Pursuit (53 page)

But that was all in the future. The thing now was to get his hands on the uranium; ODESSA wanted it in exchange for the life of Herzl Grossman and they would get it. And if they blew up half of Israel with it, he only hoped the Jew Brodsky would be directly under the fireball. Less than a week ago he had held a kinship with this country, had been happy here; the Jew Brodsky with his interminable delays during their interview had destroyed all that. The Jew Brodsky with his endless questions, stupidly wasting time while someone was delivering a package that would have been instantly stopped by a security man, had one been ordered to the first-aid station at once. Jews had cost him his father and his mother; now they had cost him his beloved Deborah. And what, exactly, did he owe to either the Jews or to Israel? Without him the Jew Brodsky would not even have been able to reach the place, nor would any of the others on the
Ruth
. And since then he had risked his life countless times for Israel in battle. And his thanks? The loss of his Deborah.

He forced the wormwood-bitter thought aside only to have an even more bitter one take its place. He should never have gone to the Jew Brodsky in the first place; only temporary panic, induced by that sleepless night on the plane, had made him do it. He should have gone from the airport directly to the first-aid station and taken Deborah home. Then he should have put his own troops in charge of security, and not the Jew Brodsky. Now, what was the situation? Because of his visit and his talking to the Jew Brodsky, there could be little doubt but that his telephone was tapped, and that he was undoubtedly under constant surveillance. Oh, if he ever discovered who was watching him Brodsky would claim he was mistaken, that it was all for the safety of Herzl, but now Herzl was in no immediate danger. Still, as long as Brodsky had that excuse, they would be watching Benjamin Grossman. And as long as Benjamin Grossman stayed in that apartment, it would be almost impossible for ODESSA to give him instructions for delivery of the material; and as long as he could not deliver the material, Herzl would then really be in danger. He had to get out of the apartment, back into circulation, at least give ODESSA a chance to get in touch with him. And as for any surveillance, once he had his instructions and could move ahead—well, he had no doubts at all that he would be able to handle that when the time came.

It was at that point that Brigadier General Grossman raised the telephone and called Sergeant Mordechai Saul.

“He's left the apartment,” Herzl said into the telephone. “He said he was going to work.”

“We know,” Brodsky said. “We heard him order the car last night.”

“Will he be followed?”

“He is being followed.”

“But I didn't see another car when his car left,” Herzl said. “I was watching from the window.”

“Don't worry about it,” Brodsky said in a kindly tone, “and stay away from windows.”

General Grossman climbed into his car, surprised to find another soldier at the wheel other than Sergeant Saul, but at least the sergeant's replacement held the door open for him and saluted smartly, which was not always the case with Sergeant Saul, who did these things only when he thought of it. The general settled back in his seat as the car left the curb.

“To my office …” he began.

“Yes, sir.” Richter sat ramrod straight in the driver's seat, handling the car excellently.

“We know,” Brodsky said. “We heard him order the car last night.”

“Right after you called,” Richter said, switching from Hebrew to German, “the sergeant had an unfortunate accident.”

Grossman felt a slight shock run through him. So his driver was ODESSA! Whatever else one might think of the organization, in a way one had to admire it for the excellent German planning and execution. Richter had spoken Hebrew; Grossman was positive the man also spoke Yiddish fluently, as Eichmann had. ODESSA did things in a proper fashion, you had to give them credit for that. They were also murdering bastards, but he would handle that problem when the time came.

“Fatal?” he asked, although he was sure he knew the answer.

“Unfortunately,” Richter said evenly. He spoke without turning his head, almost without moving his lips, nor did he make the mistake of glancing in the rearview mirror to watch the general as he spoke. To the most observant outsider watching he would have appeared at most to be mumbling to himself. “He will not be found, so that is no problem. However—your instructions, Colonel von Schraeder. Get them right the first time, because after I leave you at your office, you will not see me again until the time of delivery. Are you ready?”

“Yes.”

