“Certainly,” I said. “I'm also trying to help them. They don't seem to appreciate it, but you know me. I hang on anyway.”
“Don't create a turf war.”
“Well, some kind of war is already on,” I countered.
“What the hell do you mean by that?”
“Something is brewing but I'm not sure exactly what it is. Just to identify one player, I suspect the Israelis are in on this matter as well. I mean the Israeli government.”
Stone let this one hang for a moment, then came at me. “What do you make of it? These are your people, after all.”
“Well, our friend was in their service more than thirty years ago, but I don't understand their current interest. Assistance could come now for old times’ sake, or maybe he had something they wanted as well.”
“So where is the war?” puzzled David.
“I'm guessing they're not the only ones following my target's trail; there seem to be others.”
“What others? Do you know who they are? You should always know who you're up against.”
“Take it easy, I'm working on it. The problem is that I'm not sure each player has the same goal. The people holding the daughter have a distinct agenda. They want to get some papers her father gave her.”
“Do you know who they could be?”
“Could be Latinos. I suspect that in addition to the Latinos and the Israelis, there are others. I'm walking in a fog, and every now and then I bump into something.”
“Don't let me lose you,” said Stone with genuine concern. “Is the legat helping you?”
“As much as he can, I guess. Don't worry; I always land on my feet. I'm more concerned with what's going on around my dead target.”
“With all the international interest in this guy, I'm surprised he managed to live sixty-three years.”
“The whole thing is a mystery,” I agreed. “There are too many players, and all of them seem somewhat in the dark.”
“I'll have to report this to the State Department,” said Stone, somewhat reluctantly.
“I guess so,” I said. Scandals in foreign lands are their territory. Since I was working out of the consulate, Ron Lovejoy was kept in the loop. It was his job to keep the ambassador informed. Then it was the ambassador's job to do the same with the State Department. But I knew David – he covered all the bases.
I went back to my room, looked at the yellow pad on the desk, and drew several square boxes. In the middle box I wrote “DeLouise.” Then I drew a line to another box and wrote “Ariel” in it; next to it, in a separate box I wrote “Mina.” I drew five additional boxes on the side and inserted in each a different name: “Mossad,” “German police,” “U.S. Department of Justice,” “Latinos,” and finally a question mark, for all others yet to emerge.
I looked at the pad again and tried to identify each group's interest in DeLouise.
The German police: That was easy. They wanted Ariel, and to prosecute anyone involved in her kidnapping and in her father's murder.
The U.S. Department of Justice: That was a two-pronged effort. I was after DeLouise's money, but that trail now seemed to pass through Ariel and Mina. So I was stuck with them as well. And the criminal division, through INTERPOL, was trying to locate DeLouise so that it could request his extradition to the United States for trial. Although INTERPOL does handle requests for police interviews of witnesses, many countries, including Germany, require either an MLAT request under a Mutual Legal Assistance Treaty between the countries or a letter rogatory – a formal request from a court in one country to the appropriate judicial authorities in another country – for such interviews and have such questioning done by (or, less often, supervised by) a magistrat, with a greffier – a legal assistant of the court – making a proces-verbal of it.
If the person to be interviewed abroad is a suspect or the target of an investigation, the matter becomes sticky. The United States would not send Germany a letter rogatory for the questioning of an actual defendant. And there's no international criminal-law mechanism for compelling a person to return to the States just for questioning. Although DeLouise was dead, rendering this issue irrelevant, I still wanted to know if Germany had commenced with an investigation following a request through INTERPOL. In that case their findings could become handy for my investigation. I made a mental note to ask David to find out.
Finally, the Mossad: If they were in on this, as I suspected, I had no idea what their objectives might be. To get Ariel? To help Mina? To get something DeLouise gave Ariel? Did they want the same thing the Latinos wanted? What documents could DeLouise have held that could cause such havoc?
I went out to the street again to call Benny at the Mossad. It was cold and drizzling. I was going to catch pneumonia just so I could maintain confidentiality. There had to be a better way.
There was no answer on Benny's direct line. I left a message on his voice mail asking him to call my New York number. I called his home. No answer there. I called Blecher at the Munich police headquarters but a detective told me that he was gone for the day.
I went up to my room, activated the touch-tone-identifier software on my laptop, and replayed the audiotape recording of the call the Latinos made from the pay phone. The identifier quickly interpreted the touch tone beeps into numbers: 2-3-5-9-9-0-9. This was probably a local number, since no area code was punched. I called the police station again, asking them to trace Blecher for me. Where were all these guys when I needed them? Nobody called me back and I fell asleep.
