During my Mossad training we spent two weeks learning how to shake off, or “dry clean,” followers, but I'd never had the opportunity to practice it in real life. I had always been the pursuer, not the target. Was I becoming one now?
As we entered the bank I gave Mina her instructions: She should ask to be added as a co-owner of the safe-deposit box and then appoint me as her attorney-in-fact to allow me access as well.
“Why would they listen to me?”
“Because Ariel left instructions concerning you.”
“So why do you need to have signature rights as well?” she asked.
“Ariel is still away, and her safe return may be dependent on these documents. If only one other person, namely you, has access, it could be complicated.” I didn't want to say dangerous. My earlier statement to Mina that she and Ariel could be in danger wasn't exaggerated. If Ariel's captors had also killed DeLouise, they would not hesitate to harm Mina, if that's what it took to get what they wanted.
She looked at me carefully, then reached her decision. “All right, I trust you.” She touched my arm again. The drill-sergeant assistant manager who saw me a day earlier wasn't there. Good, that would save me a lot of squabbling. In her stead we saw another woman who looked a bit more kindly. She checked Mina's passport, went to her office, and returned with Ariel's original signature card.
“Yes, I see here. Miss Peled informed us that you'd be coming to cosign.” She handed Mina a pen and she signed the card.
“Is that all?” she asked, looking around at us.
“No,” I said, “I'm here to be appointed as an attorney-in-fact for that box. Can you please prepare the paperwork?”
She looked at Mina as if to obtain her approving look.
“Yes, of course, Mr. Gordon is helping us,” said Mina.
There were forms to be filled out. I showed my Israeli passport, then I asked her for a key.
“That takes a few hours to process.” She went back to her office and returned with a grim face.
“I'm sorry but there is another problem. My manager tells me that joint permission of all owners of the box is required to give a power of attorney to another person. Therefore, you'll have to bring Miss Peled to sign her consent to let you have access to the box.”
“This presents a problem,” I said. “Miss Peled is not available at the moment.”
Of course, I could give up and let Mina open the safe, remove its contents, and give it to me. But I didn't want her to see what was in the box or to take it. It could be what the kidnappers wanted, but it could also be what I wanted – DeLouise's banking information. Clearly, I had to be the first person to see what was in the box. And then again, I don't give up that easily. I had to do something before Mina made her logical move.
“May I speak to the manager?” I said in an annoyed voice.
“I'll ask,” she said, and went to an office in the back.
When she came back she told me that the manager was busy, but they would process the paperwork and have the key for Mina later that day. Meanwhile, they would check with their legal counsel on my appointment.
“Fine,” I said. As I guided Mina outside, I said, “I still think you should contact the local police.”
“Please, not yet. I don't want my daughter harmed in any way. Let's wait at least until we make the first telephone contact with them.” She sounded determined. Reluctantly, I agreed to wait.
“If that's the way you want it,” I told her. “Why don't you go back to the pension and wait for my call. I'll pick you up later and we'll go back to the bank together.” I hailed her a cab and sent that tough little lady on her way.
It was time for a small audio-video surveillance operation. I was far from an electronics expert, but I'd had enough training in the old days to bug your everyday phone booth. I found an electronic gadget shop not far off, bought what I needed, and headed back to the street corner. I managed to set things up without observation – not too easy in Munich, but I was lucky once again. I then crossed the street to an apartment building opposite the phone with my just-bought camcorder in my briefcase. The second and third floors looked most suitable for my plan. I went to the second floor and knocked on the door of the apartment I guessed would overlook the street. The name on the door read “Landau.”
An elderly woman opened the door. “Excuse me,” I said in my most polite voice, “do you happen to speak English?”
“Yes,” she said, looking at me curiously. “What do you want?”
“I'm working for an American consulting engineering company. We are looking for a homeowner who would agree to rent a balcony for five hundred dollars a day for a few days.”
“Rent my balcony?” she asked in disbelief. “For what?”
“Well, ma'am, we are hired to conduct traffic congestion surveys throughout Europe and we need to measure the flow of traffic in certain areas to help plan for the coming traffic growth. Of course, we are surveying many other junctions as well. We need your permission to put a camcorder on your balcony to take continuous video shots of the intersection. We must know how much traffic passes through here and when it peaks. I can pay you five hundred dollars now, if you agree, and set up immediately. I have my equipment with me.”
“All you want is to view the street? But you won't actually be here; it'll be automatic, right?”
I nodded. “Just let me see your balcony.”
She walked me to her balcony, which had a direct view of the street and the pay phone. It was a perfect location.
“Excellent. The location suits our needs perfectly. May I set up the machinery?”
“Yes,” she said. “Why not?”
I attached the camcorder to the tripod, hooked the power cable to the wall outlet, set the speed to slow, and set the timer to 5: 30 P.M., to run two hours.
“It's all set.” I gave her five hundred dollars in cash. “I'll prepare a receipt later and will ask you to sign.” She took the money and counted it.
“Five hundred dollars a day,” she said, confirming the arrangement.
