Triple Identity dg-1

by Haggai Carmon

  “I think I found DeLouise's old tracks in Israel. I need to go deeper. I don't know much yet. I have footprints leading to Israel, so I hope to find out more while I'm there.”

  “Okay,” said David briefly, “you know the rules. The U.S. Embassy in Israel and the state of Israel must approve your visit.”

  “I know that. This red tape is totally unreasonable; I'm also an Israeli citizen.”

  David was serious. “Well, it has some reason. You're not going to Israel on a family trip. You're going on official United States government business. Official visits must meet the approval of the host country – that's common courtesy. Besides not stepping on Israel's toes, under the Federal Chief of Mission statute federal government employees are allowed in any given foreign country only on the sufferance of the chief of mission. That's our ambassador or, if the ambassador is out of the country, the deputy chief of mission. If they really want to go by the rules, they could assign an embassy control officer to escort you during your meetings.”

  “I've been through that before,” I said. I couldn't have an embassy control officer escort me to my meeting with Benny. Benny would be as silent as a dead fish. “Couldn't you do something?” I almost begged.

  “Well,” said David, “if you're just dropping in and can operate under the radar, you might get host-country clearance in three days.”

  “I'm sure you could do better than that, David,” I said, relying more on hope than on fact.

  “OK,” he said, relenting. “Express me your filled-out travel forms. I'll sign and distribute them for approvals. Call me tomorrow for a possible green light. And let me know if you need anything else.”

  “I will,” I said, and hung up.

  “If I need anything,” David had said. I sure did need something; I needed to know more about DeLouise, the guy who was about to ruin the vacation in Israel I had promised my children.

  Ever since I'd divorced Dahlia, my wife of seven years, I'd tried my best to spend more time with my children, seventeen-year-old Karen and fifteen-year-old Tom. A year after our divorce the children decided they wanted to live with me, so they came to the States. Dahlia hadn't put up a fight over that. She knew too well it was a lost battle; the children were old enough to make up their own minds. Because they were grown and needed only minimal housekeeping assistance, namely in rearranging their mess at home, it was easier for me to travel and leave the house chores to Amanda, my loyal part-time housekeeper.

  But now I was about to go to Israel without them. I expected a major earthquake when I broke the news at home. I asked Lan to book me a flight to Tel Aviv for the following day, convinced that David would have the clearance issued quickly. I also gave her a pack of signed, blank travel-request forms. I had a hunch that visiting Israel would only be the beginning of an extensive multicountry hunt for DeLouise.

  I went out to lunch and when I got back I was handed a confirmation slip for my flight out of JFK.

  S itting in the too-narrow seat of a TWA Boeing 747, I thought about Benny. While I'd left the Mossad three years after I'd joined, Benny had stayed on and had slowly risen to become section chief in the Tevel Division, responsible for the Mossad's contacts with foreign governments, particularly those with whom Israel had no diplomatic relations, and with other intelligence services. The “cocktail party agents,” they'd been called in the Mossad. And indeed, the instructor they'd sent to give the course on foreign relations looked more like a stiff-upper-lip British diplomat than a Mossad combatant. But then, what did Mossad combatants look like anyway? Hollywood movies stereotyped them as dark and handsome, but in reality they resembled your next-door neighbor or your school's bus driver.

  As for myself, things were more complicated. With my green eyes and brown hair I didn't look like an average Joe, which had always been an advantage when I was dating but a disadvantage when I wanted to blend in with the crowd during Mossad operations. My 6?4? frame was too noticeable to ignore. Recently, world travel and irregular eating had added a few inches to my waistline. I was fighting it, without too much success. I realized that brain cells come and go but fat cells live forever. But in our trade, looks are not everything. Efraim, the Tevel Division representative, was definitely not a looker, but nonetheless he was a suave guy with worldly manners and a brilliant mind. He could have been my father's law partner.

