served primarily to house their visiting relatives.
For a moment Mai Ling stood motionlessly in the doorway of the apartment she shared with her family on the ground floor of her inn, then spread her arms wide to him as she smiled in recognition and stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheecks.
“Dan! Dan!”
She stepped back and called in guttural Chinese to someone in the apartment. The woman had practically not changed at all, Greenberg thought. The two children she had borne had not altered her slim figure.
A dark-haired man wearing a custom-made three-piece suit came and looked over Mai Ling’s shoulder. He smiled with Oriental politeness, revealing two rows of gleaming white teeth. In accentless English he introduced himself:
“Kim Sung. I’m very happy to meet you. My wife has told me much about you. Please come in.”
He stepped back and beckoned Greenberg into their living room. A moment later the visitor was presented with the couple’s offspring, boys of three and five, who stood quietly in a corner of the room smiling awkwardly.
As Greenberg had anticipated, Mai Ling and her husband invited him to stay at their hotel, and he gratefully accepted. He knew he was safe here; no one would come looking for him in this neighborhood – and even if they did, it was not reasonable to think they would succeed in penetrating the closed, conservative Chinese community.
At about 8 p.m. he went out for a walk, smiling at the colored lights of Chinatown. He finally felt comfortable; and more than a little so. For the first time since the nightmare began he felt a sense of freedom mixed with security. In this city, which was unlike any other in the world, he could enjoy anonymity. Here in New York he had less fear of those pursing him. Finding him here would be an almost impossible task, he thought; a needle in a haystack would be easy in comparison. The chance of someone spotting him here as he walked in the street was one in eight million – this was without taking the tourists into account!
Greenberg turned into one of the many alleys branching off from the main street and entered a Chinese restaurant that catered mainly to tourists, ordering a five-course dinner. This was the first meal in ages – almost an eternity! – that he could eat slowly and enjoy. The good food, the bottle of wine he had allowed himself with the main course, the subdued lighting that brought out the delicate lines of the exotic décor, and the Oriental music that played in the background – all of this encouraged his thoughts to roam. Various possible courses of action occurred to him. Again and again he asked himself the necessary questions and tried to find logical answers. He did not know if the solution he ultimately arrived at was indeed the correct one; but somehow, well fed and relaxed with the warmth of the alcohol spreading through his body, the world seemed less threatening.
* * *
“Sam?” The nasal voice of the receptionist whined from the intercom on the corner of the desk. “Line 5.”
Damn! He had specifically asked her not to transfer any calls before 11:30. It was probably something very urgent – or else his wife, whose calls were always put through.
“Sam?” came the excited voice of his wife. “I’m sorry to bother you, but I just got a strange call. The guy didn’t identify himself; just left a number and asked you to call him right away…”
The man put on his round-lensed glasses, fluffed up his thick gray hair, took the pencil from between his teeth, and jotted down the number.
“Come with me tonight to a business dinner –“ suddenly he stopped.
“Who with? Sam? What’s the matter?” The woman’s voice which was naturally loud, now rose to a new sharpness in pitch.
“Nothing, dear, it’s nothing,” said Sam, who had suddenly identified the telephone number. “Just some gas.”
“You sound like you’re getting a cold, dear; maybe you should take that new medicine…”
As soon as he finally managed to end the conversation, he quickly dialed the number from his private line.
“Sam Gold,” he said into the receiver when the call went through.
“64 West 42nd Street, room 203, 12:30 p.m.,” a voice answered, then the connection was broken.
He looked at his watch. It was 11:10; enough time for him to grab a sandwich at the corner deli, and just maybe a cup of coffee, too. On second thought, he dropped the second part of the idea. He didn’t want to be late.
Somewhat preoccupied, Gold took from the coat rack the dark blue jacket he had received on his rece
nt birthday; but as he went out the door he made his customary reassuring glance at the certificate of recognition awarded him years before by the mayor of New York.