“Yes,” I said, “but please don't touch the camcorder. I'll be back tomorrow and we'll see if we need your balcony for additional days.”
I looked at my watch; it was 2: 30 P.M. I decided to return to the bank before picking up Mina Bernstein. Fortunately the same assistant manager was still on duty.
“I'm sorry,” she said. “The bank's lawyer was unavailable, so you'll have to return tomorrow. Please tell Mrs. Bernstein that her key is ready.”
I left the bank and called Mina.
“There's been a change of plans,” I said, neglecting to mention my visit to the bank. “I'll be at the pension before six tonight. I want to be there when you call the pay phone again.”
I decided to defy Mina's wishes. The police had to be in on this matter. I went to the American Consulate and looked for Ron Lovejoy. I found him getting ready to leave for the day.
“Ron, things are getting complicated. I need help.” I told him briefly about Ariel's kidnapping, the safe-deposit box, and the ransom note. I didn't mention that the Mossad had contacted Mina. I didn't know if it was relevant and it might have complicated things even more.
Ron listened to me and asked, “These women are Israeli citizens who encountered a problem on German soil; what's the U.S. government interest in this matter?”
“Ninety million dollars,” I said flatly. “The documents in the safe-deposit box could be connected to that money.”
“Your assumptions may or may not be correct. This thing may blow up in your face, and ours too, if you stick your hand too deep in this shit.”
“I know that,” I said. I wasn't about to argue with him now. “That's why I came to you for help. You'd have a lot more leverage with the police than I would. And we need action.”
Ron said, “Let's go into my office. I'll call my contact.” Ron made the call and thirty minutes later we both were sitting in police headquarters in Arnulfstrasse.
“You'll have to let us handle this matter our way,” said Polizeidirektor Karlheinz Blecher, head of KRIPO, the criminal investigations department. He didn't leave me with any choice, but I still had options of my own. I decided to hold on to them.
“That's fine; you do what you have to do. But bear in mind that Mina Bernstein may refuse to cooperate with you; she's desperately worried about her daughter. That's her only concern. She doesn't care about anything else. I'm actually a bit surprised that she trusts me, and it's a slender trust at best.”
The chief turned a shrewd eye on me. “Mr. Ron Lovejoy tells me you work for the American government. Does this matter concern the United States government?”
“In a way it does,” I said, “But our main interest is in Raymond DeLouise, aka Dov Peled.”
“You mean the man who died in Munich the other day?”
“You mean ‘was murdered’ the other day?” I corrected him. “Yes. You see, Ariel Peled is his daughter and Mina Bernstein was his first wife.”
Blecher leaned back in his chair. He kept his cool – just. I could see how astounded he was by my statement.
“I see,” he finally said. He turned to one of his three telephones and snapped a few orders in German.
“I'm getting the hostage rescue team ready and we put our intelligence unit on the alert. You can come with me to the pension. If you want to, of course.”
I wanted to. I climbed into an unmarked police car and drove with Blecher to the pension. Ron went back to the consulate.
“I'm out of here and out of this,” Ron told me, essentially washing his hands of the whole business.
I followed Blecher and his four plainclothes detectives into the pension. I expected Mina to be angry, but I could no longer obey her wish to keep the police out of the situation. Blecher went straight to the reception desk. As I approached, Blecher turned to me and said, “The woman has checked out!”
“Are you sure there's no mistake? I spoke with her earlier today and we agreed to meet here at 6:00 P.M. Did she leave a message?”
“No. The receptionist just told us that an hour ago two young men came to see Mrs. Bernstein. She was waiting for them in the hallway with her bags packed. They helped her to their car where a third man was waiting with his engine running, and then they drove off. Obviously she was not forcibly taken.”
“It just doesn't make sense,” I said. “Would you ask the receptionist if Mrs. Bernstein made or received any phone calls within the past three hours?”
Blecher looked at me. “Herr Gordon, we know our work.” He was unsympathetic.
“Of course. I know that,” I said quickly. Alienating him was not wise. While we were talking, two detectives went up to Mina's room. They returned to report that the room was clean. The occupant had left no belongings, suspicious or otherwise.
Something was happening. “What's going on?” I asked Blecher as I moved toward him.
I was sure the two men who took Mina away were Mossad operatives. Mina wouldn't have left the pension without telling me or leaving a note behind, unless she thought I was part of the operation, or Ariel had been found.
“How did she settle her bill?” I asked Blecher.
He went to the front desk and returned with the answer. “In cash. American dollars. She apologized for not having enough German marks.”
“This is more proof that her departure was sudden and unplanned,” I said. Blecher nodded in agreement. I looked at my watch; it was 6:15 P.M.
“I've got to leave now, but I'll call you later? I'm still with you on this case.”
Blecher looked at me, thought for a second, and said, “Fine. You can go, but if I need to talk to you, where do I find you?”
“You can contact me through Lovejoy or at the Omni Hotel.”
