Blind Mission: A Thrilling Espionage Novel (18 page)

Among these was also a series of “unofficial arrangements” with certain key individuals, which ensured access to the computerized data banks of all the airlines that had any connection with Israel, in order to be able to check the identity of passengers and to follow their movements. Then – assisted by lists of forged, stolen, or lost passports published regularly by Interpol, plus previous intelligence information – the Israelis often succeeded in tracking down wanted terrorists. More than once terrorists on their way to a secret objective or operation were spotted and wiped out before they could commit their atrocity. As a result, the terrorists’ self-confidence suffered immensely.  Their continuous need to shift hiding places and the constant fear they lived under disrupted their plans and undermined their morale.

Now, despite the lateness of the hour, Joachim Van der Hoff (and his counterparts in Lufthansa, Swiss, British Airways, and others) had to depart from their normal report procedures and supply his telephone controller with an immediate detailed report of the past 24 hours.

The deviation from routine forced Van der Hoff to drive back to the office building next to the airport. While it would be hard to say that he was happy about it, the tax free $1,000 he had received punctiliously at the beginning of every month for the past six years was nothing to sneeze at; the man had gotten used to a comfortable life and certainly did not want the comfortable arrangement to end.

At 2:30 a.m. the luxurious green Citroen C6 shot down the highway from Schiphol Airport towards downtown Amsterdam. As soon as it passed the first gas station, its driver opened his window and slowed long enough to throw a sealed envelope out onto the road. Seconds later Van der Hoff looked in his sideview mirror and saw a light approaching from behind him. Another instant passed before he heard the bee-like drone of a powerful motorcycle rider lean over and snatch up the envelope with his left hand without even slowing down.

The rider then opened the throttle of the heavy bike all the way and soon swept past the green car, leaving it far behind. By 3 a.m. the motorcycle and its anonymous rider had disappeared into the underground garage of a tall apartment building, near the district that housed most of the foreign embassies.

Minutes later a white Ford Explorer, displaying diplomatic plates it did not have just moments before, left the garage. After a 10-minute ride it drew up at the Israeli Embassy, whose guards opened the electric gate. The white car glided inside and followed a driveway around the building to a parking lot in the rear.

It was close to 3:30 a.m. when the sealed envelope was placed on the desk of the embassy’s Mossad officer. The director of the Amsterdam station removed the computer printout and inserted the pages face-down into a special facsimile machine. After punching in the correct code, he pressed the red SEND button.

In the Mossad’s research department, in a building not far from the center of Tel Aviv, a similar machine decoded the transmission from Amsterdam onto a long sheet of paper that curled up as it was ejected, ready for use.

KLM Flight 691 made a gentle landing at Toronto Airport. I was 3:35 p.m. local time when the stairways were drawn up to the plane. The tourist class passengers began to rise from their seats and stretch, collect their belongings, and make their way to the exits The stewardesses, their uniforms somewhat crumpled after the long flight, stood at the doorways and wished the passengers a good evening.

By 4:15 Dan Greenberg was already in the arrivals lounge, after passing through passport and customs control. He was quite pleased with his decision to come to Canada and by the way he had come. Now, he believed, there could be no one following him at the airport. Nevertheless, after changing some of his Swiss money into Canadian dollars, he decided to maintain the highest possible level of caution. Instead of talking one of the stretch limousines into the city, he took a local bus. On a bus, he thought, you were always one of many, and the chance of drawing someone’s attention was small.

It was cold. The conversation of the other passengers filed the air like smoke. Many of them rubbed their hands together for warmth as they snuggled into their coats. Those who wished to look at the passing scenery had to constantly wipe condensation from the window. The trip took a little over half an hour. At 5 p.m. Greenberg found himself in Toronto’s central bus station. He walked three blocks away and registered under a false name at an unassuming hotel.

*     *      *

The silver-gray American Greyhound bus from Toronto pulled into the bay. The driver shut the engine and pulled over his public address microphone to announce, “Niagara Falls! Last stop!”

As the first passengers began to get up from their seats, the driver pulled on his cap, opened the door, and went down to stand on the platform, where with great courtesy he helped passengers descend the steps.

Dan Greenberg slowly made his way through the station and out into the street. On the sidewalk he filled his lungs with the fresh cold air, and as he did so came to a decision: he would remain in the resort town for at least a day. He needed some rest and this was the perfect opportunity; a little relaxation before continuing his journey. When he thought about cautionary measures, Greenberg realized immediately that it would not be very smart to register at a local hotel; the town was too small. He assumed that, as in any resort town, he would find many signs advertising rooms for rent – probably off the main streets and not far from the center of town. He went looking for them.