Short and stocky Shmuel Goldstein had come a long way since he had first arrived from Israel as an illegal immigrant. In the 28 years since then, Shmuel had become Sam and Goldstein had been shortened to Gold, and the sweaty driver’s seat of a cab had been replaced by a luxurious office on the 40th floor of a skyscraper in the heart of the financial district. Here, close to the nerve center of U.S. and world finance, he ran his affairs. Sam Gold was now, in his 49th year, the ruler of a small empire. He controlled the largest cab company in America and was chairman of the New York Cab Drivers Association. His own fleet numbered some 800 cabs.
64 West 42nd Street was no different from the other office buildings in mid-Manhattan; another tall lump of concrete whose summit was reached by five elevators, each able to hold at least 10 persons.
Room 203 was the second from the elevator, on the second floor. A thick brown carpet stretched down the long corridor, absorbing the noise of footsteps. For this reason; it was no wonder Sam Gold started momentarily when the door of the room of his appointment opened before he had a chance to knock. He instinctively looked at his watch. 12:30 exactly. He was pleased.
“Shalom, Shmuel! How are you? Come in, come in!” Ya’acov Nissan welcomed him, standing aside to let the shorter man enter.
Gold muttered some pleasantries and fell silent, waiting for Nissan to speak.
“Look, Shmuel, we need your help. We’re looking for this man,” said Nissan, picking up a composite picture from a desk and showing it to Gold. “We want you to help us find him.”
“He’s here, in New York?”
“We’re also looking for him in Washington.”
Gold knew better than to ask who the man was, or why they were looking for him; although he was burning with curiosity.
“If he’s in the city, there’s a good chance we’ll find him,” he told the man from the Mossad.
“How long will it take?”
“Hard to say. I can only promise that I’ll start immediately. In any case, it’s also a matter of luck. A little good luck wouldn’t hurt us any.”
Ya’acov Nissan nodded his head in agreement.
* * *
The cab ejected him at the corner of 42nd Street and Fifth Avenue, right between the two imposing marble lions guarding the impressive entrance of the New York Public Library.
From the look on the face of the large black driver who had brought him here, Greenberg got the idea he would have gladly given up the customary tip if only his passenger would stop searching through his pockets and close the door, thereby shutting out the freezing wind.
Greenberg glanced at his watch. In exactly two more minutes it would be 10 a.m. and the heavy doors of the library would open. At last he paid the driver, zipped up his windbreaker, and walked up the broad steps to the main entrance.
It was not only cold outside; a chill also permeated the grand entrance hall. Perhaps the thermostats were set low to remind everyone that the city budget cuts reached here as well. Greenberg turned left and walked to the end of the corridor, taking the stairs to the reading rooms.
A bemused smile crossed his lips as he noted the fact that this was the second time in several days that he had needed the services of a public library; something he had not used since graduating from the Technion.
Twenty minutes later he was sitting at one of the broad tables with a dozen weeklies he had requested from the librarian. Each was from the 1970s and some of them bore the same date. Greenberg copied eight names into a small notebook, then piled the periodicals together and returned them to the librarian.
On his way out he noticed a sign fixed to one of the doors: “EMERGENCY EXIT”. Without asking himself why, he pushed the door open and went down the external emergency staircase. That morning when he got up with a small, but persistent headache, his customary sense of caution seemed to return with it; a defensive posture he had relaxed somewhat the night before. Now his head was pounding.
Back on the teaming street he paused for a moment, hesitant, then turned west and walked down 42nd Street to Eighth Avenue, where he turned left. He continued at a comfortable pace until he reached 31st, opposite the main post office; a massive, neo-classical stone building stretching over two blocks.
Standing in the central hall, Greenberg searched the counters until he saw the one marked “CASHIER”. There he broke a $20 bill into small change, to be used later to make several phone calls, and then went to the special counter for which he had come. All the phone books for all of New York’s boroughs were here, fixed in easy to use brackets.
Without noticing, he spent nearly three hours there completing his research. He now had all the information he needed.
* * *
Leroy Jackson wasn’t at all surprised when his dispatcher gave him that picture and told him to keep his eyes open. Actually, very little could surprise the large black man – except for the fact that, in 15 years of continuous cab driving in the violent streets of New York, he had never been robbed or attacked, and was still alive.
