Accordingly, all I could conclude was that Ariel Peled had rented a safe-deposit box. That was a single source fact. Still, somebody posing as Ariel could also have done the same. That she put something she felt needed protection in the box was an assumption, not a fact, because the box could still be empty. But if it was Ariel who rented the box and put something in the box, I figured it was connected to her father. That was definitely a suspicion.
Back at the hotel, I went through my papers again. I looked at the identified phone numbers Lan had sent me and compared them with Peled's hotel bill. I examined the line on the bill where the charge was made for the two calls to the Mossad headquarters in Israel. The first call was made on September 22 and lasted twenty-nine minutes; the second call was made on September 24 and lasted thirty-six minutes. Since the calls came into the Mossad's general switchboard, I couldn't tell to whom DeLouise had directed his calls or whether both calls were made to the same person. I looked at the other numbers. The California numbers were easy – two calls to his wife, three calls to his son, and two calls to his attorneys. The three Swiss numbers were made to the Credit Suisse private banking branch in Geneva.
He's no different from the others, I muttered to myself, half in contempt. People who take off with large sums of money are typically repetitive in their conduct, and therefore their actions are fairly predictable. The calls to the private banking branch of Credit Suisse indicated that DeLouise was very likely to have had some banking relationship with them. But it was too premature to take any vigorous legal action to find out. I didn't know for sure that he was the bank's client. I also didn't know what name or legal entity he used. If the U.S. government filed papers with Swiss officials attempting to force Credit Suisse to disclose all records pertaining to Raymond DeLouise, the Department of Justice would have to wait six months until the bank responded. Only then would one discover that a target might have used a different name or a company or a trust to hide his assets or might have cleaned out the account and hidden the booty elsewhere. We would have lost not only important time but also the element of surprise. I'd seen cases where unscrupulous bankers tipped their clients off about the U.S. request for bank records or a law-enforcement inquiry, thus enabling them to move their money to a different location.
The Italian call was made to a company in Rome called Broncotrade SPA. I wrote a note to check that one out. The calls to Luxembourg were to Bank Hapoalim, a branch of Israel's largest bank. Then came the local calls. First on the list was a Herbert Oplatka. I dialed the number.
“Oplatka Travel,” said a young woman, “How may I help you?”
“I was left a message to call you.”
“And you are?”
“My name is Peter Wooten and I'm a partner of Mr. Raymond DeLouise. I don't know whether your message was meant for me or for him, because it was left on our voice mail.”
“Let me check,” she said, and put me on hold.
“Nobody here left any message for you or Mr. DeLouise, but it could be someone from the morning shift who called you,” she informed me a moment later.
“Would you please check your computer and see if Mr. DeLouise's reservations are confirmed?”
It was the longest shot in the dark I'd fired in a long time.
“Yes,” she replied after a few seconds.
Bingo! A hit.
She continued. “I see now. His flight tomorrow on Lufthansa from Munich through Frankfurt to Moscow is confirmed. I also see that he hasn't picked up his tickets yet, so that could be the reason for the message. Please ask him to pick them up, or maybe you want us to deliver them to his hotel?”
“I'll ask him to get back to you. Thanks.”
This was my lucky day. I went back to the list and picked up the next number, a Sonja and Ernest Bart. I called the number; an elderly man answered.
“Pension Bart.”
“I'm sorry, please say that again,” I asked.
“Pension Bart,” he repeated.
“Ah yes, thanks,” I said, recognizing the word finally. “May I have your address?”
He gave it to me and I went down to my car and got underway.
I was getting excited now that I was at long last warm, if not hot, on the trail. The pension was in a residential area, surrounded by evergreen trees and apartment buildings with small balconies. Flowers grew in pots on many of the balconies. Everything looked neat and clean.
I walked inside and approached the desk in the hall just beyond the door. Behind it stood an elderly man with white hair and a small mustache. A fireplace crackled across the hall, filling the air with the pleasant smell of burning hardwood. From the kitchen behind the counter floated the smell of home cooking. The ambience was cozy.
I tried to think of the best opening line, but what did I want to know? DeLouise wasn't staying here, he only called. But whom did he call? This guy wasn't about to show me his guest list.
Without thinking it through I took a flyer and asked directly, “Is Mina Bernstein here? My friend from Israel.”
“Israel? Oh, yes, we have Mrs. Mina Bernstein here, and she is from Israel.”
“Exactly,” I said in huge relief, this time genuine. My gamble had paid off. “Is she in?”
“I think so, let me call her room,” and he went to the telephone. He returned a moment later and said, “She'll be right down.”
I moved to the small lobby, enjoyed the fireplace, and waited. A woman of medium height came in – blue eyes and gray streaks in her hair, dressed in a wide flowery skirt and a white blouse.
I got up. “Shalom, I'm Dan Gordon,” I greeted her in Hebrew.
“And I am Mina Bernstein,” said the woman in a subdued voice. “You are looking for me?” she continued in our shared native language.
“Yes, I need to talk to you about a family matter.”
