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

looking for opulence and grandeur; that was meant for another sort of clientele. Those who required services the bank provided at this address – which was published in small, discrete advertisements in the financial sections of the daily press – sought anonymity and secrecy. The bank, which understood its customers’ needs, behaved accordingly. Those who crossed the threshold of this building passed into another world – the word of real money, black money, money in unlimited quantities; whose source no longer bore any importance.
    By 3:30 only three persons had entered via the stately wooden door that was the focus of Greenberg’s attention. Two of them were still inside when he ordered another pot of coffee. He intuitively felt he had no reason to show them any interest. His impatience was growing. Every so often he glanced at his watch. The sky darkened and it looked like it would soon begin to rain.
    A person who stated his business to the receptionist of the unimposing building and was admitted with an almost imperceptible nod, was then escorted down the long, softly carpeted corridors and handed over to a uniformed, armed guard, who in turn opened the door to one of several secure rooms. The heavy, conservative furniture in the room was meant to inspire both a feeling of comfort and peaceful security to those who entered. After a moment the Swiss clerk would enter and present himself formally, then swiftly extract the necessary documents for signature from an elegant leather portfolio. The client would always remain anonymous, with no identification beyond the secret account number. Even the sums that changed hands, no matter how large, would always be just a number.
    At 3:55 another man approached, swinging a briefcase. Greenberg lifted the glasses and examined him. Had he been asked, he could not have explained why he believed that this was the man he had been waiting for; perhaps it was the nervous way he looked over his shoulder before seeming to gather courage and pushing open the heavy oak door. Greenberg burned with excitement, suddenly feeling like a beast that had just scented its prey. As the man was swallowed up inside the doorway, Greenberg – who had been holding his breath without realizing it, -- let it out with a long sigh.
    Time crawled along, each minute separated by an eternity. The waitresses had long changed shifts. One of the new waitresses approached his table and he waved her off impatiently. He waited and waited, but still the man did not reappear. At 4:45, a little before it became dark, he caught his breath. The door he had been watching for hours slowly opened and a shadowy figure emerged. He could now make out several details: the man had a mane of dark hair; he was thin and slightly built, but with an erect posture; he was wearing a brown leather jacket and matching beige slacks. His right hand was pulled downward by the apparent weight of the briefcases. Because of the distance it was difficult for Greenberg to see the man’s features and, because of this, to estimate his age.
    Greenberg waited a few seconds more without taking his eyes from the man on the other side of the street. He watched as the man tightened his grip on the case, and then immediately shifted it to his other hand. It was that casual movement that enabled Greenberg to decide. There was no doubt the case was heavy, much heavier than before. Two or more seconds passed. The man stood for a moment, as if uncertain, then set off straight into the mall.
    Greenberg bolted from the table, almost upsetting the one next to it. Apologizing over his shoulder to its occupants, he did not wait for a reply or slacken his pace, but ran as fast as he could down the spiral staircase to the ground floor of the café. In seconds he was quickly making his way down the mall with long, swift strides, scanning the passerby for a sign of the man in the short broad jacket. Suddenly he saw him a short distance ahead, standing at the