Triple Identity dg-1

by Haggai Carmon

  The letter was signed All my love, Your Father, Dov Peled

  The name was written at the bottom of the last sheet in those round Hebrew letters. I felt as if I had invaded his privacy. It was too much for one day. “The son of a bitch,” I said loudly, not knowing whether I meant Benny or DeLouise. Benny had hidden the most important part of the story from me. DeLouise, Dov, or the devil knows what other names he used, wasn't just a scientific researcher at the Mossad; they had planted him in France to spy. Mina wasn't exaggerating or bluffing. So did DeLouise blackmail the Mossad to provide him with protection when his blackmail attempt on the Colombians backfired? If that was the case, how did the Mossad react? Was he telling Ariel the whole truth? It seemed as if, to preserve his daughter's memories of him as an honorable man, he was not being entirely forthcoming in this letter to her; that he'd fudged some facts. Did DeLouise let the Mossad in on his hidden assets to smooth his way out of his problems, with their help? Is that why Benny had kept me in the dark?

  The most important thing was that DeLouise had told Ariel to see Guttmacher. He was the money keeper. Finally – a breakthrough in my own chase. I felt satisfied; I forgot the pain in my head. I was only tired, very tired. I called housekeeping and left my clothes outside my door to be washed and dry-cleaned. I lay back on the bed, asleep before my head hit the pillow.

  I woke up suddenly. My head was numb with pain. I went to the bathroom and looked at the mirror. I looked like a second-rate boxer. There was an ugly slash on my forehead, covered with clotted blood, and a potato-sized lump on my cheek.

  There was a scratch at the door. I opened it warily and was relieved to see my dry-cleaned clothes hanging on the knob, wrapped in rustling plastic. I shaved with the help of the hotel kit in the bathroom, dressed, and went to eat breakfast. I had no appetite, but I had to kill time until Lovejoy arrived at the consulate.

  At eight thirty I decided to head over without advance warning. I called through to Ron's office from the guard station and got a quick OK. Ron looked me over and asked, chuckling, “Are you sure it wasn't some jealous husband that knocked you down?”

  I was in no mood for jokes, and I still had a headache.

  “Listen,” I said, “I did some investigating and I think I have a lead on Ariel's kidnappers.”

  “Do you know something that the German police don't?”

  “I don't know what they know. But now I know plenty. Remember, this guy Blecher isn't too generous with information. He has his duties and I have mine.”

  Ron didn't even ask me what I knew. He called Blecher.

  “Polizeidirektor Blecher,” said Ron, “Gordon is in my office now.”

  Ron handed me the receiver.

  “Hello, Mr. Gordon,” said Blecher in a slightly friendlier voice, perhaps feeling that I deserved better treatment after his city had caused me the mother of all headaches. “Are you OK?”

  “Yes, I'm fine. What I really need to do is find out who attacked me and why.”

  “Do you have any ideas of your own?” asked Blecher.

  “I don't know, I could simply have been the victim of a smash-and-grabber looking for cash.”

  “Or could it be that he was after you personally or after something he thought you had?”

  “I don't know, I was hoping you'd find out.”

  I decided not to tell Blecher about the safe-deposit box or the envelope I had retrieved.

  “Mr. Gordon,” said Blecher, “I'm sorry that you received the wrong kind of hospitality in Munich. We will continue with our investigation. Do you remember any witnesses?”

  “No,” I said. “I left the bank but while still inside the building was hit on the head with a dull object, a club or something. That's all I know. There were people who saw me on the floor and tried to help, but I don't know who they are or whether they saw who did it.”

  “Can you come to the station so that we can take your complaint?”

  “Yes,” I replied, “but not just now.” I had more important things to do.

  “Yes, I understand you need some rest. Call me when you feel better.”

  “Polizeidirektor Blecher, I thank you for your concern, but I also must tell you that I have information that can't wait. Ariel Peled was taken because her kidnappers thought she had something they badly want. I can give you some help in your investigation.”

  “Go on,” he said.

  “You know that Mina Bernstein received a ransom note at her pension, with a number to call for further instructions. It's a pay phone. I have the men who took the call on videotape, though from a distance. I also have another telephone number called by the two people, probably Latinos, after they thought they had spoken with Bernstein.”

  “Thought they had?” he repeated, wanting to make sure.

