Blind Mission: A Thrilling Espionage Novel by Avichai Schmidt Page A

raced as he tried to choose clearly the best alternative among a wealth of possibilities. Finally, with a pounding headache, he managed to nod off just before dawn.
     
    *     *      *
     
    The silence of the reading room lent it an atmosphere of a place where time had stopped; a respectable place where the rhythm of life outside had been brought to a half. Despite the fact that the public library was practically deserted at this early morning hour, the librarian made her way to him down the long lending counter observing total silence. The thin, fragile looking woman slowly raised her eyes above the lenses of her reading glasses and considered with some suspicion the request of the young unshaven man in front of her: to see all the country’s daily newspapers of the past two days.
    “Do you also mean the foreign language ones?”
    “Yes, please, all the papers.”
    For several long minutes Greenberg watched with amusement as the librarians moved among their patrons, making themselves busy. He couldn’t help being reminded of a joke told about a certain Middle Eastern ruler who, while on a visit to Moscow, attended a performance of the Bolshoi in his honor. When he returned to his country and was asked what he thought about the performance, he replied enthusiastically: “What respect! What consideration! What manners! Sixty dancers twirled in front of me on their tiptoes, trying to keep silent…”
    For the next half hour, Greenberg carefully examined the large pages laid in front of him. The librarian would pass by him occasionally, carrying piles of books to return to their places, stealing glances over his shoulder. She was amazed to discover that he was not looking at the want ads, as she had imagined, nor a particular article or editorial – but was systematically and meticulously combing the obituaries.
    When he had finished he remained seated, bent over the table with his chin resting on his folded hands. Now he had almost no doubt in his mind; but nevertheless felt he had to keep checking.
    His next request to the reading room librarian was so different from his previous one, that the efficient woman began to doubt whether he was entirely rational. However, good work procedure was stronger than doubt, and she brought him his request.
    When Greenberg found Page 52 of the thick tome bearing the gold-embossed title, Personalities of the Israeli Theatre , he caught his breath. Even though the photograph had been taken several years before, there could be no mistake. Greenberg positively identified the actor who had spoken to the pensioners in the radio ad. Under the photo was the name David Gur, the Mask Theatre.
     
    *     *      *
     
    The northern end of Tel Aviv’s Yarkon Street surged with traffic. Greenberg had been waiting for nearly three minutes for a gap to open and allow him to cross.
    He had found the address in the phone book. The man he was looking for wasn’t famous enough for his number to be unlisted. The building was on the left, about a hundred meters from where he was standing. It looked exactly like any other beachfront apartment building in Israel’s largest city. The stucco exterior had been renewed recently, but still had not been able to withstand damage by the salty sea wind. In every spot where the stucco had peeled was an ugly blotch not unlike the liver spots of old age.
    Just as Greenberg was about to step off the pavement, he suddenly saw the figure he was looking for step out of the gloom of the entrance hall he had been looking at. He sucked in his breath and felt his heart pound. Despite the distance, and even though the man was now wearing a suit, it was impossible for him to be mistaken. The same height, same broad shoulders, the same slightly bent posture…it was he!
    The old man in the gray suit slowly made his way from the building entrance to the sidewalk, his attention absorbed in the morning newspaper he held open between his hands. He stubbornly