“Good. A week from tomorrow is the fourteenth of May. It is both the Sabbath as well as being the twenty-third anniversary of the founding of Israel. It is a day when security forces are generally more lax, with most people worrying more about celebrating than anything else. You will give your driver the weekend off; it is a time when this can be done without the slightest suspicion. You will drive yourself. We suggest you arrange matters to deliver the materials that night; at midnight to be exact. You can arrange to pick it up whenever you wish; that day or earlier. It is your problem. Is it understood?”

“Yes.” The fourteenth of May was a day that Grossman had already considered, although he obviously had been unable to finalize his plans before this meeting. They thought of everything, this ODESSA!—including how to deliver explosive packages to innocent women.

“Good. Now,” Richter said, driving expertly through the heavy morning traffic, “are you familiar with Eilat?”

“I've been there.”

“You may know, then, that on the road leaving Eilat to the south, you first pass the old and new ports, then the glass-boat pier, and a short distance beyond the pier you come to two hotels on your right, across from the diver's club. A bit further along you come to the undersea observatory. At the observatory you will set your speedometer. Exactly two and three tenths miles past the observatory, you will leave the road and drive on the sand. The sand is firm; there is no problem driving on it. Exactly two miles further, on the sand, you will see a small dock. I shall be there with a speedboat. You will deliver the material to me, I shall verify it, and after that you are free. You can either go with me or stay. If you stay, we may have other work for you; if you leave with me, we can always use a man of your talents. The choice is yours.”

His tone of voice changed from the impersonal flatness to one that was more intimate.

“I should imagine your going or staying will depend upon how much exposure you suffer in getting the material, or how much you disclosed when you went to the Mossad after returning from Argentina—”

Grossman frowned. “You know that, too?”

“Not directly. It is something I deduced, you might say, from the fact that there are two bugs—signal generators—in operation on this car at this moment. One is taped inside the rear bumper; the other—”

“Is mounted with a magnet fastener in the left-front-wheel hubcap,” Grossman said. “I know.”

Richter came close to permitting himself a smile. Colonel von Schraeder had lost none of his intelligence and little of his skills in his years in Israel. It augured well for their mission.

“Very good,” he said, and pulled up before the building in which the general had his offices. He got out and opened the door, saluting smartly with his other hand. “Good luck, sir. Your car will be in the battalion garage when you want it.”

He closed the door as General Benjamin Grossman slowly mounted the steps of the building, then Richter climbed back into the front seat and drove to the battalion garage, not even now permitting himself the small smile that had almost escaped him before, not even to congratulate himself on a scheme well planned and well executed. Major Hans Richter was a well-trained soldier.

“The general has reached his office, sir,” said Brodsky's aide, standing before him, and then in a more personal tone, he added, “We'll see to it he's well protected. Nobody wants anything to happen to the general, sir.”

Brodsky had instructed his men that General Grossman was being threatened, that the people who had murdered his wife were still a threat to the general. It was all he had told his men and it was all he needed to tell them.

“Good. Any stops on the way?”

“No, sir. He came directly from his apartment to the office.”

“And the signal?”

“It worked perfectly, sir. You could almost tell when the car turned a corner.”

“Very good,” Brodsky said with satisfaction. “All routine, eh?”

“Yes, sir. Except—”

Brodsky looked up. “Except what?”

“Well, sir, it's probably of no significance, but you said you wanted complete details on the surveillance—”

“Get on with it,” Brodsky said impatiently. “Except what?”

“He had a different driver today, sir. Not the usual one.”

“What?” Brodsky frowned. “But he telephoned his regular driver last night—” His frown deepened; it seemed to puzzle his aide.

“Sir? Does the general having a different driver have any special significance?”

“Never mind,” Brodsky said. “You can go.”

As his aide walked from the office, Brodsky swiveled his chair and stared from the window. A new driver … He would give odds that this new driver was from ODESSA, and while he would put men at once onto the garage and wherever uniforms could be obtained—which in Israel was almost anywhere—the driver by this time was probably in Jordan or possibly even on his way back to Germany. He would also put men onto Sergeant Mordechai Saul, but he was fairly sure that Sergeant Saul was dead. They would not have left a loose end like that.

