Pursuit (50 page)

“And your second argument?”

Mittendorf leaned over, his tiny eyes almost buried in the fat of his face. “How would you like to be found in La Boca or floating in the Plate with a knife in your belly?” he said savagely, almost spitting the words past the cigar.

Grossman brushed away the smoke; he seemed to be brushing the threat away with it. After all, he had always known nothing could be done to avoid the possibility of personal violence.

“If you think that will advance your interests—”

“No, no!” Schlossberg said impatiently. “Klaus, be quiet! That certainly is not our second argument—”

“Then—?”

“Your family,” Schlossberg said quietly, and watched Grossman closely. “Our information is that you are quite attached to them. Let me see …” He seemed to be considering the matter. “A Jew mother and a Jew son. It would not be such a tragic loss at that, I suppose, so possibly that wouldn't really constitute much of a threat, eh?”

Despite his control, Grossman's face had whitened.

“However,” Schlossberg went on in a conciliatory tone, “it is pointless to consider such unpleasant things. Colonel von Schraeder, I am sure, will do his duty.”

He smiled and leaned back, a thin figure with sharp piercing eyes and a bushy wig, but impressive despite the overdone hair. He was a far different figure from the indecisive, hesitant Dr. Schlossberg who had ridden with von Schraeder from Lublin to Weimar so many years before, rubbing his bald pate incessantly and mumbling all his patriotic nonsense. What a little money and a little power can do! Grossman thought. Schlossberg leaned forward again, sure his message had been received.

“Assuming you are not interested in the technical side of the material we are discussing,” he said, “let me tell you something about the enriched uranium you will be delivering. It will not be a large package; the fifty pounds that we require will fit easily into your attaché case. It will undoubtedly be in the form of what are called pellets, that is, compressed granules; and each pellet will be about the size of a soup can. I would suggest that you take some ordinary kitchen bars of paraffin with you to separate the pellets in your attaché case; cadmium would be better but I cannot imagine where you would locate cadmium without raising suspicions and we do not want to make your mission any more difficult than necessary. Actually, I am quite sure the pellets are already coated, but the kitchen paraffin would be an extra precaution. Incidentally, as I'm sure you already know, there is not enough radioactivity in the material in its present state to affect anyone carrying it.”

Grossman sat quietly, his face a mask.

“Now,” Schlossberg said, getting to the nub of the matter, “we estimate two weeks should be more than sufficient for you to get your hands on fifty pounds of it. How you manage is your problem”—he paused as Mittendorf smirked—“but I should not fail if I were you.”

“And when—and if—I have it?”

“You will be instructed.”

“How?”

“You will be instructed,” Schlossberg repeated and came to his feet, motioning Mittendorf to join him. He bent slightly at the waist with old-world courtesy and indicated with a slight wave of his hand the almost-full bottle of brandy on the table. “It is paid for. And it was good to see you again.
Bon appetit
.”

He nodded, smiled, and walked away confidently, with Mittendorf hurrying to catch up. Behind them they left an extremely troubled Benjamin Grossman, for once without a plan.

In the street Klaus Mittendorf threw away his cigar and looked at his companion.

“Do you think he'll do it?”

“I am quite positive he will do it.”

“But how can you be so sure?”

“My dear Klaus,” Schlossberg said, wondering as always why the organization tolerated an idiot like Mittendorf, “why do you think we planned this meeting so carefully? Why do you think we planned the entire operation so carefully?”

“I know, but—”

“Weren't you paying the slightest attention to our conversation in there? I said we shall have two bombs, one to drop and the other to remain as the real threat.”

“I know. I heard that, but I don't see—”

“Brigadier General Benjamin Grossman will see, and that's all that counts,” Schlossberg said grimly, and ended the conversation.

Chapter 5

Benjamin Grossman could not remember a flight that interminable, that endless, but despite the everlasting hours and despite the fact that his mind raced the entire time, he could not come up with a solution. All my life a planner, he thought bitterly, and when I need a plan the most, I cannot find one! Getting the material would be no problem. He had often inspected the installation at what had once been the kibbutz of Ein Tsofar, and his access to all portions of that factory within a mountain was unquestioned. He had made many suggestions when the caves were being enlarged to provide for an installation undetectable from the air by planes or spy satellites.

No, getting his hands on the material was not the problem. Even the matter of how long it would be before the loss was detected was not the problem; in the United States it had taken years before the discovery was made and with care the same time could elapse in Israel before it was known. No, the problem was whether or not he should hand it over to ODESSA when and if he had it. His reasons for rejecting the organization back in Strasbourg in the first place had never changed; and to give in to blackmailers was merely to dig oneself deeper into a bottomless pit.

But the alternative to giving them the material was unthinkable. He had little doubt that ODESSA could reach into Israel and harm either Deborah or Herzl, although his knowledge of security made him realize that proper precautions could make it very difficult. But, would giving ODESSA the material with which they could destroy Tel Aviv, if they chose, be any protection for those he wished most to protect? Obviously not. Certainly not. That could not be the solution to the problem. It was an endless chase in his head, and the only answer he could see was hardly an answer at all; and that was that he desperately needed help.

He came down the steps from his plane the following day weary from his trip and from not having rested at all, and from having worn himself out in his search for an operative alternative to the step he was about to take. But there was no other way that he could see. He answered the newsmen who clustered about him asking the results of his trip, but he had no idea of what he was saying, and he excused himself with an abruptness unusual with him. He climbed into his car and as they pulled away from the airport he reached over and tapped the sergeant-driver on the shoulder.

“No, not Ramat Gan. Take me to Mossad headquarters.”