*     *      *

The large motor launch approached the foot of a black cliff and reversed its engine to slow its speed. The young guide employed by the Niagara Cruises company interrupted his explanation to order the 48 American tourists sitting opposite him on two rows of white wooden benches to remain in their seats until the boat had docked.

The tour guide, who had introduced himself earlier as Tom, replaced his microphone in its stand and went over to the narrow gunwale, where he waited for the side of the boat to swing into the dock. Just before it made contact, he bent over and dropped two thick hawsers over the side and onto two concrete bollards at the dock. As the captain shut down the engine, a short metal gangway was swung out onto the dock and the passengers began to shuffle off onto the jetty.

The guide disembarked carrying a small cardboard sign showing a large number 3 to identify his group. In a loud commanding voice he tried to get the attention of the group, whose members were noisily exchanging their impressions of the trip in an endless chatter as they shook the water from the yellow slickers they were given to wear for the trip under the falls.

“We’re now on the Canadian side of Niagara Falls,” the guide began. “This is considered the more impressive side of the two. We have exactly two hours until we have to be back at the boat, and I ask you to please be on time; by 1:30. Now I’d like to suggest that you visit the Skylawn Tower. That’s the big tower on our left; at the bottom there’s a very nice shopping center. Those of you who want to eat lunch can do so in the revolving restaurant at the top of the tower, where you can enjoy the scenery at the same time.”

The tourists piled their yellow slickers into a large wooden crate set aside for the purpose on the wharf and climbed a wooden staircase leading to the cliff face. None of the excited visitors noticed a man standing on the stairs as they ascended. He was apparently concentrating on the evening newspaper he held in both hands, but was actually examining each one of them as they passed.

*     *      *

Had Eric Saunders been able to foresee what was about to happen that Tuesday afternoon, it was doubtful he would have included Niagara Falls on his itinerary. Had the big mechanic from Detroit imagined just part of the events that would befall him, he would probably have given up his long-planned vacation and stayed on the assembly line at Ford, which was noisy but safe. But Eric Saunders had no reason to imagine that a short trip to the men’s room on the ground floor of Skylawn Tower would end the way it did.

Nor did Evelyn Moore, the washroom custodian, expect the kind of excitement she encountered. Later, when she tried to reconstruct the course of events at the request of a very short-tempered police detective, she recalled that, at first – when she had just entered the men’s room pulling her cleaning equipment behind her – she hadn’t assigned particular importance to the muffled groans emanating from the third stall on the right. Only after the strange moans grew louder and more insistent did the large woman dare to put her ear against the door in an effort to try to figure out what was going on behind it.

The next series of groans she heard inspired Evelyn Moore to run as fast as she could to the internal phone, which she dialed with shaking fingers. The three-digit number immediately brought men from the security department. Jim McCoy broke the stall door lock with a hard kick. The tourist site’s veteran security officer – who spent most of his days trying to prevent shoplifting or returning lost children to their worried parents, and most of his nights organizing the guard duty shifts and checking the sophisticated fire-detecting equipment – was shocked.

The hands of the man who sat on the toilet in front of him were bent behind his back and tied to a water pipe. His mouth was gagged and his feet were tied with a plastic rope that ran around the back of the toilet’s base. McCoy noted the sailor’s knot that held the man’s feet. Whoever had wanted to keep this man here had done it right, McCoy thought.

Immediately after being examined by the doctor who had been urgently summoned to the site’s first aid clinic, and swallowing two powerful painkillers for the pounding in his head, Eric Saunders was politely, but firmly, asked to tell the waiting detectives his version of what had happened. When it became clear to his questioners that Saunders had not been robbed and they had become persuaded that the man – who was burning with anger – did not have any idea who could have done this to him, they called US Customs and Immigration. The purpose of the man who had tied up Saunders was clear: he had wanted to infiltrate the border of the United States.

It was nearly midnight when the almost final confirmation came, to the relief of the investigators, and not before two important facts had become clarified: it was not customary to check the identities of the tour boat passengers on the Niagara; and the customs officers only checked the total number of those going on each sailing. If the number of excursionists returning to the U.S. matched the number of those who had left, they didn’t both to check identities.