  “Intelligence is a commodity traded over the world markets,” said Efraim. “We trade information for other information or take a credit slip for future exchange. For example, in 1968 a Mossad combatant in France came across information that OAS, the military organization of the French settlers in Algeria, was contemplating the assassination of President de Gaulle as a way to stop the French pullout from Algeria. We immediately alerted de Gaulle's son-in-law, who was his close confidant, and the plot was exposed. We could do that without compromising our source. In return, and not necessarily contemporaneously, in addition to political favors the French intelligence agency provided Israel with local assistance about individuals within the Arab community living in southern France who could be tied to terrorist organizations in the Middle East.”

  Benny excelled at his job. Employing the art of negotiation and bargaining as though he'd been born to it, he became a world dealer in information and a master in forming human contacts where political relationships were formally nonexistent. Many non-Arab Muslim countries had strong ties with Israel, although formally they were aligned with the Arab countries most hostile to Israel. Benny and I had stayed in touch over the years and had helped each other out in minor matters. I felt comfortable with him. He was loyal and discreet.

  I arrived at my hotel in Tel Aviv too late to call. I was on the phone early the following morning.

  “I'm here,” I said. “When can we meet?”

  “I can see you this afternoon at our cafeteria. You know the place.”

  I took a cab to 39-41 King Shaul Boulevard, a tall office building close to the Tel Aviv courts and the IBM building. Many lawyers, accountants, and businesses used the building, but the Mossad occupied more than half of it. These were the premises the Mossad had moved into after leaving the cramped old buildings located on the other side of Hakirya. The buildings’ employees and the public had free access to a cafeteria on the mezzanine floor.

  Benny was waiting for me. He hadn't changed much since we'd last met – only a few additional pounds around his waist and a few more streaks of gray on his mustache and on the hair that was still left on his head. With his medium build, the weight gain made him look more like a bank manager than a highly ranked executive in a world famous spy agency. The greatest part about Benny, though, was that although he was one of the shrewdest men I'd ever met, he was just an ordinary guy – down-to-earth and never condescending.

  We found a quiet corner and schmoozed a bit like the old friends we were, drinking tea and coffee. Then things turned serious. Benny handed me an envelope.

  “This is for you, and you only. Nothing in it is secret or classified, particularly after so many years, but it could be sensitive so let's lay down some ground rules. After you're finished, return the documents to me. No copies. I want to make sure that Israel is kept out of it if this thing ever blows up.”

  I was getting curious. What was he talking about? DeLouise was a common thief. Only the amount of his haul wasn't common.

  “Look,” said Benny seriously, as if he'd read my mind. “Let me tell you a few things, then you can go back to your room with that envelope. This person – DeLouise, Popescu, Peled, or whatever he called himself – was not an ordinary person. He was an only child born in Romania to Jewish parents who were Romanian citizens. His father was an electrical engineer and his mother a French teacher – all very normal. But Bruno was a brilliant student in high school and graduated at sixteen. He excelled in math and sciences and was accepted to the Bucharest Polytechnic to study physics and chemistry; he got his degree before his twentieth birthday.

  “When immigration to
Israel was allowed, he and his parents emigrated to Israel aboard a ship from Constanta, Romania. Soon after arriving in Israel he joined the Israeli Army and fought in the 1948 War of Independence. He was an excellent soldier and was cited for bravery under fire.”

  I could see this account would be a real test of my memory. “Go on,” I said.

  “He'd taken an Israeli name by then – Dov Peled – and he was sent to the officers’ training academy and became a second lieutenant. The Army assigned him to military intelligence. His first job was in field security; then he was sent to advanced training. A year later Peled was promoted to first lieutenant and placed in a secret unit assigned to collect data on the Arab countries’ technical and scientific capabilities.”

  “So far, it sounds routine,” I said. “There's nothing special about him.”

  “Well, it was unusual. He was assigned to a secret military intelligence unit although he was a new immigrant from a Communist country. It was unusual then, and it's almost impossible today.”

  “I know the routine,” I said. “So why did they take him after all?”