  “Yes, I recorded the conversation, and it was not Mina. It was some other woman. There are at least three suspects you should look for: the two persons who spoke with the woman who said she was Mina and their boss. I suspect that the boss is in a separate location from ‘the apartment’ they mentioned as the place where Ariel is being held.”

  I decided not to tell him about the envelope Guttmacher was holding for Ariel. I wanted to get it first.

  But I did tell him how I had recorded the conversations and gotten them on videotape. “I'm leaving the tapes here in this office. Please arrange for a pickup,” I said, and I also gave Blecher the telephone number they called. I thought he'd be appreciative.

  “This is all very nice, but why didn't you seek the assistance of the police?”

  “Because Mina was adamant that the police be kept out of it. Her only concern was her daughter, and her captors demanded in the note that she not call the police. I notified you about the kidnapping against Mina's instructions.”

  I hung up and turned to Lovejoy “You can handle this, can't you?” He looked almost too cool.

  “Of course,” he said, but it was clear that he was trying to stay as far away as possible from the whole affair.

  I left the consulate and decided that my next move would be to visit Herr Guttmacher. Blecher could wait with my complaint. I had to see Guttmacher before the police finally found out about DeLouise's letter to Ariel. I went to the bank and asked the receptionist to connect me with the gentleman. I gave her my name and Guttmacher was on the line like a shot.

  “Mr. Guttmacher, I'm sorry to come unannounced, but I have just spoken to my clients and I need to see you immediately.”

  “I'll be happy to meet with you,” he said. “How about tomorrow at ten?”

  “No, I mean today. Now.”

  There was a pause. “Let me check my calendar,” he said. I thought he was pretending some reluctance. “I can see you in thirty minutes.”

  I sat down next to the annoyed receptionist. I couldn't have cared less. Twenty minutes later I went upstairs to Guttmacher's office. His secretary showed me in. Whoever invented whiskey sour did so after seeing her face.

  “Hello, Mr. Wooten,” said Guttmacher, getting up to shake hands.

  “I'm pleased to see you again,” I said. “Thanks for finding time for me on such short notice.”

  I got straight to the point. “My American partners just told me that a leading member of our group is missing in Munich and that you were his local contact.”

  His smile froze. “Who is he?”

  “Raymond DeLouise. They told me that he made some arrangements with you.” I emphasized the word arrangements.

  That was it. I'd put my best cards on the table. If Guttmacher had a better hand, he would win. If DeLouise had introduced himself under any other name, I was finished with this guy. I couldn't do here what I did in the Grand Excelsior, when I had managed to get three bites of the apple until I discovered that DeLouise had used the name Peled.

  “Yes, yes,” said Guttmacher absently, looking like he was collecting his thoughts. Then he said, “You never told me that you were connected with Herr DeLouise.”

  Bingo.
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  My cards were better than his, but since I had no immediate answer, I ignored his question. “We're from the same group of investors. He was the first to come to Europe with some of our capital. I need to continue from the point he left off. Let's work on it,” I suggested.

  Guttmacher was no fool. “Excuse me,” he said trying to take over the conversation, “but I need to be convinced that you are his partner. He never mentioned your name.”

  “In our operation, we work independently, but the money comes from the same source. You can relax, Herr Guttmacher. I can give you details about certain activities that only you and DeLouise know. This should show you that he shared secrets with me.”

  “And what details are those?” asked Guttmacher.

  “DeLouise gave you an envelope for Ariel Peled.”

  Guttmacher was weighing the information.

  “Where is Herr DeLouise now?” he demanded.

  “I don't know. DeLouise may have taken off with some young German woman for a beach vacation in North Africa for all I care. But business is business, and we must continue. You and I know the rules.” I hoped I sounded conspiratorial enough.

  Guttmacher didn't seem to be convinced. “Please understand,” he said, almost begging, “I believe you, but German law requires that I get some written proof.”

  The schmuck! Now he cared about the law.

  “Fine,” I relented, “what do you need?”

  Guttmacher looked gratified to have regained some control. “I need something to show, like a power of attorney from DeLouise or the lists we gave him for the materials and equipment.”

  Something to show? To whom? Materials? Equipment? What was he talking about? Was there a transaction going on? I couldn't ask, of course.

  “I have a power of attorney he gave me in New York a year ago. It was notarized, would that do?”

