I nodded. “Obviously,” I said, “this is a game of interests. I want to use Guttmacher to find DeLouise's assets and Guttmacher is using me for something, which I haven't identified yet. I don't think he swallowed my story about being DeLouise's partner, but still, he's deeply afraid of me for some reason. Otherwise there's no basis for him to let me continue playing my act.”
“And the Iranians?” asked Eric.
“I don't know if they're players or spectators. Apparently, if they know I'm coming, maybe I have something they need.”
Henderson didn't answer. I thought I should tell him about DeLouise's flight reservations to Moscow and Baku, Azerbaijan; it could be connected to the meeting there Henderson mentioned earlier. But just as I was about to tell him that a technician entered the room. It was 1:00 P.M. and time to get ready. He asked me to take my shirt off.
The technician attached a transmitter on my lower back with adhesive tape and asked me to put on my shirt.
“How does it feel?”
“Cold.” I put my shirt and tie on.
The technician attached a pin-size microphone behind my jacket's right lapel.
“The pin is both a microphone and a low-output transmitter. It picks up anything said within a fifteen-foot range and transmits it to the transmitter on your back. That one can resend the signal as far as one thousand feet. Even if they discover the transmitter, it doesn't look like a radio transmitter. We designed it to look like a massage vibrator, the same one that is used to alleviate lower back pain. Only an expert could tell it's in fact a transmitter. In the unlikely event that you'd have to explain the device, make up a story about lower back pain. Additionally, the unit acts like a bug detector. It sweeps the area to discover any listening devices or recorders. If one is detected, a warning vibration is sent to your back, and the transmitter automatically operates as a recorder only and, in order not to be detected, emits only minimal, mostly undetectable radio output. The pin microphone looks like a regular pin only slightly bigger. Again it takes an expert to tell. Remember, the battery on the pin microphone is limited to sixty minutes, so we are giving you one other device.”
“And what is that?”
He gave me a ballpoint pen, the kind you can buy for ten dollars a dozen.
“It's a high-power UHF transmitter,” said Eric. “‘Ultra-high frequency’ is used in a range that causes no interference from other equipment, such as aircraft or taxis. The frequency is preset so no tuning is necessary. Even when closely examined nothing unusual can be found, yet the pen conceals a hidden transmitter that will pick up the slightest whisper and transmit to our dedicated UHF receiver up to a distance of fifteen hundred feet away. Of course, it is also a fully functional pen, in case Guttmacher tries to use it.”
With a chuckle, he added, “You can simply ‘forget’ it in Guttmacher's office, anywhere around his desk. The pen has a solar battery, which feeds itself from any source of light, even a lamp, so leave it where it would be exposed to light. That would assure continued transmission long after you leave the room.”
“It's all very nice,” I said, “all these gadgets, but do I get any protection if they find out that I'm a walking spy-electronics store?”
Eric nodded. “We'll be out in the street. Remember, we hear everything, so if you're in trouble we'll come and get you.”
We went downstairs to Lovejoy's car. Behind us were three others, each with three passengers. The delta barrier was lowered and we drove off. I looked back but didn't see any of the other cars.
“They're taking alternate routes. We don't want it to look as if you're coming in a motorcade,” said Ron, reading my mind.
I was dropped off two blocks from the bank, following standard operating procedure. I walked to the bank and went directly to Guttmacher's office. It was 2:00 P.M., right on the button. Although it was not the first time in my job that I have gone into a situation in which a physical threat might be present, I felt that the forthcoming encounter would be different. I was not nervous; I felt tense and focused.
G uttmacher welcomed me, took my coat, and went to his closet to hang it up. I pulled out the pen Eric gave me and casually put it in the pen and pencil holder on Guttmacher's desk. I looked over my shoulder; Guttmacher was busy hanging my coat and didn't notice.