He swiveled back and stared down at his bare desk. So whatever instructions were to have been passed, had been passed. Well, in a way it was good. It would bring the business to a conclusion. Now they would have to keep a tighter control on Colonel von Schraeder, that was all. Give him leeway without actually giving him leeway. Let him think he's home free. Let him lead the Mossad to his ODESSA contacts; there were others who could take over from there. But putting their hands on any ODESSA agents was only a small part of the plan. Far more important was the fact that while there might not be sufficient proof to put Colonel Helmut von Schraeder on the gallows where he belonged, catching Benjamin Grossman in an open act of treachery, of betrayal of his country, added to that other proof, should wind up the matter of Helmut von Schraeder quite satisfactorily.

Chapter 7

The feeling of celebration was everywhere that Friday the fourteenth day of May in that year 1971. One saw it in the faces of strangers in the streets, of visitors from abroad, in the singing and dancing almost everywhere, the extra smiles and congratulations, the unusual politeness at the beaches and in the hotels. Twenty-three years of nationhood had been passed, three wars had been fought and won, and there was no indication that there would not be more wars in which many would die and Israel's existence would be threatened. But these were thoughts for yesterday and for tomorrow—today was Independence Day, and nowhere in the world is Independence Day celebrated with as much direct personal memory of the bitter struggle for that independence than in Israel.

It would be more accurate to say the feeling of celebration was almost everywhere. To Colonel Max Brodsky of the Mossad, as well as to those under his command, that Friday was a day like all other days, with work to be done and, in fact, extra precautions to be taken. Brodsky had long considered the strong possibility that Independence Day, particularly when combined with a Sabbath, would be an excellent time for whatever mischief ODESSA had in mind for Benjamin Grossman. But the report his aide gave him was the same as it had been every day that week.

“Sir, General Grossman has arrived at his office. No stops on the way. No contacts with anyone. Same driver, a Sergeant Breil. Thoroughly vetted, sir.” The aide had served in the British Army during the war.

“Good—” Except Brodsky was really not sure it was all that good, although he did not know exactly why. He did know, however, that the two weeks were about to pass, and he did not believe that when an organization such as ODESSA said two weeks, that they meant fifteen days.

And later, “Sir, the general has arrived home. He's driving himself. He gave his driver the weekend off for the holiday.”

There was nothing unusual in that on Independence Day, but still Brodsky felt that slight chill that came to him when something was about to break. General Benjamin Grossman had also gone home early, again nothing unusual on Independence Day. Still …

“Keep an ear on him,” Brodsky said, and leaned back, thinking.

To Herzl Grossman that day had an air of unreality about it. It had been increasingly difficult as the days went by to act as if everything between himself and his father was as it had always been, but this Friday when his father had returned from the office early he had paid little attention to his son or anything else, sitting in his study with the shades drawn, his briefcase inexplicably on his desk before him and his hand resting on it as if for comfort, seemingly staring at the wall, thinking. But of what he was thinking, Herzl could not imagine. What did a man think who had put to death almost one million Jews and then falls in love with a Jew? What does he think when the woman he loves is killed because of something in his past? Does he blame himself? Or does he put the blame on someone else? Colonel Helmut von Schraeder would undoubtedly blame someone else. Who did Benjamin Grossman blame?

It was all very confusing.…

It was also very confusing as to what game Max Brodsky was playing in giving a criminal like von Schraeder the time he was giving him, the freedom of action he was allowing him. Why had Max Brodsky taken away all the evidence he had amassed in Germany? Why had Max Brodsky not brought Helmut von Schraeder up before the authorities at once? Accused him to his face and had him arrested and brought to justice—and the hangman? Because it would be Helmut von Schraeder they would be hanging, not Benjamin Grossman, his father. Could it be possible that Max Brodsky, who had been closer to him than an uncle could be, almost a father, could be part of some grotesque conspiracy? If his father, Benjamin Grossman, whom he had loved and trusted all his life, could be exposed for the murdering criminal he was, could anyone, including Max Brodsky, be trusted?