I drove back to my hotel, parked my car, and went up to my room to check for messages. Nothing new. Down again quickly, I hailed a cab to go to Bayerstrasse. I got out one block from my favorite corner, on the sidewalk opposite the pay phone. There was no one in sight. I looked at my watch: 7:18 P.M. I crossed the street to the pay phone. I took up the receiver to fake a call as my other hand searched for my tape recorder under the box. It was still there. I quickly replaced the tape and put the used one in my pocket. I hung up the receiver, crossed the street again, again went up and knocked on Mrs. Landau's door.
“I came to pick up the equipment,” I said, and walked directly to her balcony. I disconnected the camcorder from the wall outlet and folded the tripod.
“Our experts will analyze the material and then a decision will be made if we need to use your balcony for additional days,” I said. “May I call you again tomorrow morning if we need more footage?”
“Oh, yes, of course,” she said, apparently liking the idea of making another easy five hundred. I gave her a paper and asked her to confirm that she received $500.00 from Peter Wooten. I still had to satisfy the penny-pinchers back at the office.
Back in my hotel room I slid the videocassette into the VCR on the TV set and waited for the action to start.
Each time someone used the pay phone I froze the frame. I watched tensely. A woman in her seventies who walked her dog made a short call; two giggling teenage girls were on the phone for approximately thirty minutes. A man dressed in painters’ overalls stopped his van near the curb, jumped out, and made a two- to three-minute call and drove away. Then two men in their late twenties walked up. I held my breath. The clock on the camcorder showed 6:58 P.M.
I tried to look closely at their faces, but the damn dome over the pay phone blocked my view. They were on the phone for six or seven minutes. I saw one of them take a coin and give it to the other. A few minutes later they left.
I didn't lock myself on the two guys, at least not until I'd listened to the audiotape.
I pressed the “play” button on the tape recorder and listened. Each call started with a set of touch-tone signals created by the dialer. The sound quality was good and identifying the numbers would probably not be too difficult. The first four calls were in German and did not seem relevant. One guy was letting his friend know he was running late. My calculation showed that it was the man in the painters’ overalls. Then there was a ring for an incoming call.
“That's it,” I said to myself. After one ring the receiver was lifted and I heard the conversation.
“Hello,” said a woman's voice in English. “You left me a message?”
Strange, I thought, it didn't sound like Mina Bernstein. This woman had a deeper voice than Mina's and her tone was far more aggressive. It was definitely not Mrs. Bernstein. But who would be impersonating her, and why?
“Yes,” said a man with an accent I could not immediately identify. “Who are you?”
“I'm Mina Bernstein. Where is my daughter? I want to talk to her.”
“She's OK,” said the man, “but you must give me what I want first.”
I still couldn't place his accent.
“What do you want?” asked the woman.
“DeLouise gave Ariel an envelope. I want it,” he said firmly.
“But if he gave it to Ariel, how can I give it to you?” asked the woman. “Tell me what it is, or if you know where it is, I'll look for it.”
“Ariel says you have access to it.”
“I don't understand. Let me talk to Ariel. Maybe she could explain it to me. I haven't received anything from Ariel; I haven't even seen her in Germany. This must be a big mistake. Let me talk to her. If I have what you want, I'll give it to you. I promise.” With the same breath she added, “Where can I meet you?”
“You can't meet me. Call this number again tomorrow at the same time. And if you call the police, Ariel will die,” he said abruptly and hung up.
I waited a few seconds then heard his voice again as he spoke to the person next to him, and I finally placed his accent. It was Spanish.
“La putana! Ariel was lying to us. I'll kill her!”
“What did the woman say?” asked anoth
er voice.
“She said that she doesn't have any papers from Ariel. We'll have to go back and squeeze the little bitch.”
“Wait,” said the other voice. “Let me call the boss first. We can't call from the apartment.”
Then I heard another series of touch-tone beeps. A man's voice answered the phone, “Ja?”
“It's me,” said the voice in English. “The woman called. She says she has no papers but she wants to meet.”
A pause. “Are you sure she didn't contact the police?”
His voice sounded familiar but I couldn't place it. He also had an accent – German, if anything, surely – it certainly wasn't Spanish.
“She never mentioned it and she was very anxious to see Ariel. She isn't stupid enough to do that.”
“OK, get back to the apartment and I'll call you there.”
“Yes, boss.”
The boss's accent came through again. It was clearly German. Was I just imagining that the speaker sounded familiar?
The tape ended. I turned off the recorder, marked the date and time on the cassette label, and put it in my pocket.
I sat at my desk thinking through next steps. The first move was easy; speaking of bosses, I had to report to Stone.
I went out to the street, found a pay phone, and used my prepaid phone card to call Washington.
“David,” I said, “things are getting hotter here.”
“I guess you don't mean the weather.”
“No,” I smiled, “the German weather is cooling but our climate is warming. I have a safe-deposit box I suspect contains papers my target gave his daughter in Munich before he was killed. It's possible that he had already felt the heat. Next, the daughter called her mother in Israel. The mother came to Munich looking for her daughter, who shortly was kidnapped. It didn't make the papers.”
David listened attentively, as always. “Are the German police on the kidnap matter as well?”
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