“Ms. Robbins? This is Richardson,” came the weak voice of the doorman from the downstairs lobby of her posh apartment building.
“Good morning, Henry, how are you today?” she asked perfunctorily.
“Very well, thank you. There’s a registered envelope here for you, came by Federal Express. Should I send it up?”
“Yes, please.”
Just as she was putting her lips to the mug of boiling hot coffee, the doorbell rang.
“That’s life,” she sighed again, putting down the untouched drink.
The hard envelope the delivery boy had given her did not have a return address. She was surprised, but her curiosity overcame her initial suspiciousness and she tore off the plastic seal. Inside there was only a small slip of paper, and what was written on it was mystifying, truly mystifying. The message was brief and handwritten: “Syria–Israel War. Time, October 24. My number is 627-1834.
If you don’t contact me by 8:15, I’ll conclude you have no interest in the subject, and won’t bother you again.”
For a long moment Jennifer stood there without moving, her eyes poring over the message and her brain trying to comprehend its significance. She absentmindedly gazed around the room for her watch, which she found lying on the coffee table. It was 8:09.
Suddenly she thought she understood. She shook herself free of her amazement and went into her work room. She rifled through drawer after drawer of a large metal filing cabinet until she found what she called her “private archive.” In approximately the middle of the fourth drawer she found a file labeled “Syria–Israel, War.” She pulled out the section for October and sat down at her desk with it, at the same time turning on the reading lamp. The clippings were not arranged chronologically, so it took her another two whole minutes until her searching gaze focused on the desired date. The moment she saw the giant headline her heart skipped a beat. She felt as though a switch had been thrown and her memory jolted back years. She envisaged the course of events as if they had happened only minutes ago.
In her years of work as a journalist, Jennifer Robbins had written several hundred investigative stories; it was no wonder she couldn’t remember the exact details of one of them without a second look. Exactly how did that aid organization operate, when it wanted to steal the food instead of transferring it to those dying of hunger in Bangladesh? Who had leaked to her the first reports of a planned coup in Haiti? What was the precise rationalization with which the South African government had sought to explain the disappearance of John Konenga? She could no longer answer all these questions with precision. But this was not the case now: she could never forget that article, not even if she tried. It was not every day that the most famous investigative journalist on the East Coast had to admit to her public that she had come to a dead end and could not solve the puzzle and answer all the questions. No! She hadn’t forgotten a single detail.
She reached for the phone. It was 8:14.
* * *
When she woke that morning, it had seemed to Jennifer Robbins that the day would be fresh and clear; but now it had grown overcast and a light rain had begun to fall. Hell! She knew that in weather like this it would be impossible to find an empty cab. So she quickly retraced her steps and borrowed the doorman’s spare umbrella.
Water drops had gathered on the crystal of her watch, and it took her an extra second to make out the time. It was already 8:30. In her haste she had not bothered to look outside before leaving the apartment, and now she was forced to take giant steps among the puddles – somewhat difficult in the tight jeans she wore, the legs of which soon became drenched – with six more blocks to go before she reached the address given her for the meeting at exactly 8:45!
There was a sudden lull in the rain, and Robbins looked at the street sign as she wiped a drop of rain from her cheek. For a moment she debated whether to turn down toward Madison Avenue at 73rd Street, or to continue a little further and turn down 72nd. She finally decided, but at her first stop her high heels betrayed her and she slipped. The next split second seemed to pass in slow motion, but the expected impact failed to come. She never hit the muddy pavement; instead she just felt a sharp stab of pain in her right elbow. “Careful!” called the male voice at the same instant.
Robbins quickly turned her head to look over her right shoulder. The man standing beside her and supporting her by the elbow was of medium height and athletic build. He was wearing jeans, a thick sweater, and a short leather jacket. He was smoothly shaven and had a pleasant smile. His graying brown hair blew freely in the gusty wind. He kept holding on to her arm, but eased up on his grip.
“Oh, thank you!” Robbins said with sincere relief and gratitude to the man who had kept her from falling. “You saved my life!” she smiled at him, still breathing heavily from the sudden scare.
“Don’t exaggerate,” he responded, smiling. “But you probably do own me at least a few bones…”
She laughed. Then suddenly her eyes narrowed. Something was bothering her. Hadn’t she heard this man’s voice before? She couldn’t identify the voice, but the speech pattern…
“…and since that’s the case, perhaps you’d have a cup of coffee with me?” he proposed, releasing her arm.
Robbins carefully examined the face of the man opposite her and looked straight into his eyes. No; this man was not one of the friendly perverts of New York. His eyes were too sober. And she knew one more thing about him: he was a foreigner. No native New Yorker would make such a come on, out of fear of being accused of sexual harassment.
“I’d be happy to, but…” For a second she thought of rejecting the invitation, but in the next second she changed her mind. The pleasant-looking man was interesting. “…but I’m rushing to get to a meeting. Why don’t I give you my phone number and –“
“That’s not necessary,” he said with a chuckle. “I think your meeting has been moved up a bit.”
