Blind Mission: A Thrilling Espionage Novel (28 page)

A red light blinked at the switchboard of the toy store.  It continued blinking five times before the call was answered.

“Yes, please, could you connect me with the accounts department?”

“Surely, just a moment please.”

“Accounts, good morning!”

“Good morning. I called yesterday to verify a charge made to my credit card, and I spoke with a young woman whose name I don’t recall –“

“You must have spoken with Miss Carpenter, Donna Carpenter. If you’ll hold, I’ll connect you.”

“Thank you,” said the woman at the other end of the line, and hung up.

“Jennifer Robbins sat in her chair and wrote down the name: Donna Carpenter.

*     *      *

“If that’s the case, then he’d had it, too,” said Michael Almog with his customary succinctness. Even Gilat, who was used to his crudeness, was shocked by his choice of words about the deaths of two valued men, who had lost their lives in such frightening circumstances.

The foreign minister looked at his colleagues and rival. “Yes,” he said, “Nahum Porat, and also his deputy, Ya’acov Nissan. Both of them were killed.”

“Exactly how did it happen?”

“I don’t know; I haven’t the faintest idea.  It was reported to me only that the car they were in was blown to pieces at exactly the same time as the event at the White House. The car caught fire and was completely burned.”

“Who do you think did it?” asked Michael Almog, to the point.

“I think that’s closer to your field than to mine,” answered Meir Gilat slowly. “Who could have done such a thing?”

“It’s hard for me to say. You know as well as I do that there are innumerable terrorist organizations in the world, each one crazier than the next –“

“Don’t talk nonsense. No terrorist organization is involved here. It’s simply – simply a malfunction in the planning of the assassination.”

“What do you mean?”

Meir Gilat lost his patience. “Porat consulted you, too, right?” he barked in annoyance.

The defense minister nodded again in agreement.

“I…He promised me that at the last minute he would be able to switch the subject of the assassination…I, that is, we could argue all night long in the party’s central committee, but if I had known, I …I didn’t think things would end this way.”

“I didn’t either,” said Michael Almog with unaccustomed softness.

“Do you have any idea what would happen if the connection were uncovered between what happened at the White House and the people in the car?” Almog continued, after a long moment’s silence. “What would happen if the identities of those in the car became known? What would happen if –“

“In this aspect we have some luck” said Gilat. “No connection will be uncovered.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Yitzhak Eitan, the Mossad director in North America, just reported to me that the bodies were burned, destroyed beyond all recognition.”

“What are you saying?” the defense minister’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “You know that doesn’t mean anything; you know how sophisticated the forensic laboratories are today – they can even tell you which sheep gave the wool from which the burned sweater was knitted. And there are so many other objects that can show the connection, that –“

“Michael,” the foreign minister cut off the mounting tirade with an attempt at calm, “I can only hope that something like that does not happen.”

“How would we know anyway if this wasn’t an act of hostility towards us? We must investigate the affair thoroughly! We must not miss –“

“If what you just said about the forensics is correct, then we must not even think about such an investigation. We are liable to cause ourselves a disaster like we’ve never known.”

“You think we can sit on our asses and not do anything? To accept the deaths of the prime minister and the head of the Mossad and say, ‘Well, what can we do, so they died?’ Just like that, without an exhaustive investigation? Without drawing conclusions? Who in the world would buy that?”

Under the existing circumstances, we haven’t got a choice,” said Meir Gilat, in the voice of a man who had come to a decision. “I think the whole idea for the operation was terrible to begin with, but it’s too late for recriminations. What we have to do now is to point the finger at the Arab radicals, and claim forcefully that they are solely responsible.”

“But what really happened there?” asked the defense minister, as if refusing to believe.

“I don’t know. I wish I did. Now, in any case, the objective has been carried out and the danger has passed. The president of the United States Douglas Stewart, is dead. Perhaps now the policy towards us will change finally. As for now, we must announce that I am acting prime minister until we hold elections, as soon as possible, and –“

“
You
are acting prime minister?” Michael Almog’s claws were bared. The two locked eyes, knowing that another round of their endless duel had begun; a contest they had been waging ever since they had entered politics; knowing that, this time, unlike the past, they were linked by a terrible secret which they could never reveal.

*     *      *

Donna Carpenter rose from her seat, took a plastic tray with the remains of her lunch, and went over to dump it in the large trash bin. The giant Self-service restaurant was jammed as usual with the lunch hour crowd
 
 
– a fact that made her hesitate more than once before entering the woman’s room.

“Hell,” she swore when she saw that each stall was taken. She was about to leave when a young woman, who had come in just after her, turned to her and asked, as if already knowing the answer:

“Ms. Carpenter?”

“Yes,” Donna answered in surprise.

“Would you spare me a moment of your time?”

“Who are you? How do you know my name? What do you want?”

“I need some information; information that only you can provide. I’m willing to pay for it.” With that, the young woman withdrew a white envelope from her shoulder bag and held it out.

Donna Carpenter took the envelope hesitantly and examined the woman standing in front of her. Despite her simple knit shirt, faded jeans, and running shoes, Donna knew this was a woman of means. Her manner of speech and vocabulary indicated she was educated, and her dress was tasteful.