He leaned back and watched the scenery pass, realizing he had come to feel deeply attached to this country, that its possible destruction at the hands of ODESSA or anyone else was unthinkable, or if not unthinkable at least not in his own best interests. Here he had been happy, if not for the first year, certainly after that. Almost twenty-five years of happiness, and now this! He should have destroyed Schlossberg after the operation, as the two inmates who had assisted had been destroyed! But it was too late to worry about that. He closed his eyes, but behind the lids there sprang up a picture of Herzl, stretched out lifeless, and he opened them at once, as if by keeping his vision occupied with the orchards they were passing he could blot out that terrifying thought. Yes, he needed help and he needed it badly!

The car pulled up before the headquarters building; he climbed down and leaned in to the driver. “Call the Magen David Adorn,” he said. “Tell my wife I'm back and where I am. I'll be home in an hour or so.” He turned and climbed the steps, trying to formulate the proper words, and then dropped the matter. The words would come, proper or not; what had to be said would be said.

The receptionist outside Max's office smiled at her employer's old friend. She spoke into the intercom and then looked up.

“You're fortunate, General. Colonel Brodsky is free. He'll see you now.”

Fortunate! Grossman thought with an inward grimace, and entered the room. Max got to his feet and walked around his desk, coming to him, smiling broadly.

“Ben, this is a nice surprise! I thought you were in Argentina.”

“I just got off the plane. I—”

Max frowned. “What's the matter? You look terrible. Here, sit down—”

“No, I'd rather stand. You sit down. I've got a rather long story to tell you.”

Max went back and sat behind his desk, mystified, swiveling his chair to keep up with Grossman as Ben paced back and forth, trying in his mind for the right words. At last he took a deep breath and began, not looking at Brodsky, but keeping his eyes on the floor.

“Max, when I was in Argentina, the night before I left—the night before last—I was approached by two men. It took me a little while, but I finally recognized them. They made no attempt to hide their identity, I might mention. One of them was Franz Schlossberg—he was a doctor at both Maidanek and Buchenwald, and in Ward Forty-six. The other was Mittendorf, the commandant at Maidanek, They said they were from ODESSA. I had thought ODESSA had been disbanded years ago, but apparently not.”

“We've always known they still existed.” Max was listening very closely now.

“In any event, they knew a lot about me and my family. They even knew where Deborah worked. They—they threatened me—”

Brodsky frowned. “Threatened you? In what way?”

“They want me to do something for them. They give me two weeks in which to do it. If not—”

“If not?”

Benjamin Grossman paused in his pacing. He raised his head and looked Max in the eye. His face was pale.

“Then Deborah would be killed. And Herzl.”

Max Brodsky's face might have been carved from granite. “What is it they want you to do?”

“I can't tell you that. But I'll tell you this—” He leaned across the desk. “I want full protection for both Deborah and Herzl. Total!”

“You'll get it,” Max said. “About what they wanted—”

“I want that protection
now!
”

“Ben, relax! You say you have two weeks. Let's think a minute. What is it they want you to do?”

“Max, there's no use in asking that question because I'm not going to answer. You're wasting time! You spent enough time in the camps to know these men and how they operate! I want full protection for my family now! Not tomorrow, not a week from now, but
now!
”

“Ben,” Max said patiently. “I said, relax. You'll get total protection for your family. You still have time. Herzl is in Europe someplace, still, isn't he? Well, get him back if you want me to protect him fully. Or let me know where he is and I'll have a reliable man there as soon as he can get there, and I'll also contact the local authorities wherever he is. And I'll have people at the first-aid station in fifteen minutes.” He frowned at his bare desk a moment and then looked up. “Is security involved in whatever it was they asked you to do?”

“No comment. You're still wasting time!”

Brodsky's look changed, becoming very official and very tough.

“You listen to me! If security is involved I mean to know! Your family will be protected, but when a general in the army is threatened, is asked to do something he won't discuss, then we here at Mossad are concerned. Do you have any idea what names those two in Buenos Aires were using?”

“Max, for God's sake-!”

“Just answer.”

Grossman sighed helplessly.

“Schlossberg called Mittendorf Klaus, but that was his name, and I have no idea what names they've taken. Or where they live. Schlossberg said he had a ranch, if that helps. He also said they had traveled far to get to Argentina to meet me, but that could be true or not. It's obvious ODESSA has men in the Argentinian Government, or at least informers or sympathizers. It's customary for a visiting dignitary, or negotiator—which I was—to be wined and dined, especially on the last night. My staff was, I later learned, and at a different restaurant. But I was practically sent to this restaurant, the way one forces a card in a trick, so they could talk to me. It was well organized.”

He sat down, facing Brodsky, looking at the other man angrily.

“You keep asking questions about those two, as if picking them up would help! Do you think ODESSA would stop, that their threats to Deborah or Herzl would be ended if you picked up Schlossberg and Mittendorf, even if you could? Someone else would take over. While you're sitting there asking a lot of fool questions—”

“Nothing will happen to Deborah or Herzl,” Max said calmly. “And if we pick up those two, there will be two less of ODESSA for any future threats to Israeli generals. What did they want you to do?”

Grossman was already sorry he had come. “Max—!”

“At least tell me if you plan on doing it.”

“No! Not if you—”

The telephone rang. Max motioned Grossman to remain where he was while he answered. His face whitened as he listened to a hysterical receptionist. He turned his chair to stare wordlessly from the window as the details were given to him, and when he hung up he remained looking from the window blindly for several moments before he swung back. It was difficult to face his old friend, Benjamin Grossman.

“Ben—”

“What?”

If it were to be said it had to be said quickly.

“Deborah,” Max said quietly. His hand, clutching the edge of the desk, was white from the pressure. “She's dead—”

“Dead?” It was said as if the word held no meaning to him.

“An explosive in a package delivered to the first-aid station, supposedly of some drugs they were expecting—”

“Dead—?” Grossman stared, unbelieving.