Read Online Blind Mission: A Thrilling Espionage Novel by Avichai Schmidt - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Avichai Schmidt
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of retouching, and now looked like the product of a graphic artist. However, the graphic work was unfaithful to the original, for it had intentionally distorted one crucial detail – the eyebrows. The eyebrows of the man in the police sketch were much thinner and lighter than his! That was it; that was what he had not been able to get out of his mind all evening. That was the reason that no one had identified him so far. With different eyebrows, even a mother would have a hard time identifying her offspring from a police sketch. A sketch with false eyebrows was like a finger with another man’s prints.
But why were they doing this? Why had they made it impossible to identify him? And if they had intentionally kept the public from identifying him – what was the point in publicizing his likeness? And anyway, they know well who he is – so what was the reason for not identifying him by name?
As he turned around and headed back to the car, he found himself looking nervously over his shoulder. He felt pursued , and a feeling of insecurity threatened to overwhelm him. Was this the objective of the man who planned all this? Was someone interested in him running for his life?
* * *
He had to concentrate on actions; his feelings had to be pushed forcefully into the background of his awareness. The first thing he had to do was get rid of the car, such that no one could find it, not even by accident. An abandoned stolen car always offered investigators an excellent thread to follow. There was no way of knowing what inside the car would give away the present whereabouts of the driver.
Greenberg drove to one of the more expensive downtown parking lots, took a parking receipt from the machine at the automated gate, and parked the car in the far corner of an upper floor. It would be a long time before the car was found, he believed. Car thieves don’t usually park stolen cars in downtown lots – and for that reason the police don’t usually look for them there, either.
He walked out of the lot, and only then did he realize how much the car had afforded him protection and a sense of still possessing something in the world. Now he felt he had only the clothes on his back and the few objects in his pockets – a wallet with a dwindling amount of cash, a handkerchief, a comb. He slowly walked over to a gleaming display window and studied his reflection. Taking the comb from his back pocket, he combed his hair down and to the side. Only after walking another four blocks did he summon the courage to flag down a passing cab. The buses had stopped running; at that hour the only buses to be seen on the streets were being driven swiftly home by their drivers.
The cab driver knew the address, but couldn’t understand what was wanted by the tourist speaking fluent Italian in the back seat, while gesticulating broadly with his hands. Later, if the driver were asked if he remembered picking up the person whose picture was being shoved under his notes, there would be no chance he’d single out the naïve Italian, whom he had driven around in circles running up a huge fare.
Finally the cab gave up its passenger into the night. Greenberg paid without hesitation, despite the fact the ride used up a good portion of his remaining money, and began walking. He swiftly passed three buildings, then turned into the courtyard of a much larger one, very well lit. No one challenged him as he walked through the main entrance, nor when he followed the illuminating sign with the legend printed in thick red letters: ”OPERATING ROOM”.
* * *
A strong odor of medicines mixed with cleaning fluid assaulted Greenberg, making him feel slightly dizzy and nauseous. The glaring fluorescent lights reflecting off the polished linoleum floor hurt his eyes. There were several people in the surgical waiting room, dozing in different positions on the hard wood benches that lined two of the walls. Periodically the
But why were they doing this? Why had they made it impossible to identify him? And if they had intentionally kept the public from identifying him – what was the point in publicizing his likeness? And anyway, they know well who he is – so what was the reason for not identifying him by name?
As he turned around and headed back to the car, he found himself looking nervously over his shoulder. He felt pursued , and a feeling of insecurity threatened to overwhelm him. Was this the objective of the man who planned all this? Was someone interested in him running for his life?
* * *
He had to concentrate on actions; his feelings had to be pushed forcefully into the background of his awareness. The first thing he had to do was get rid of the car, such that no one could find it, not even by accident. An abandoned stolen car always offered investigators an excellent thread to follow. There was no way of knowing what inside the car would give away the present whereabouts of the driver.
Greenberg drove to one of the more expensive downtown parking lots, took a parking receipt from the machine at the automated gate, and parked the car in the far corner of an upper floor. It would be a long time before the car was found, he believed. Car thieves don’t usually park stolen cars in downtown lots – and for that reason the police don’t usually look for them there, either.
He walked out of the lot, and only then did he realize how much the car had afforded him protection and a sense of still possessing something in the world. Now he felt he had only the clothes on his back and the few objects in his pockets – a wallet with a dwindling amount of cash, a handkerchief, a comb. He slowly walked over to a gleaming display window and studied his reflection. Taking the comb from his back pocket, he combed his hair down and to the side. Only after walking another four blocks did he summon the courage to flag down a passing cab. The buses had stopped running; at that hour the only buses to be seen on the streets were being driven swiftly home by their drivers.
The cab driver knew the address, but couldn’t understand what was wanted by the tourist speaking fluent Italian in the back seat, while gesticulating broadly with his hands. Later, if the driver were asked if he remembered picking up the person whose picture was being shoved under his notes, there would be no chance he’d single out the naïve Italian, whom he had driven around in circles running up a huge fare.
Finally the cab gave up its passenger into the night. Greenberg paid without hesitation, despite the fact the ride used up a good portion of his remaining money, and began walking. He swiftly passed three buildings, then turned into the courtyard of a much larger one, very well lit. No one challenged him as he walked through the main entrance, nor when he followed the illuminating sign with the legend printed in thick red letters: ”OPERATING ROOM”.
* * *
A strong odor of medicines mixed with cleaning fluid assaulted Greenberg, making him feel slightly dizzy and nauseous. The glaring fluorescent lights reflecting off the polished linoleum floor hurt his eyes. There were several people in the surgical waiting room, dozing in different positions on the hard wood benches that lined two of the walls. Periodically the
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