  “Notarized? Yes, yes, I think so.”

  “OK, I'll have it faxed to you right away.” Another quick task for Tibor in Tel Aviv.

  “Thank you, Mr. Wooten. That will solve the problem, I'm certain.”

  This guy looked to me like he was pissing in his pants – Guttmacher's body reactions were weird. He was beside himself. But why? He must have feared something he thought I knew, or he viewed me as a threat to his interests. There had to be a reason for his fear. If I found it, perhaps I could use it as leverage to get Guttmacher to spill some information about his dealings with DeLouise.

  I returned to the consulate and set up shop in a small conference room next to Lovejoy's office. Three hours later I had a fax with the power of attorney. The cover letter said that the “original” was being mailed next day to my hotel. I sent the paper on to Guttmacher and called him moments later. “Yes, yes,” he double-talked again, “it's OK. So, I can tell you that the meeting is scheduled for this afternoon. I'm glad you are substituting for Herr DeLouise, whom I couldn't find. These gentlemen don't like to wait.”

  “Yes, tell me about the meeting,” I said. “Who is attending?”

  “Cyrus Armajani and Farbod Kutchemeshgi as well as Roberto DiMarco from Broncotrade.”

  “Anyone else?”

  “Just you and me.”

  Broncotrade. I'd heard that name earlier. Where had I heard it? And those other names. Who were those guys?

  “At what time?”

  “My office. Two o'clock.”

  I wracked my tired memory. Then it came to me: Broncotrade's telephone number had appeared on DeLouise's hotel bill.

  I burst into Ron's office without so much as a knock. “Ron,” I said, as he raised his head from his desk in surprise, “have you heard the names Cyrus Armajani, Farbod Kutchemeshgi, and Roberto DiMarco from Broncotrade?”

  Not surprisingly, he came back immediately.

  “Broncotrade is an Italian trading company suspected of supplying embargoed materials to the Iranians. DiMarco is president of the firm. The other names don't ring a bell, but I can check with the Company upstairs.” He meant the CIA.

  “Please ask them. I need to know.”

  “I'm not sure they'd tell me without knowing why I need the information.”

  “Turf wars again?”

  “No,” he said, “plain vanilla procedures.”

  “I'm about to participate in a meeting, as DeLouise's substitute, with a German banker and these guys. I have no idea why the meeting was scheduled, but I couldn't ask because I was supposed to be in the loop, being DeLouise's business partner. The German banker who arranged the meeting apparently doesn't know that DeLouise is dead – or, if he does, he's a good actor. If he or any of the other participants of the meeting know about the DeLouise murder and had something to do with it, then I'm walking into a trap.”

  “Why?” asked Ron. “You could still be the partner who doesn't know about the murder.”

  “Because if these are the guys who murdered DeLouise, they could conclude that I'm as dangerous to them as DeLouise was. They don't know what DeLouise may have told me. If DiMarco's connection to Iran indicates that the other two men are Iranians, then I'm sure you know that human lives are cheap for these guys, and if they have any doubts, they eliminate you without prior or further notice. I'd like to live; I still have unfulfilled plans.”

  “Let me run upstairs and see what they have on these names.”

  I waited in Ron's office. Ten minutes later he returned with another man.

  “This is Eric Henderson, Chief of Station, CIA,” said Ron, introducing a balding tall man in his forties who wore rimless eyeglasses over shifty blue eyes. “He's interested in hearing more about your meeting.”

  Hell, I thought, I came here to get information, not to share any.

  “What do you want to know?” I asked, slightly annoyed.

  “Everything you know about the participants in the meeting and its purpose.”

  I started from Genesis and went right through to Deuteronomy, the whole story of my mission up to this point. When I finished I looked at his face, waiting for a muscle to move. No go.

  Eric kept up the sphinx act for a moment and then said, “I'm not sure it's a good idea to let you go to the meeting by yourself. Cyrus and Farbod are Iranian agents on a purchasing mission for nuclear materials and missile technology. DiMarco is one of their fronts for the actual purchase and shipment arrangements. Now that Iraq has invaded Kuwait, and the U.S. and its allies are sending threats in the Iraqis’ direction, the Iranians in general and their intelligence services in particular are on high alert. This whole thing is a matter of national security. I ask that, until otherwise instructed, you do not attend the meeting. I need to call Langley.”