  “I don't have all the facts but it seems that field security found no negative information on him. Anyway, his initial exposure to confidential information was limited because he was assigned to analyze raw data and had no knowledge where it came from or by what means. At the time Israel needed the data for two purposes: first, to be prepared if the Arabs started developing weapons rather than buying existing ones from more developed nations, and second, to steal any scientific discovery or achievement for its own use. Israel had the need, Bruno had the credentials, and the combination worked beautifully. Remember, Israel was in a state of war with the surrounding Arab countries at the time, so the information was crucial. And they weren't just looking at the military industries. For example, the Arab oil industry brought with it substantial technical know-how, from explosives to the behavior of metals under extreme heat and pressure, which could easily be applied to the manufacture of cannon barrels.”

  I was becoming impatient. I knew Benny; there must have been a better reason for him to make me come all the way to Israel. Had I traveled for eleven hours to listen to the history of a guy who was no different from thousands of others? I looked at him closely, trying to figure out what bombshell he was going to drop. There had to be one; I just wondered how big it was going to be.

  Benny sipped his coffee, took a breath, and continued.

  “I don't have a lot of information about what Peled did in that AMAN intelligence unit; I didn't ask for his military file. Although I do know well enough how successful that unit was.”

  Benny then paused – an actor preparing to take center stage. I waited a full thirty seconds for him to continue. I finally spoke.

  “And then?”

  “And then, he joined the Mossad,” Benny said. It sounded as if he'd put a period at the end of his sentence. You could almost hear it.

  My jaw dropped. Not exactly a bombshell, but still a shocker. The Mossad?

  “Our Mossad?” I asked, slowly pronouncing each syllable.

  “Yep,” he said decisively. “Ours.”

  I leaned back to digest the news. A Mossad-trained guy stealing millions? I didn't say anything, thinking that was the end of it.

  “Wait,” said Benny, as if he were reading my mind again. He cautioned me. “None of what I'm telling you about the Mossad is mentioned in the documents in that envelope. It's information that I want you to hear but never repeat.”

  “Is there something else?” I asked in anticipation.

  “Patience,” he counseled. “Please understand that I trust you not to disclose this information to anyone. I don't want this to haunt us. You can draw your own conclusions and use the information to make progress, but don't put it in writing, discuss it with anyone, or reveal your source.”

  This must be some heavy stuff, I thought, if Benny went out of his way to tell me that. We were trained together; we knew the rules. I nodded and waited for Benny to continue.

  “After his honorable discharge from the army, Peled was looking for a job. He took up teaching physics in a high school but left after one year. I guess he was bored. Then the Mossad approached him and offered him a place in the ranks, specifically the ultrasecret unit assigned to worldwide gathering of scientific and industrial information from public and, more importantly, private sources. He was assigned to the nuclear physics section. He was to collect data on the military applications of the most recent developments in the atomic energy field.”

  I didn't want to say anything, fearing I'd break Benny's train of thought or that he'd change his mind about telling me all this.

  “He resigned suddenly in 1957 and emigrated to the United States. That's where our story ends.”

  “Serious stuff,” I breathed. “So this son of a bitch could lead triple lives. Tack on his Mossad training, and he could disappear anytime he wanted.

  “At least I've got a place to start now,” I said. “But triple legal identities? I don't think I've seen that one before.”

  “There could certainly be some side benefits to that,” said Benny.

  “Like what?” I asked absentmindedly, looking up at him. “What do you mean?”

  Then I saw the sparkle in his eyes.

  “You could have three wives,” Benny chuckled.

  “But then you're punished,” I quipped.

  “You mean for polygamy?”

  “No,” I said, “You'd have three mothers-in-law.”

  He smiled. Benny knew marriage was a sensitive topic. Benny and his wife, Batya, had been good friends to Dahlia and me. The news that we were divorcing had stunned them. There'd been no side to take because the decision came so suddenly and the marriage ended so quickly. Even an intelligence expert like Benny hadn't seen the storm approaching. I had simply packed and left. No battles, just good but fading memories tarnished by two people growing apart. I needed a change and the United States looked like a good new leaf for me.

  “Thanks for the information,” I said, when I realized he had finished the story.