“A family matter? Do you have news about my Ariel?” she asked with a mix of apprehension and hope.
A small sitting room adjoined the lobby. I motioned her along, delaying my answer to her question.
As we sat down Mina looked at me with soft, deep blue eyes. I could tell she'd once been a beautiful woman.
“The reason I am looking for you is that I believe you, and possibly Ariel, could be in danger.”
“Who are you?” she asked in a frightened voice.
“All I can say now is that we share a common background, and I want to help you.”
“Are you from the – Office?”
I nodded. Misleading her was enough; I didn't want to tell her lies more than was absolutely necessary. Yes, I was with the Office, but not the one she assumed. “Office” was the code word used among Mossad employees to describe their workplace. You'd never hear the name Mossad from a true Mossad person. I was dragged into a typical false-flagging scenario now – hiding my true employer – without the ordinary preplanning, without the time to develop a good cover story. The fact was that many successful Mossad recruitment operations of Arab informers were made possible only because the informer, “a source,” was convinced the recruiter was working for NATO or for some European country and not for Israel.
“Tell me, why did you come to Munich?” I asked.
“Ariel called,” she answered.
“What did she tell you?”
“I must say it was a bizarre conversation. She said I must come to Munich immediately, and that I should not tell anyone.”
“Did she give you any reason?”
“She hinted that it had something to do with her father's past, so I must keep it a secret. Ariel said I should stay at this pension. She didn't answer my questions and only asked that I come as quickly as possible. But when I arrived, she wasn't here, although her luggage was in her room.”
So we had a missing persons case in addition to the homicide. If the events thus far could have been described as questionable, they had now been upgraded to strange.
I asked Mina if she was aware of any previous irregular behavior of Ariel's t
hat could explain her disappearance.
“No,” she replied, “she has never given me any cause for concern. Ariel always used good judgment. She's not the kind of person to disappear all of a sudden for no reason.”
“Has Ariel been in contact with her father lately?”
“I don't know for sure. She used to call him now and then, and he also called her at least once every month or so and sent her money. I don't know about recent calls. She's a grown woman and leads her own life. But then, there were hints in our last telephone conversation that she's here in connection with her father. So I don't know what to think.”
“Did you call the police?”
“I intended to do that today, unless I hear from Ariel. I was also thinking about calling Dov, but I have no idea where to find him. He moves between California, Europe, and Japan. Does he know that Ariel is missing? We should notify him.”
So Mina didn't know that her former husband had been murdered. I suspected that the sad chore would fall to me.
“Mina,” I said, “it's a very complex matter and I don't want to burden you with the details, not just now anyway, but we must find Ariel. You'll also have to tell me about Dov's work in the past; I think Ariel's disappearance has something to do with that.”
“I thought you know about his past work,” she said.
“Yes, I do, of course. But I need you to tell me exactly what he told you about his work, the kind of things that are not reflected in his file, particularly if you know whether he attempted contacts with the Office recently.”
I had almost slipped. I needed to know if there was a continued connection with the Mossad, as Dov's two phone calls to their Tel Aviv headquarters indicated. For a split second I even considered the theory that DeLouise had kept his Mossad contacts. Then was the disappearance of the ninety million dollars also connected to the Mossad? Was it their way of financing a slush fund? If my suspicions could be verified then it might have a surprising effect on my asset chase, not to mention Israeli-American relationships. I quickly brushed it off as complete insanity. But still.
I had said “Office” in a lower voice. Use of the epithet was meant to instill further confidence in my relationship with Mina. She could fill in the blanks.
“Why do you need to know? Couldn't you find out about this in his file? You could also call him.”
I had to tell her now. Perhaps it was better to do so even without preparation. Bluntly.
“Dov was murdered a week or so ago,” I said quietly, “and Ariel's disappearance might be connected to that. So everything concerning Dov's background is now important. You may know things the file is lacking.”
There was a long pause. Mina was clearly stunned. And just as clearly working to keep her emotions under control. “Murdered! Why? How?”
“The why I don't know yet. It happened here in Munich; someone shot him. It looks like it was deliberate, more like an assassination. The German police are looking for suspects and motives. So now you can understand why I said that you and Ariel could also be in danger. I didn't realize that you weren't aware of Dov's murder. So until the killer is caught, you must exercise caution.”
Mina looked away for a moment but I saw the tears begin to slide down her cheeks.
“I'm sorry,” I said. “I had no idea I was going to be the first to tell you.”
“There was no one else to tell me,” she whispered. “As I said, I haven't seen Ariel and no one else here knows that I was married to Dov.”
Although I was hungry for information, I could see that Mina Bernstein needed a moment to compose herself. I stepped across the hall and asked the old gent if he could find us coffee and tea for two. He turned, walked toward the back of the house, and in a minute, to my surprise, he presented me with a tray, cups, a pot of coffee, a pot of tea, sugar, and cream. I carried the tray back to the sitting room.
Mrs. Bernstein reached gratefully for the coffee cup, and I got back on track.