Guttmacher came at me, all smiles, and said, “They're all here.” He opened a set of sliding doors and we entered a connecting conference room. There were three other people waiting: a short European-looking man dressed straight out of a fashion magazine and two darker guys in their forties with very short beards. They did not look like muscle to me but more like businessmen. Both wore business suits and had clever black eyes.
“This is Mr. DiMarco, president of Broncotrade,” Guttmacher introduced him first, “and these are Mr. Cyrus Armajani and Mr. Farbod Kutchemeshgi from the purchasing mission of Iran's Atomic Energy Commission.” We shook hands. As they got up I noticed that they had potbellies. I sat around the table and Guttmacher started.
“I told my Iranian friends and Mr. DiMarco that you are substituting for Mr. DeLouise. How is he?”
“I don't know. Raymond has always been a ladies’ man and used to disappear at times for a few days whenever he met a suitable girl to keep his nights active. This may be one of those times.” I decided to take that avenue in case they knew that DeLouise was in fact dead.
“The problem is,” continued Guttmacher, “that DeLouise was working on some transactions in Moscow when he disappeared.” I sat silently.
“There's another small matter. We gave Mr. DeLouise a two-million-dollar advance. Now he and our money are missing,” said Armajani, in a heavy accent.
So DeLouise stiffed them for two million. Was that why they may have sent him to the morgue? I wondered.
“I'm willing to go along and continue from where DeLouise left off, but frankly, I don't know where that was. Perhaps you could help me,” I ended, turning to Guttmacher. “Let me review with you the stuff DeLouise left to bring me up to speed. I know we could help you in Moscow; our contacts there are extremely good. But I must know what you need and when.”
Roberto DiMarco then said, “We gave DeLouise a list of equipment and supplies we need. And now he's disappeared. As his partner, we're expecting answers from you.”
The two Iranians looked at me impassively waiting. I had to show that I was in the loop or the meeting would end there and then. The only card I had was my knowledge of DeLouise's Moscow plans; I had to share that knowledge with them. Otherwise, why on earth would these guys believe a complete stranger?
“DeLouise had plans to go to Moscow tomorrow, he'd already made airline reservations on Lufthansa. He may have left earlier, I don't know. He didn't leave me any instructions.”
DiMarco stared at me. “Anything else? Have you talked to DeLouise recently?”
“No,” I conceded, “when I arrived I couldn't find him either.” Some truth wouldn't hurt, I thought. “However, if you're really interested in moving this thing forward, you'll have to help me do it. I don't have DeLouise's lists. So one option would be to wait until DeLouise shows up. The other option is to work with me. All I have is my sincere wish to go along with you, so I suggest we stop playing hide-and-seek.”
When no negative reaction came, I took the initiative.
“Mr. Guttmacher, would you please bring copies of the documents you gave DeLouise?”
All eyes turned to Guttmacher.
Guttmacher moved in his chair, his eyes shifting from me to the Iranians to DiMarco and back. Armajani nodded to Guttmacher in approval. Guttmacher got up and went to his office. I heard the sound of metal drawers opening and closing. In a moment he returned to the conference room with a file folder. We watched his movements.
“This is the DeLouise master file,” he said and threw it on the conference room table.
I was the only one who reached for it. The folder was almost two inches thick. I opened it and started to quickly run through its
contents. It had several pages of correspondence between DeLouise and Broncotrade, a ten-page document in English on onionskin paper with a letterhead in Arabic script, and photocopies of bank statements and wire transfers.
“That's enough,” said Farbod Kutchemeshgi, after less than a minute. He reached for the file folder. It was the first time he'd opened his mouth or moved.
“For example, take lithium-6 compounds, palladium, and beryllium,” Armajani's voice caught me off guard. “They are on the top of the list. Do you have any answers?”
“No,” I conceded, “at least not yet. I need to go over the list and try to follow DeLouise's lead.” I didn't like the situation or the suspicious way they were looking at me.
“This is it, for now. You are not taking any lists from this office. DeLouise received information from us, took our money, promised progress in Moscow, and disappeared. That will not happen again.” The implied threat in his voice was obvious.