  “Hey, what are friends for?”

  I wanted to find out if DeLouise had maintained any contact with the Mossad after he'd left, but I didn't want to push Benny with further questions. I'd try to find another opportunity to ask him that. The information could be relevant to my case.

  “I'll read this stuff and call you to return it or if I have any questions.”

  “I'll be here,” he said, and with that he left.

  I was tempted to open the envelope and go through the documents then and there, but I resisted. I looked around at the other diners. I could easily pick out the Mossad types. Once you'd spent time there you learned the identifying marks – like that guy over at the other table who wore his name tag tucked inside a pocket shirt, but with the clip still visible on the outside. I could still be one of them, I thought. If I'd stayed on I would now be on the same level as Benny, or even higher up, given my extroverted personality and my pushy character and ambitions. I remembered my mother telling anyone who cared to listen, and a few who didn't, that I had ambition. That was long before I even knew what the word meant.

  Three years after my service with the Mossad had begun, I decided to leave. I'd had enough. The work had become too routine. Every great organization is like a Swiss watch with many wheels working in sync. My superiors had all been veterans of the old Russian school of thought. Jews who emigrated from Russia had ruled Israel in its formative years. Some of them became the legendary leaders of Israel's security services and had implemented their strict purist doctrines in their organizations.

  Their idol had been the second and celebrated head of the Mossad, Isser Harel, who emigrated from Russia in the 1920s. He was a short man with jumbo ears, piercing eyes, and unrelenting dedication in his character. People who knew him said he had ice water in his veins. He'd been revered and feared. Judging from the stories I'd heard, I didn't think anyone had love
d him. Admired, yes. Loved? Hardly. During his years as head of the Mossad, from 1952 to 1963, he had carte blanche on all matters of security from David Ben-Gurion, the founder of modern Israel and its first prime minister.

  Harel had ruled not only the Mossad, which was primarily responsible for activity outside Israel, but also the Shin Bet, the secret internal police whose mere existence was kept a state secret until the mid-1970s. When I joined the Mossad, Harel had already been out of power for almost two years. But he continued to cast a long shadow, influencing organizational procedures and philosophy long after his departure. As in any other intelligence-gathering organization, discipline in the Mossad had been tight to prevent leaks and infiltration attempts by hostile powers. The high moral standards imposed by Harel, which had become the norm, continued to be applied. That was fine with everyone, though to be sure there was a double standard involved. When you were on a mission outside Israel, you were expected to lie, cheat, steal, or even kill. But when you returned to Israel you had to be the exemplary model worker and citizen. Never run a red light, tell a lie, or, God forbid, forget to turn over a receipt for ten bucks you spent on the job. Outside Israel we made sizeable cash payments to informers who hadn't exactly been in the habit of giving out receipts. But in Israel? Don't even think of it. Outside Israel we had had other ways to keep a receipt – sometimes on paper, sometimes on a roll of film. The backup unit used photography in the prevideo era. The recording of the “receipt” was useful not only for bookkeeping purposes. Once you had an informer on film receiving payment from you, he was yours forever.

  I had been a deputy on several major operations. It was fascinating and dangerous, but at that level there had been no room for personal initiative or original thinking. I quickly discovered that my lone-wolf personality, cutting corners on my way to the target, was in direct conflict with the rigid structure of such a discipline-based organization.

  Then there was a major problem. Two groups from Mossad had been sent to Rome in January 1971. I'd accompanied Alon, a blond and athletic-looking senior case officer, and a small backup unit had followed separately. The Mossad was collecting information on the hijackers of an El Al flight from Rome on July 22, 1968. The hijackers, who called themselves the Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine, had diverted the plane to Algeria. Thirty-two Israeli passengers had been held hostage for five weeks, the first-ever hijack of a civilian aircraft by Palestinians. It was standard procedure to investigate incidents like this, no matter how many years it took. Nothing was ever shelved, no unsolved case was ever closed, until the responsible individuals had been identified and brought to justice, in public or (more likely) clandestinely.