The next morning I woke up in a belligerent mood. A delay in my efforts here meant more guilt for being away from my children and increased pressure from David to produce results. After spending most of the morning writing my report, I took a cab to Mielke Bank. I was determined to get access to the safe-deposit box. If Mina was with the Mossad guys, she might tell them about the box. They would ask her to open it, and I would be chopped liver.
At the bank I asked to talk to the legal counsel. He wasn't available. I asked to talk to his assistant. A slim young man with short blond hair and rimless glasses showed up.
“How may I help you?”
“My name is Dan Gordon,” I said and handed him the Tibor-made power of attorney. “I'm here about the safe-deposit box rented by Ariel Peled, and…”
“I already know the details, Herr Gordon,” he interrupted me mid-sentence, “but I'm afraid there is nothing to be done without Ms. Peled's signature.”
“Look,” I said aggressively, “I am an attorney from the United States. I have a power of attorney from an owner of a safe-deposit box, signed in Israel before the German Consul. A few days ago the bank refused to honor it, telling me that it must be signed on a bank-issued form. Then the owner of the box came to Munich and signed your damn form here at the bank, in front of the assistant manager. Hours later I was told that since there were two owners of the box, I needed authorization from both owners.” I paused and added venomously, “Nobody bothered to tell us that earlier.”
“That's precisely what the rules say,” said the lawyer, looking a bit startled at my belligerence. “Well, I don't think so,” I said, my anger brewing. “Look at the signature card of the bank, which was generated when the box was rented.” He looked at it. “Now tell me, can each owner open the box without the presence of the other?”
He looked at the form again and said faintly, “Yes.”
“Now,” I continued, like a teacher in a school for the intellectually challenged at the end of a long day, “as I am sure you know, a power of attorney is a delegation of power by the principal appointing another person or entity to act on the principal's behalf, having the same powers as the principal has or those he has delegated, right?”
He was starting to get the picture.
“So, if Mina Bernstein could open the box independently of Ariel Peled, and empty it, she could also give me that same power. And, sir, your games,” I spat, finally letting my rage burst, some real and some inflated, “are causing
my client severe financial damage, which I intend to recover from the bank and from anyone involved in this delaying tactic!”
I was following the advice Alex had given us. “Always aim your veiled threats against the person standing in your way in an otherwise indifferent bureaucracy; make it personal. The bigger the organization, and the smaller the hurdle you are trying to pass, the more chances the person will yield. He or she wouldn't want to be blamed for creating a legal mess. Who'll defend them if they are personally named in a complaint or a lawsuit?” This time, no veil disguised the threat. It was unequivocal and direct.
“Wait here,” said the assistant. He seemed pleased to walk away.
I must have sounded convincing because he didn't give me an argument. I sank into the soft leather couch next to the legal counsel's office and looked around. Moments later he returned and said, “OK, I checked the power of attorney Mina Bernstein signed, and it seems to be in order. I'll take you to the vault.”
“Thank you,” I said, “but I don't have a key. Yesterday the assistant manager prepared the keys but I never received them.” Then as a second thought I added, “Do you know if Mrs. Bernstein received her set of keys before she left?”
“No,” he said, “I have the envelope with her keys.” That was a relief, since it meant that Mina hadn't opened the box.
“I'll take the keys and give them to her,” I said, holding out an open hand.
He hesitated.
“Remember, I have full power of attorney,” I reminded him.
He relented and gave me the envelope. “At this time we are honoring only the power of attorney Mrs. Bernstein signed here. Here is the one signed in Israel. Please ask Ms. Peled to come in and sign our own form.”
He returned the power of attorney Tibor had prepared.
Frankly, I couldn't have cared less why he was yielding, as long as I could get access to the box. I followed him to the lower floor, went through a chrome-plated, metal-barred door, then a ten-inch-thick steel door, and finally into the safe-deposit box area. I opened the key envelope, took one key and read the number – 114. The box was in an upper row. I inserted my key and my guide inserted his master key into the slot. The box opened.
“I'll wait here until you're finished,” he said, moving into the adjacent room to allow me privacy.
I composed myself, resolving to be businesslike. But excitement overtook me. Here was the information I'd been looking for, and it might give me new insight into Dov Peled. The safe-deposit box door opened and inside was a white envelope. I took the envelope, put it in the inner pocket of my jacket, locked the box, took the key, and left the room. I looked at my wristwatch; it was 1:15 P.M.
The main door of the bank was closed and I was directed to a side door. As I stepped out, I noticed a shadow to one side. I felt a hard, sharp blow on my head. Then blackness.
The first thing I heard when I came to was the sound of an elevator door opening and footsteps. Then I felt the thick, sweet taste of blood in my mouth. My blood. I was half sitting on the floor, breathing heavily. I was dizzy, disoriented. My head was a ball of pain. I felt wetness. Darkness, more pain. There were voices around me, speaking in German. Where was I? The darkness began to clear and I saw the blurred figure of someone trying to help me get up.