Donna opened the envelope and caught her breath at the sight of four, hundred-dollar bills. For someone who was a junior clerk in the accounts department of a Fifth Avenue toy store, it was a considerable sum. Actually, she had some plans she could use the money for. The angry expression on her face vanished, and was replaced with curiosity and some measure of suspicion. She did not hand the envelope back.

“What do you want?” she asked finally.

The woman who gave her the envelope stuck her hand back inside her bag and rummaged around until she pulled out a slip of paper. Donna Carpenter took it and studied it closely. Five rows of numerals were printed on it. She recognized them instantly as product codes and their prices. Underneath was printed a total, a date, and the address of the place where she worked.

“I have to know if someone bought the exact same things in your store during the five days after the date on this receipt. If so, I want to know who, and how they paid; and if possible, to see some verification of payment. If you get me this information, you’ve got $400 more waiting for you.

Donna Carpenter looked over her interlocutor from her running shoes to the top of her head. “You’re not some private detective the store hired to get me in trouble, are you? To check if they can trust me, or something like that? You’re not some phony investigator who’s really working for some other toy store?”

“If I were one of those you mentioned, I wouldn’t be investing $800 in you,” was the frank and uncomplimentary response the young clerk received, but it alleviated her suspicions. “No,” the woman continued, “I’m not a private investigator, I just need proof that my husband was in New York on one of those dates. I need something in writing, some firm evidence, to base my divorce case on. I know my husband bought the toys for our son, and I hope you’ll find me written proof. I have no intention of getting you in trouble. And nobody else will know about it. Believe me, you have nothing to worry about.”

Donna Carpenter took out the money, folded it, and stuffed it into her jacket pocket; she crumpled the envelope and tossed it into the waste basket under the sink.

“Let’s meet here at 5:30,” said the young clerk, as she picked up her purse from the marble counter under the large wall mirror, put it over her right shoulder, and walked out the door.

*     *      *

Jennifer Robbins was back in the restaurant at 5 p.m. She went over to the serving line and bought herself a cup of coffee and some hot apple pie. She then picked a seat beside the large window, where she could watch the passersby. Every two minutes she shot an impatient glance at her wristwatch. She could not remember ever experiencing such tension. It was funny, she thought, just a meeting with a clerk in the accounts department of a toy store; and she, the experienced journalist, had interviewed some of the richest people in the world. She had more than once received some sought after information at a deserted dock, godforsaken inn, abandoned house, or violence-torn area; and mainly in the wee hours of the night. But she had never felt such fierce excitement before.

Then she saw her. A young woman with too much makeup, walking quickly on red spike heels. Donna Carpenter pushed past the double glass doors, gazed swiftly but carefully around the restaurant, and when she saw Jennifer walked straight over to her.

“I’ve got it,” she said, pulling out a chair and sitting on its edge. She opened her purse, took out a manila envelope, and handed it across the table. Jennifer opened the metal clasp and removed two pieces of paper.

Indeed, Donna Carpenter had the intelligence of an alley cat. The young woman understood exactly what kind of merchandise she was asked to supply, and took care to deliver it. Now she wanted to be paid.

Jennifer Robbins studied the photocopy of a register tape dated two days after the date she had given Donna, and the photocopy of a personal check drawn on the Manhattan branch of an Israeli bank form the account of one Ephraim Alon.

Jennifer’s heart beat wildly. Now she knew she had the end of a thread. From here I can go on, she thought, and prove my conjectures. Satisfied, she gave Donna Carpenter the envelope she had brought with her. The clerk looked inside, then got up from her chair and said, “If you ever need me again –“

“You never know,” smiled Jennifer.

“Always at your service, ma’am,” Donna said, grinning widely, then turned and walked toward the exit.

New York sparkled in the glory of its lights, which filled the sky over the city with a soft radiance. It was hot outside, humid and noisy, but none of this penetrated the giant double-glazed windows of the air-conditioned apartment.

Jennifer Robbins sat at her large work table and looked out at the pulsating city. Then she looked up at the sky, wondering. What really occupied her at that moment was the effort to compose the opening lines of a book that in a few months would probably be snatched up from bookstore shelves and become an all-time bestseller.

A small smile came to her lips as she suddenly felt a warm hand tickling her neck. Dan kissed the beauty mark on her cheek and left the room quietly. She continued to sit here, contentedly sipping the tea he had brought her. A few minutes later she heard Dan’s deep voice coming from the other room, speaking in that strange language –Hebrew.

All at once Jennifer shook off her daydreaming and ran her fingers over the keys of her word processor. The words began to flow almost without thinking:

“The heavy haze that had cloaked the city at first light gradually began to lift. As if in a developing photograph, the skyline slowly emerged to reveal the buildings of Tel Aviv. In the distance a car’s engine could be heard coughing into life, joined by the metallic screech of heavy doors being dragged ajar at some early opening business.

A sharp, almost painful cold gust of wind penetrated his lungs as he left the warmth of the car. The unexpected cold made him huddle into himself. He glanced at his watch and saw it was 7:15; another 45 minutes to wait. He walked over to a café on the corner and was greeted by pleasant warmth on his face as he pushed open the heavy glass door.

A waiter with coiffed hair meticulously combed to the side, a fresh white towel draped casually over his left arm, came over to him.

“Coffee with cream,” the man said curtly, seating himself by the large corner window facing the street…”