She gaped at him, waiting for him to continue.
“I’m the man you’re supposed to meet. “Charlie’s Café, 8:45’ Sound familiar? The words came lightly, almost jokingly.
For a moment Robbin’s face registered astonishment, followed immediately by anger. “You’re the man who sent me that message? The one I called half an hour ago?” she asked rhetorically. Now she knew where she had heard his voice. “You followed me?”
“I had to.”
“You had to, eh?” she repeated his word ironically. “Why?”
“I had to be sure you were alone.”
“Why? Why did you have to make sure I was alone?” she asked, her voice showing the aggressiveness that had made her a top reporter.
“If you’ll let me explain…” the man began, again taking her arm, but gently this time.
Jennifer Robbins made her decision. His pleasant voice and face, and above all, her curiosity, persuaded her to let him lead her down the street.
* * *
Despite the fact that the coffee shop was nearly deserted at this early hour, the two went to a secluded table in the rear. He took her dripping umbrella and helped her off with her wet coat, carefully hanging it on a nearby coat rack.
The journalist watched the man sitting before her with great interest, trying to estimate his worth. At first glance she saw he was tired; no, more than that: utterly exhausted. Nevertheless, her impression was that he still was in absolute control of his thoughts and actions. His English was fluent, although it bore a clearly foreign accent, and his clothing showed a European taste. Given these observations, it was no wonder the experienced journalist wrinkled her brow when she heard him call the waitress and in a typical New York accent without a trace of foreign inflection, order two pots of coffee and a light breakfast.
If that’s so, thought Jennifer, the man looking at me from across the table is quite talented an actor. It seems he must use this talent in his daily life, sometimes even unconsciously. I’ve got to be careful: a man with that kind of talent may sometimes blur the clear distinction betwe
en reality and imagination.
A mischievous look flashed in the stranger’s eyes, as if he had read her thoughts. “It’s just a little hobby I enjoy indulging in from time to time,” he said, speaking this time in a thick southern accent; which she thought few Americans could do as well.
At the surprised look on her face, he added, in a voice out of an African-American in Harlem: “Don’t be afraid mama; like I said, it’s just a little shtick, no harm done.”
Robbins laughed. The ice was broken and her fears began to melt. He had honest eyes and a warm look – but this notwithstanding, with his acting ability, could his eyes be trusted?
“Okay,” she said, getting down to business. “What’s it all about? Why did you want to meet me?”
The stranger’s face, which had looked so self-assured till now, suddenly showed consternation.
“I don’t know,” Greenberg began; “that is, what I’m about to tell you is, well….all right: It all began about 10 days ago. I had an interview with a client at a certain address in Tel Aviv. I got there a little early, and so I went into a nearby café….”
* * *
“…And then I sent you the note. The rest you know.”
It had taken more than two hours for Greenberg to tell her the whole story. The veteran journalist was surprised to discover that during those two hours something had happened to her that had not happened in many years, if ever: she had sat in front of a strange man and listened to him – sometimes with her mouth hanging open – without interrupting him even once. She, the embarrassing question artist, had become captivated; she believed his story. He had held back nothing of importance, yet had not belabored any point or repeated himself. He analyzed the incidents incisively, and the conclusions he reached were compelling and logical. His long monologue had been broken off only twice, when the waitress had come over to ask if they wanted to order something else.
The man finished talking and stifled a yawn; but Jennifer remained silent, once again examining the person who had bared this astonishing tale. She found she could still not judge its authenticity. She had no doubt that the man was dangerous, perhaps even more dangerous than even he supposed. It was clear to her that it was no accident he was in this situation. Those who were manipulating him knew his character, as she did – no, better than she did. This man would not hesitate to perform the most terrible act, if he believed it was his only way out.
But this man had something else. She could not define to herself exactly what it was. A good heart? Perhaps an uncompromising integrity?
“I can’t say exactly what caused me to turn to you,” Greenberg resumed. “Perhaps it was that article you wrote how long ago? 10 maybe 12 years?. You were very close to the truth; actually, the closest. All the other journalists ignored the matter or wrote bullshit. You have a good head on your shoulders. You can analyze a situation with an iron logic, and draw the necessary conclusions. I value that.”
Jennifer Robbins was startled to find that she was blushing. She was used to getting compliments, but she generally treated them with suspicion; for she knew that in most cases they were given with an ulterior motive, whether open or hidden. This time she heard the words directly, without a hint of flattery, and she accepted them as they were given.
“If so, then you didn’t kill that French journalist, Leclaire.” The journalist was making a statement of fact, not asking a question.
“No; he was dead before I got to him.”
“You exploited the opportunity, and didn’t want to tell anybody about it. You were afraid they’d think you killed the man in order to take his identity and save your skin.”
He remained silent.
“Well, in hindsight, it looks like you knew who you were dealing with.”
Greenberg nodded his head in agreement.
“And you don’t think they found you out, and believe that you killed him?”