“Mein Gott,”I heard a man's voice say, coming through the pain. “He is bleeding.”
I lifted my left hand and touched my face. It was sticky and warm. There was blood coming from my nose and forehead. I raised myself slightly and leaned against the wall.
My head began to clear. I realized I'd been hit – hard. I reached into the inner pocket of my jacket. The envelope was still there. That was all that mattered, but I knew I'd better move out of there fast.
“Please help me get up,” I asked the person standing next to me. I didn't even know whether it was a man or a woman.
“No,” he said. It was a man after all. “You must to wait for the ambulance.” I couldn't allow that. Whoever had attacked me might come back. I had to leave. I got up, despite my dizziness. I was as nauseated as if I were on a bobbing boat on the open sea without any air. Air! Yes! That's what I needed most.
“Thank you,” I said in the man's general direction and walked slowly outside, my knees weak, my vision foggy The crisp October wind blowing in my face had had never felt better. My vision was slowly coming into focus, but my head hurt even more as the shock wore off. I looked down. My shirt and jacket were spattered with blood. Somehow my overcoat had escaped the flood. I buttoned it over shirt and jacket. I wiped my face with a tissue I found in my pocket.
I was still breathing heavily, trying to inhale every bit of air I could into my aching body. “That guy must have used a blackjack on me,” I thought with the one small part of my brain that wasn't aching.
I hailed a cab. It would really say something about Munich taxi drivers if one stopped for me in the shape I was in, I thought grimly. But one did stop and I slid into the backseat and asked the driver to take me to the Omni Hotel.
Then a thought struck me. What if they – whoever “they” were – were waiting for me at the hotel? They wanted something I had, clearly. The envelope! Again I checked my pocket; the envelope was still there. No, I couldn't go back to the Omni.
“Driver,” I directed, “I've changed my mind. Take me to the Sheraton.” Without a word, he turned the car around, and within minutes I was at the door. The doorman helped me out, visibly shocked by my bloody face. I walked into the lobby praying they would give me a room.
I went to the reception desk. “I need a room for one or two days.”
The receptionist looked at me and asked in genuine concern, “What happened to you? Do you need help?”
“Thanks, no, I'm fine. I had a car accident. I wasn't badly hurt but I need a room immediately to rest.”
“But there's much blood on your clothes. Are you sure? I could call our doctor.”
“I'm fine. The blood you see on me is actually the other passenger's. I helped him into an ambulance.”
I placed my American Express card on the counter. In five minutes, I was on my way to the twenty-second floor and a clean and spacious room.
Even through the pain, a nagging sense of responsibility intruded. Breaking the rules, I picked up the telephone and called Lovejoy at the consulate; a phone call by an American citizen to his consulate could be regarded as benign. “Ron,” I said wearily, “I have a small problem. I was attacked leaving the bank. I managed to get away.”
“Holy shit,” said Ron, “do you need help? Are you OK?”
“Yeah, I'm OK. In this business, the fleas come with the dog. I have a little bleeding and a lot of headache. I didn't go back to the Omni because I don't know what or who is waiting for me there. Would you send your men to my room and check it out? I'll call you later.”
“Where are you now?” he asked.
“I just checked into another hotel. I need to lie down. I'll call you later.” I'd broken the rule of leaving traces but I simply didn't want anyone to disturb me. I didn't mention the envelope. I needed to collect my thoughts first.
I took off my bloody clothes and got into the shower. Even though the gashes on my head stung like hell, I stood underneath the hot water for ten minutes. I was going to have to do without stitches, whether I needed them or not. I wrapped myself in the thick terry-cloth hotel robe and slowly sat on the bed. My head was still throbbing. Any sudden move felt like a million needles pricking me from all directions. I suddenly remembered the envelope. Had they gotten it?