“How long would it take you to find out?” asked Farbod Kutchemeshgi, ignoring what Armajani had just said.
“I don't know yet, but I understand the urgency.” I thought it was a reasonable response that would have been acceptable in any business circumstance. Evidently, it was unsatisfactory here.
“Look at me,” said Armajani slowly, in a whispering tone that echoed across the room. “We haven't got much time, and the same goes for you. We need results; we need answers. DeLouise fed us his bullshit and we have no patience for yours! The only way you could prove that you're indeed DeLouise's partner is by delivering on his promises. Otherwise…” he didn't finish the sentence, but I got the message. I could feel cold sweat traveling slowly down my spine.
“We gave DeLouise an advance on the Russian delivery and we want results. Now!” He raised his voice a couple of levels. I looked at Guttmacher. He was pale. The poor schmuck was visibly unnerved.
“I came here to help you out. So I don't think shouting or threatening me will get you anywhere. I'm willing to continue from the point DeLouise left off, but I must know what it is.”
They waited for me to continue.
“You say that you need lithium compounds, palladium, and beryllium. I need to know quantities, payment, and delivery arrangements. You don't buy this stuff by mail order, do you? If you can't tell me now, I'll look for DeLouise and his files and get back to you with my answers if I ever find him.” This was a good time to see if my last sentence triggered their attention. If they had anything to do with DeLouise's murder or if they knew about it, I could expect some human reaction. When none came, I had to conclude that either they were not human or they knew nothing about it.
I remembered what Eric told me about the Soviet scientists looking to make an extra buck and the mention of Moscow by Armajani, so I added, “If you hold your cards so close to your chest, you make it difficult for me to help you.”
“What do you mean?” asked Kutchemeshgi.
I was making progress. After the mental battle, logic and necessity won out over suspicion, though not by much.
“I mean that DeLouise got your money but I don't know if he made any payment to the Soviets. You're not telling me, DeLouise isn't around to tell me, how am I supposed to know? You may end up paying double, or not getting the goods at all, just because you're stubborn. How can you expect me to work for you while you blindfold me?”
“What guarantee do we have that you won't disappear on us like your friend DeLouise?” And when I thought he was finished Kutchemeshgi added, “How do I know you're not an American spy?”
“You don't,” I said, regaining my confidence. “You've told me nothing, I never received any money from you, I owe you nothing, but I'm still agreeing to help you. And if you believe I'm a spy, we can end the meeting right now. This may assure you are not divulging any information to a spy but will also guarantee you the dead end you were faced with before I arrived. Besides, what's espionage got to do with it? Everyone knows that Iran is trying to make commercial purchases in the world's markets. Why the secrets?” I remembered what Alex had taught: “At a certain juncture in this kind of negotiation, make a show of frankness.” I wasn't sure it would work with Iranians, whose national heritage and tradition is to negotiate. But apparently my approach worked.
“All right,” answered Armajani, although I looked at Kutchemeshgi. “We'll go along with you for now. Here is your first mission: I want you to retrieve the file DeLouise was holding. Then we'll talk.” Another cold chill went down my spine. “But we'll be watching you.”
I got up and left the room. I didn't even offer a handshake. I had achieved a few things though; they'd agreed to talk if I found the file.
Back on the street I kept my eyes open for Lovejoy or any of Eric's goons. I knew they wouldn't try to make contact with me, but I also knew they were close by. I picked up a cab and told the driver to take a detour or two, then headed back to my hotel, thinking hard.
I tried to put the pieces of the puzzle together. The people in the meeting didn't seem to know that DeLouise was dead. Either that or else they were worthy of Oscar nominations. But given what I had just heard in the meeting, DeLouise's disappearance had stalled their efforts. So, I concluded, the Iranians hadn't killed DeLouise. It must have been somebody else. On the other hand, as all lawyers like to say, if the Iranians had killed him that meant that he was expendable. As always, surprises were possible and expected.