At 1 a.m. the tour boat guide was located in his rented apartment on the southern side of the falls. The young man confirmed with absolute confidence that the 48 persons who had embarked on the afternoon tour were on it when it returned from the Canadian side Nevertheless, a yellow slicker and a pair of black rubber boots that had been found abandoned in the big wooden locker on the wharf had raised additional question marks. Apparently the man who had taken Saunder’s place had planned to do so with great care, the investigators thought; even bringing with him his own set of clothes – presumably so as not to have to dress in front of the other tourists and perhaps call attention to himself. The complete report of the event was passed on that same night to the Department of the Interior in Washington, and from there through the usual channels to the FBI and CIA.

Eric Saunders was invited by Tourism Canada to spend another two days at Niagara Falls for free.

*     *      *

Ya’acov Nissan went over to the giant window that looked out over New York City and drew back the curtains. Somewhere below was the noise and tumult of the big city, and in the distance opposite it was possible to see a green edge of Central Park. He went to the telephone at the end of the living room bar and dialed a number. An unfamiliar voice answered and informed the deputy head of the Mossad that, “The apartment is clean; it was swept a half hour ago.” He hung up the phone.

During the exchange the two men in the room remained silent. Now Ya’acov Nissan nodded to the other man, who was pacing impatiently up and down the wide room, and said soothingly, “Everything is fine. The boys checked the room. There are no bugs.”

The words burst and overflowed from Nahum Porat like the fizz from a carbonated beverage that was well shaken before being open: “Tell me, are you people completely insane?! What do you think you’re doing? You’ll end up spending the rest of your lives in prison! I have no intention of backing you up on such things.”

“Nahum, what are you talking about?”

“What am I talking about? I’m talking about David Gur being run over and killed and Tova Rom being murdered. I’m talking about
you
. I want an explanation, Ya’acov, right this second – and it had better be satisfactory, if you know what’s good for you. If not, I promise you I will go personally to the attorney general and have him deal with those responsible. I don’t intend to pass over this on the agenda…”

“Nahum, calm down. Let me tell you what happened. David Gur was run over accidentally. Our man, who was supposed to be watching him, was waiting for him near his home. When Gur left his building entrance, our driver saw our ‘subject’ waiting for him on the other side of the street and about to cross. It was clear to our driver that the two of them were about to make contact, and the orders were to prevent such contact at any cost. The driver intended to approach Gur in the car, to come between him and the subject, and to get Gur to drive away with him. What happened next was just bad luck. Gur was reading a newspaper as he walked, and just as the car ran up on the curb to get close to him the page he was turning was caught by the wind and flapped in his face, blocking his vision. The old man then took a step forward – one step too many.

“Tova Rom’s death, in contrast, is not connected to us at all. I have no idea what happened. All the signs indicate that she was indeed attacked and robbed. I promise you, Nahum, we had nothing to do with it.”

“From the follow-up report I understood she was in her bed when she took the call from the subject. How did it happen, do you think, that she was found in the street with her skull crushed an hour later?”

“I don’t know. I can only imagine that Rom had been disturbed by the call. The report of their conversation says clearly that the subject told her that David Gur’s death was not an accident, but murder. Perhaps after this the actress was afraid to stay in the hotel – maybe she was scared that the same fate awaited her as her colleague. It could also be that she believed she would be safer somewhere else. It is very likely that it was just a chain of unfortunate circumstances that brought her to her end. It is clear to us she was attacked; it is also clear to us she was robbed. In any case, I can assure you that we had nothing to do with it.”

“Okay, okay,” the head of the Mossad cut him off. We’ll come back to this. What is the situation right now?”

“We received a cable that your man went to Canada. His name appeared on the computer list Van der Hoff from KLM sent us.”

“Canada, eh?” Porat nodded his head in satisfaction.

“Canada,” his deputy emphasized, “and you’re not even surprised. Why the hell Canada?”

Nahum smiled to himself. “The man thinks well; he’s a brilliantly logical analyst,” he said approvingly.

“What do you mean?”

“The man understood that a covert entry into the United States would be a hard and complicated operation – while it would be much easier to get into Canada. Don’t worry, he’ll get here in the end. It’s only a matter of time.”

“Why are you so sure he has to get here?” Nissan tried to understand his interlocutor’s self-confidence just a little.

Nahum Porat smiled to himself and continued as if he hadn’t heard. “Another day or two and he’ll be here with us. And then we’ll have only one problem left.”

“And that is?” asked Nissan, clearly not following his superior’s train of thought to the end.

“Finding him, my friend; finding him in this small town,” the head of the Mossad said, pursing his lips. “Nothing easier,” right?”