“I don’t know. If they managed to solve that incident and discover my identity, it’s reasonable to assume that they would have had me court martialed, no? They would have torn me apart, thrown the book at me – for an example, as they say. Even if they hadn’t been able to prove that I was a murderer, they would have jailed me for desertion; I don’t even want to think for how long.”
“Yes? That’s what you think? I’m amazed at you.”
“Why?” Greenberg asked curiously.
“What would they have gotten out of it?” The journalist’s face now glowed with excitement. “We don’t know when they managed to find your trail, if at all, but it’s extremely likely that it happened a few years ago – and in a case like this, too much time has passed since the event occurred for them to be able to do anything. They would have looked like a bunch of jerks or, in the best case, a bunch of goof-offs with nothing better to do. Now, on the other hand, they can exploit this knowledge to suit their needs – and in my opinion, that’s exactly what they’re doing! They’re using you. I don’t know how or for what, but there’s no doubt –“
“So you believe everything I’ve told you?” Greenberg interjected.
Jennifer smiled. Such an unnecessary question – but such a human one. Yes, she believed him. His story was simply too far-fetched to be untrue. People didn’t take the trouble to look up old articles, find the address of the reporter who wrote them, and come to her with an imaginary, if well-constructed, tale.
“Yes,” she said simply. “Let’s go on. The question is: what do they want from you – or maybe we should define it differently: what do they want to get by using you? I’m sure you’ve already thought about this.”
“I’ve got an idea,” Greenberg answered hesitantly. He slowly reached into his windbreaker pocket and pulled out several photographs and newspaper clippings. He handed the material to her and waited silently while she looked through it. Robbins looked up at him.
“I believe they are trying to use me, to force me, to assassinate the leader of the radical Palestinian terrorist group, Abu-Hatra,” he said.
They both sat silently as the reporter weighed his words. Had her intuition deceived her, and was this seemingly rational person opposite her to be given a place of honor among all those crazies who had tried to convince her colleagues that they had met creatures from another planet or had been hired to murder the president of the United States? But maybe, nevertheless, there was a basis to this strange, but so attractive, man’s claim?
“Do you really think so?” she asked delicately.
“In my opinion, all the facts support this conclusion.”
“What facts?”
“That they did everything – everything, including the murder of two innocent people – in order to get me to the United States. What in hell would they want to bring me here for? The only thing that would justify such an operation – and remember, a plan like this requires an unimaginable amount of manpower! --- is the killing of Abu-Hatra. The terrorist leader arrives in Washington in another few days. Our prime minister is already here, in a vain attempt to persuade the Americans to cancel the conference at the last minute. Nahum Porat – described here as an aide to the prime minister – is actually the head of the Mossad, and has joined him. The three-way summit is supposed to take place next week, and is supposed to include the signing of an imposed agreement between Israel and the Palestinians. I, too, am already here – against my will and against all logic. If someone had told me two weeks ago that I would be here, in New York, telling a crazy story to the investigative reporter who almost uncovered my tracks so many years ago – I’d have laughed in his face and advised him to get his head examined. So you see? The stage is set.”
“You believe this?” Robbins asked, and without waiting for an answer, continued. “Exactly how do you think they’ll continue to use you against your will?”
“I don’t have the faintest idea. I can only suppose that they wouldn’t go to so much trouble if they had a fully developed plan.”
“So; here we come to the main question: Wh
at, actually, do you want from me?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps partly to document my distress. I think I contacted you because I wanted … because I was looking for someone who would know about this sort of thing; someone with the courage and sober vision to get to the bottom of things, and who could publish the whole story without hiding a thing. Perhaps, perhaps after I’m no longer around. You understand… I don’t believe they’ll let me stay alive after all this is over. They’ll do everything to make sure I don’t survive. They’ve already killed two; what would keep them from killing me, too? Actually, it would be even easier for them to kill me. You remember I’ve already died in an automobile accident. You are really my life insurance policy now. If you publish this affair in the newspaper and it becomes general knowledge, they wouldn’t dare to harm me, right?”
Jennifer Robbins considered the man opposite her and tried to assess his emotions. He did not seem confused or disoriented, but matter-of-fact. Nevertheless, maybe this in itself was evidence that he was simply disturbed. On the one hand, would he really feel this way if they were chasing him? But on the other hand, did it make sense that this whole story was invented? She knew she had to ask many more questions, to feel things out, to verify details, check dates, and cross-reference data. She had still not worked out a plan of action. For now she was letting herself operate instinctively. Gently, she reached out her hand and patted the back of Greenberg’s hand.
“Perhaps you have another idea of how to help me?”
Jennifer gave him a penetrating look. Obviously, pure logic did not always control his actions. He looked up from the table and straight into her eyes.
“How do you think I can help you?” she asked again. “Come,” she said, rising from her chair.
* * *
The doorman at her building welcomed the journalist and her companion warmly. The woman from the fifth-floor apartment handed him the umbrella he had loaned her earlier and thanked him.
Blind Mission: A Thrilling Espionage Novel Page 19