In the cab I scribbled the names of the compounds I had seen on the list before Armajani had taken the file from me. I went straight to my room and was met with one of those surprises – a well-built stranger of a man. Before I could open my mouth, he said, “I'm Tom and I work for Eric. He has asked me to bring you over to see him.”
Although Tom looked and sounded American, I needed more proof.
“How do I know that you work for Eric?”
“Eric, Ron, and the technician are waiting in the safe house to get that equipment off your back.”
That was enough for me. “Let's go,” I said. “How far is the apartment?”
“A ten-minute ride. I'll go out first. You follow in a few minutes. I'll be driving a German taxi; when you see me, flag me down.”
Our three friends were waiting in a third-floor apartment. I stripped off my jacket and shirt, the technician removed the gadgets, and I handed Eric the notepad I had used in the cab to jot down the names of the few materials I could remember after glimpsing the file.
“You'll want to look at this,” I said. He took the pad and quickly scanned the list, then put it aside.
“The bastards are raising the stakes after all.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“The materials you mentioned tells us the direction they're heading. Small details sharpen the total picture. Langley could estimate exactly the direction of their program. On a more urgent level, I hear that the Iranians only need you to get DeLouise's file. I don't know what he did or said to gain their trust, but apparently he conned them. So now their heads are on the line. If the Iranian government finds out that their agents gave such sensitive material to somebody who disappeared with it, I wouldn't want to be in their shoes. If I were Armajani or Kutchemeshgi, I wouldn't buy green bananas because I wouldn't be around when they're ripe.”
“And maybe I'm right on the other front,” I said. “Guttmacher was only passively involved in the meeting. Right now it seems to be the Iranians versus DeLouise. Guttmacher and his bank are only the battlefield.”
“So it looks as if you're staying on the job; you've got to go on with the game to find out what you need to know about DeLouise's business,” said Eric, pretty much taking me for granted.
I decided to ignore his statement. “So what are these chemicals used for, and why do the Iranians need a covert operation to buy them?”
“Chemistry and physics not your strong points, huh?” snapped Eric.
“Nope,” I replied, “I skipped every single class.”
He grabbed a chair and
said, “I guess I'll have to educate you.” And proceeded to give me a short lecture on nuclear energy and how it works.
“OK, let's get back to present-day reality,” I said, when he'd finished giving me the basics of nuclear fission. “You probably picked up from that funny transmitting pen that Guttmacher has a file in his office with substantial information on Iran's purchasing plans. This is the one I got a quick look at. I'm convinced that they have additional files with documents concerning the Iranian purchases. Once I retrieve DeLouise's file, I don't think they'd expect me to supply them with the radioactive compounds that they paid Raymond DeLouise to obtain. Frankly, I don't think we would get that far, because what they're concerned about are the lists they gave DeLouise that apparently have gone missing with him. I'm sure they're not convinced I'm DeLouise's partner. That's why they demanded that I first produce the file they gave DeLouise. I don't know what happens if I do produce the file. It could go either way.”
“What do you mean?” asked Eric.
“Well, if I succeed in retrieving the file, they could think I had something to do with DeLouise's disappearance and connect me to some foreign-intelligence service. Or they could be convinced, and my legend sticks that I am, after all, DeLouise's business partner. Under both theories, they'd have the file and then could choose what to do with me. But since the file was not among the items DeLouise left behind, this is all just guesswork.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because I saw the police report that came with the body to the morgue. There was no mention of any such documents in his room or on or near the scene. But I do have some ideas about the Iranian files Guttmacher keeps in his office.”
“I'm listening,” said Eric.
“Why not copy the files? Or simply remove them altogether.”
Eric looked at me. “Tell me more,” he said. “We didn't realize the Iranians let Guttmacher keep their files in his office.”
I wondered why Eric hadn't thought of this. Why did I have to be two steps ahead of everyone else here?
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