I reached over and took it out of my jacket pocket. It was an unsealed standard white envelope. Four folded sheets of ordinary writing paper were inside. It was a letter handwritten in Hebrew. September 13, 1990 My Dear Ariel, I hope this letter finds its way to you. I left it with Mr. Bart at your pension with your name on it, in case we do not meet. I know I wasn't much of a father to you, and I can't change that now. It may help you to know you are the only person I can
trust. There are a few things I want you to know before you hear about them from others. I had to leave the United States because my bank, First Federal Bank of Westwood, was failing. The real estate market collapsed in the late ’80s, and soon afterward commercial developers who had already borrowed money from the bank could not repay their loans because the real estate market was dead; they made no sales and had no cash flow. Soon enough the value of property was lower than the value it had been appraised for when we made the loan. This was happening all over the country. Federal regulators demanded that banks’ owners bring more capital, but who wants to throw good money after bad? So the federal government started seizing banks by the hundreds, including mine. The federal regulators who swarmed the bank told me that there was more than $90 million dollars missing. I knew I couldn't win any battle against them since most of the $90 million had financed my personal transactions; a complete violation of the law, I admit, particularly when some of those transactions went sour. I was already fighting off several civil lawsuits by investors who claimed they'd lost their money. I heard rumors that the U.S. Attorney's Office was about to bring criminal charges against me. I was removed from my position as chairman and chief executive officer of the bank under the order of the federal regulators. I knew I couldn't endure a battle with them for the next five years, spending millions of my own money on lawyers. So I moved to Europe to put an end to it all. Between 1957 and 1990 I had accumulated substantial assets in Europe and Japan but I couldn't move them to the U.S. because there was no way I could explain these assets to the U.S. government after I'd neglected to report them all along. Frankly, I didn't feel like paying the hefty American taxes on income unrelated to the United States, generated from businesses I started before I became a U.S. citizen. But my troubles with the government were not my only problems. Other issues followed me to Europe because of a bad decision I made. I had depositors in the bank who were wealthy businessmen from Colombia. They deposited more than $75 million with the bank. They always told me that they were in the tobacco and coffee businesses. I even visited them once in Cali, and they gave me red-carpet treatment. They hinted that they wanted to keep their money outside Colombia to avoid paying income taxes. I had no problem with that. However, I later discovered that the source of their money was cocaine, not coffee, and that they were using my bank to launder their dirty money. I admit that even when I discovered that, I did not stop taking their money; it was a very good source of income for the bank. Practically speaking, I couldn't stop working with them. Although they never threatened me, they made sure I understood their ruthlessness. So I kept copies of some of their money-transfer documents in case something went wrong. It was my insurance policy. I also found out that they were making “campaign contributions” to four politicians and three judges in the U.S. In Cali they'd shown me the politicians’ autographed photographs along with “thank-you letters.” “They'll help us on a rainy day,” the Colombians told me. When things got worse and the federal regulators auditing the books at the bank increased their number from three to fifteen, I smelled trouble. They told me that I was undercapitalized and, unless I acquired fresh money, the FDIC would have to seize the bank. So I called Ignacio Perez, the Colombian businessman, and asked him to convert some of his deposits into capital by purchasing shares of the bank. That would have solved the capital-shortage problem and driven the regulators away. He refused. I told him about the transfer documents I kept elsewhere. He did not lose his composure; he told me that I'd made a mistake, wished me well, and hung up. I have not heard from him since. Once I'd left the bank, and with the cloud of pending criminal investigation hanging over me, I thought I'd be better off in Switzerland. I settled in a Geneva hotel where I hoped I could put the recent past behind me. But lately I've begun to suspect that Perez's people were following me. So I left Geneva. I didn't tell anyone where I was going. I drove a car to Munich. Now I'm coming to the important part: I never told you about it, but I'm sure your mother must have revealed my distant past to you. For more than five years I served in the Mossad. I was sent by them to France to work in a French nuclear research facility. But when hiring me, the French government didn't know that I was also working for the Mossad. You may call what I did spying, but Israel needed the information badly and the French had it. I wasn't damaging France by helping Israel. Later I left the Mossad over a serious disagreement with my superiors. I had not been in touch with them for many years, but I still remembered one or two of the old guard who served with me, and I'm sure they know my name. Now that things were becoming complicated I needed help. I couldn't ask the Swiss or the German police for protection from the Colombians; I had to assume that they'd report my whereabouts to the United States through INTERPOL or the FBI. I'd be arrested and extradited to the United States for trial. So I turned to the Mossad for assistance. I knew I'd made a mistake by threatening Ignacio Perez and telling him about the documents I had, so I asked the Mossad to protect me. I didn't think they'd do it just because I was an operative thirty-three years ago, but I was sure they didn't want me to be captured by anyone who could get out of me what I knew about Israel's espionage in France. I'm thinking of asking them to call you, to ask you to come over, so I could talk more freely with you and guarantee your future. I didn't want to call you directly and expose you. I have sufficient financial reserves to cover the missing $90 million. But that is not the problem; I have a plan to relieve me of the criminal charges. I'll tell you more when I see you. If anything happens to me, see Mr. Hans Guttmacher, the manager of Bankhaus Backer amp; Haas, a banking institution in Munich. I left him an envelope with documents for you. There is enough there to compensate you for my not being a father to you all these years. Although I have seen so little of you, I love you with all my heart. Remember the nickname I started calling you when you were five years old? Be sure to tell it to Mr. Bart, the pension's owner. He'll laugh hearing it.
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