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

smoothed the big pages each time the wind caught and ruffled them. On the other side of the street, Greenberg had already begun to advance toward the man, who was still oblivious in his reading. Greenberg wanted to look at him from up close, in a kind of final confirmation of what he already knew for sure.
    The man on the other side of the street had reached the sidewalk and stopped. He tried to turn the page of his newspaper, but the strong sea breeze continued to toy with him. Abruptly there came a lull in the traffic. Greenberg had already put one foot into the street when a sudden noise made him step back involuntarily, his head jerking around to locate the source. Across the street and to his right, the engine of a large Ford roared as its driver floored the accelerator. Greenberg looked to the left. The old man had stepped into the street, still struggling with his newspaper. It seemed to Greenberg he could taste the danger. The big American car lunged forward with a blood-chilling screech of tires. Greenberg caught his breath and watched as if in slow motion, as the terrible event unfolded; knowing what was about to happen and being powerless to do anything to stop it. Without conscious thought his eyes followed the read of the car as it shot by, his brain registering the license number.
    The old man looked up suddenly and realized the danger, but it was too late.
    A dull, heavy thud sounded and the big Ford came to a halt with a terrible squealing of brakes. Its driver slammed the automatic shift into reverse and swiftly backed the car several meters, braking with another screech. The Ford’s transmission whined in protest at being forced too fast into forward gear. As the driver floored the accelerator the rear of the car shuddered for an instant and seemed to rise before the car surged forward, the rear wheels laying a strip of burning rubber on the street. The driver expertly flicked the wheel to the left and the monstrous car shot off down the street makings its escape. Other cars jammed on their brakes in time to avert a pile-up, their drivers cursing, as the shutters of neighboring buildings were thrown up, windows opened, and curious heads leaned out to stare.
    Greenberg sprinted forward, weaving his way among the jammed cars and ignoring the insufferable noise of horns blaring and drivers shouting at one another from their overheating vehicles. The man in the gray suit was about eight meters from where he had been standing before, lying spread-eagled on his stomach. Greenberg had no doubt about the seriousness of his injuries. He also did not care. The only thing that concerned him was the desire to verify his assumption.
    A passerby had already rushed over to the injured man; another arrived with Greenberg. The shock that struck him when he saw the man’s face did not stem from the frightening spectacle of his wounds; Greenberg had seen much worse. He was stunned by something else.
    The man who lay in front of him was indeed David Gur, the actor from the Mask Theatre whose voice he had identified on the radio ad. He was also the same David Gur who had played a private performance as nursery owner Zvi Teitelbaum – the elderly man who made pitiful choking sounds in Greenberg’s hands just three days before and then, with great talent, had collapsed in a heap at his feet. It was the same man for whose murder Greenberg was wanted. Now he understood why no obituaries had appeared in the papers announcing the death of the nursery owner.
     
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    Dizengoff Street was teeming with people in the afternoon rush hour. The pleasant weather made it a challenge to find a place to sit in one of the many outdoor cafes scattered the length of the thoroughfare. It was only near the end of the street that Greenberg found a café that was not completely full; he chose a back table far from the eyes of passerby. Before calling a waiter, he checked that the rear exit door was unlocked. He had not yet