“Let's talk about your marriage to Dov,” I suggested softly, trying to be compassionate. I had a job to do, and expressions of human empathy would serve that purpose. But I have been trained to focus on my goal. “You must always be target oriented,” said Alex, my instructor. “Be a nice guy after hours, but when you do your job you do your job, and if being nice advances your position, then be a nice guy. But only to the extent needed at that time.”
Mina wiped her eyes, took a sip from her cup, and took a deep breath. “I married Dov in 1955, when he was already in the Mossad. He used to work very long hours and I barely saw him. We tried to have children, but I had problems. Dov only told me that his work involved collecting scientific material. He loved science, especially physics. Then one day he told me that he was being sent to France to work on a project that would take a long time. He said I couldn't come with him because that was the requirement of the Office, but he would come for visits. I guess they sent him to France because he spoke French fluently. In Romania, it was almost a second language for him. His mother was a French teacher and she frequently spoke the language with her son.”
While Mina drank her coffee, I asked, “Do you know where he worked?”
“Yes, in the French Atomic Energy Commission installation in Saclay, near Paris.”
“Did he tell you what he was doing there?”
“Not much. He said he became a paper pusher. He worked in the procurement department where they were buying their materials and supplies. He used to return to Israel every two months, sometimes just for the weekend and sometimes for a whole week. We never had time to be a real family. During his visits I noticed how nervous he had become. Dov had started smoking. We had arguments. He refused to talk about his work. I was not allowed to call him. I didn't even have his number. His salary went directly to my bank account and every month someone from the Office came to see how I was doing. Sometimes they would bring me letters from Dov, and once or twice a small present. At the beginning I thought that the Office sent Dov to work with the French government or something. He told me that several Israeli scientists were working there for the French government in planning the first French reactor. I don't know if you could remember because you look too young, but the relationship between Israel and France began to warm up during that period. So it seemed natural to me. I discovered later that he never spoke Hebrew with any of the Israelis and nobody even knew he was an Israeli. I don't even know under what name or nationality he worked in France. Even when he flew to Israel, he never arrived from France; it was always through a third country.”
“How do you know that?”
“I saw once or twice his airline tickets. He'd also buy me presents in duty-free stores in various European countries on his route to Israel.”
I tucked that away in my mind. Was it possible that Popescu/ DeLouise/Peled had a fourth identity supplied by the Mossad?
Mina sighed. “Then my world collapsed. During one of his longer visits to Israel we had a fight. I think I was already pregnant with Ariel but didn't even know it. I felt lonely. I needed him, and I wanted to have his attention. Dov exploded. He said that I should stop whining because he was under great pressure.” She looked at me sadly. “I still remember his words: ‘If they catch me I'll end up under the guillotine!’ ‘They?’ I had asked him, horrified, ‘Who are they?’ ‘The French government,’ he answered. ‘What do you think they do to people spying on their nuclear shopping lists?’”
Mina paused and looked at my face, expecting my reaction. I sat motionless; I couldn't appear to be surprised. I searched for words to show that I understood her feelings, but I didn't want to interrupt her.
Mina soon continued. “I cried nonstop for two days, until he left. I didn't know. I simply didn't know. I thought he was working with the French, not stealing from them. Dov called a few days later telling me he wanted a divorce. He said he was going to change his life completely, and that included being free from his marriage too. I didn't tell him that I had just found out that I was pre
gnant. I was in a cloud, in a bubble. I lost contact with reality. I didn't know what was going on with me. The people from the Office made the arrangements. Dov delivered me a Jewish divorce through the Mossad's chaplain and it was over. Dov returned to Israel for a week or so, but the tension between us was so strong that I couldn't tell him about the baby. He said he was leaving the Office and moving to America to start a new life.”
I needed time to think. What Mina was saying dropped on me like a bomb. In the middle of the 1950s, Israel had planted a Mossad operative to be its agent-in-place in the most secret center of the French government. He had never been caught and nobody had found out about it. Only a wild imagination could fathom what the French government's reaction would have been to such a revelation. Mina said that her husband told her he was stealing their shopping lists. That explained why he was planted in the purchasing office of the French. Apparently Israel wanted to know what was being bought and from whom, in case the official French aid dried up. So it was not espionage proper, although I don't think the French would have appreciated Dov's real purpose if they'd found out.
In those early years the Israeli-French relationship was softening under the unrelenting efforts of Shimon Peres, who was then Ben-Gurion's deputy in the Ministry of Defense. France had realized that it and Israel shared a common enemy: the Arab world was supporting the Algerian rebels in the same manner it had always supported the Palestinian fight against Israel. In late 1957, France agreed to supply Israel with essential material for a second nuclear reactor, which Israel then secretly built in the Negev desert near the town of Dimona.
“It's a textile factory,” Israel had claimed, when the skeptical American government had raised questions. But aerial photographs made by highflying U-2 planes told a different story. The U.S. military attache at the U.S. Embassy in Tel Aviv had collected additional information, enough to confirm the American government's suspicions. Israel was building a nuclear reactor with a capacity to manufacture weapons-grade plutonium.
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