Just as his fare was leaving his cab, even before he had closed the door behind him, Jackson had stolen a glance at the postcard-sized picture he had put in the glove compartment – then immediately compared the image with the man zipping up his windbreaker.
At that moment Leroy Jackson felt lucky. He hurriedly parked his cab a block away, and nervously dialed the number written on the back of the picture. It had already been made clear to him that this was the direct line to the office of Sam Gold himself, and Leroy Jackson was old enough to know the score.
The line was busy.
At the sound of the busy signal, the huge man slammed his fist in frustration against the steering wheel. He dialed again and again got the busy signal.
It took some time for his call to get through. The man who answered was businesslike. He took down the details, including the license number of the cab, and ordered Jackson to go back to where he had let his fare off, to stay there, and to keep his eyes open.
But the man they sought did not reappear at the library entrance. After a short while a gray Pontiac with tinted windows pulled up beside the cab driver, who was leaning against his cab with his hands in his pockets, his teeth chattering. Three men got out of the Pontiac and began asking him short questions about his anonymous passenger. Jackson tersely explained the situation and pointed towards the library steps. With that, he knew, his part was over. He got back into his cab and drove off.
He did not say anything to the stranger who appeared at the cab garage later that afternoon and gave him a brown envelope. When he opened it, he found five $100 bills.
“I was taught that in a situation like this you don’t ask questions,” Leroy Jackson later told his wife – and himself – when he put the envelope on their kitchen table that night.
* * *
At the eighth floor apartment on 93rd and Park Avenue the doorbell rang.
It was second nature for Nahum Porat to snap awake to instant alertness. He looked at the clock on the night table as he rose to put on a bathrobe.
The doorbell rang again, in short impatient jabs. Porat went to the door and looked through the spy hole, before turning the key and sliding back the security chain. Ya’acov Nissan entered the room in great excitement.
“He’s here, in New York! We found him!”
“When? How?” Porat could hardly contain the sense of satisfaction that flooded through him.
“You won’t believe it. Shmuel found him through one of his cab drivers.”
“What did I tell you? I knew if the man was in this town, Shmuel would be able to lay his hands on him. Tell me what happened already; from the very beginning!”
Ya’acov Nissan described the unfolding of events to his superior. Porat’s brow furrowed a bit when he realized that his trackers had not succeeded in establishing di
rect contact with the subject. By the time they had gone into the library after him, he had vanished.
“Did you question the librarian?”
“Of course.”
“And he cooperated?”
Nissan hesitated. “It cost us $500 –“
“Five hundred dollars?” the head of the Mossad cut him off, snatching from Nissan’s hands the photocopies he held out to him and quickly looking through them. They were copies of the periodicals the subject had studied, and Porat wanted to know what the man had been looking for; what they had in common. Only when he understood what Greenberg wanted to find did he permit himself to relax a bit. Now Porat knew for certain that his men had not erred in their identification of the subject, and his anger over the $500 the trackers had had to pay the librarian in order to bend the rules was forgotten.
Nissan studied his commander. “Did you find something?”
Porat ignored him. “That’s it! It all fits,” he said to himself. His face was paler than usual. Walking over to the desk, he took a sheet of paper and copied a certain name from each of the photocopied periodicals.
“These eight persons are journalists,” the head of the Mossad explained to his deputy. “Find them and set up a close surveillance on each one.”
Chapter 18
Jennifer Robbins sat in front of the mirror and combed her long straight hair. It was only recently that she had begun to use a color rinse to keep the sleek brunette color she had always known.
The heightening shriek of the tea kettle sounded from the kitchen and she quickly rose and crossed the short hall dividing her bedroom from the cooking area. Just as she reached out and turned off the burner, the sound of the kettle was replaced by the insistent buzzing of the intercom.
“That’s life,” she sighed to herself. She went through the living room and over to the wall intercom to the left of the apartment door and pressed the answer button.
Blind Mission: A Thrilling Espionage Novel Page 18
