Triple Identity dg-1

by Haggai Carmon

  “That was why the Justice Department and the FBI couldn't locate him thirty-three years later,” I said. “There was no indication in his file that he had lived in Israel for a few years as Dov Peled.” Eric didn't respond. I knew why. CIA could not share the information with other U.S. government agencies.

  We had to get back to the present. I was about to get up and leave but Eric stopped me.

  “Here's what I want you to do. Call Guttmacher and ask to see him together with Armajani and Kutchemeshgi as soon as possible.”

  “Why?” I asked, “I thought this thing was over.”

  “Not yet. We asked you here and showed you the documents for a purpose. We need postoperation reconnaissance. We need to know their next move after the break-in. You're the only one who can do that. Tell them you want to report on your Moscow trip.”

  “But you still have the transmitting pen on his desk. That should tell you what's going on,” I said.

  “No. It stopped working the day after the break-in. Either they found it or the battery is dead.”

  “So they'll be looking for anyone who had access to Guttmacher's office and could have put the pen there. Is that a wise idea, to return to the lion's den now?”

  “There is some risk,” conceded Eric, “but you'll be wired again, and our men will be outside if the meeting gets ugly.”

  “OK,” I said, not particularly liking the idea but nevertheless willing.

  “Duty calls,” said Benny, who'd picked up my tone.

  On Monday afternoon I called Guttmacher from a street pay phone. “I've just returned from Moscow and I need to see you and the Iranian gentlemen,” I said matter-of-factly.

  “I'm glad you called,” said Guttmacher hastily. “There have been some developments and we're meeting tomorrow morning at ten o'clock in my office. Please be there.”

  That was easy. I called Eric to report.

  “Good, we'll come to your hotel at eight-thirty to dress you up.”

  On Tuesday at 10:00 A.M., wired for sound, I walked into Guttmacher's office. Kutchemeshgi, Armajani, Guttmacher, and a somber-looking Iranian man in his early forties were waiting in the adjacent conference room. DiMarco, Broncotrade's president, wasn't there, as I'd expected.

  “Good morning gentlemen,” I said, and sat down next to Guttmacher. I looked at the newcomer sitting across the table next to Kutchemeshgi and Armajani, waiting to be introduced. When that didn't happen, I said, “I'm Peter Wooten.”

  The grim-faced man nodded, while Kutchemeshgi said briefly, “That's Colonel Kambiz Khabar; he's a member of our counterintelligence team.”

  My heart skipped a beat. Iranian counterintelligence was infamous for its ruthless treatment of their targets; if prisoners survived their interrogation, they never needed a manicure. He looked like a soldier, definitely out of place in a tailored three-piece suit. The desert sun had given his face a harsh, implacable look. His presence here could mean only one thing: they thought that the Saturday break-ins were not simple burglaries, but intelligence operations. He said nothing.

  “Where is Mr. DiMarco? Isn't he coming too?” I asked Guttmacher, in an obvious effort to show that Khabar's presence left me indifferent.

  “Unfortunately there was an accident over the weekend,” said Guttmacher, “Mr. DiMarco was killed in a car accident in Milan.”

  “I'm sorry to hear that,” I said. “What happened? Was he driving?”

  “No, he crossed the street and a passing car killed him. It is so unfortunate.”

  I tried to digest the news. DiMarco's death sure didn't sound like an ‘accident.’ Was it the Iranians, the Mossad, or the CIA? There were too many deaths in this industry. I resolved to move to the antique books trade.

  The atmosphere in the conference room, which wasn't cheerful to begin with, changed abruptly when Armajani said, “There's a traitor.” I felt my stomach tightening. Nobody said anything. “Colonel Khabar is in Munich to investigate certain events. I demand that all of you cooperate with him.”

  Apart from the Iranians in the room, only Guttmacher and I came under the definition of “all of you.”

  “Of course,” I said, “although I don't know to what events you're referring, because I've just returned from Moscow. What happened? You mean DiMarco's death was caused by a traitor?”

  Col. Kambiz Khabar had no patience for my humor. “Strange things have happened since you first appeared on the scene.”

  I didn't like his attitude or his piercing eyes, particularly when he had a point.

  “Why don't you tell me what you mean?” I asked, although I already knew.

  “I mean that you're an American agent, an Israeli agent, or both!”

  My heart was pounding hard. I was sure Eric could hear it.

  “Is that a joke?” I demanded. “What is this person talking about?” I asked, turning to Guttmacher.

  For the first time Guttmacher looked really frightened. “It's no joke,” he finally said. “My Iranian friends are missing documents, and they think that insiders were involved in removing the documents.”

  “What documents?” I asked, hoping to gain time.

  “Those concerning the Iranian purchases.”

  “I didn't take any documents,” I said defiantly. “I left the file on your conference table when I left your office.”

  “Don't play dumb,” shouted Khabar, “I know you're behind the break-ins. Tell me who sent you.”

  “Look,” I said, getting up from my chair at the conference table. I wasn't in the mood to be interrogated by this hard-nosed Iranian. “I didn't come here to be yelled at. I'm not anyone's agent, and your accusations are preposterous. I have no idea what you're talking about. Call the police if something was stolen from you. This has been nothing but trouble. I'm the one who's inconvenienced, and I think this meeting is now over.”

  “You're not going anywhere,” he said, getting up. He drew a. 38 caliber pistol with a silencer, pointed it at me, and yelled “Sit down!”

  Quickly assessing my options, I jumped to my right behind Guttmacher and lifted him from his chair by his shirt collar. He was heavy as a horse and sweating like one. Guttmacher became my human shield. I was taller, but at least he was wide enough. Khabar was standing across the conference table – to grab me alive he'd need help. Armajani and Kutchemeshgi were paper pushers, so I didn't think they'd constitute any serious opposition. I guessed he wouldn't shoot before he squeezed me for some answers. I had to concede, though, that my value for Khabar as a potential source of information was temporary.

  “Move back,” shouted Khabar, “or I'll shoot you both.”

  “No, please,” cried Guttmacher.

  I had no gun and I cursed Eric and myself at the same time for that oversight.

  Kutchemeshgi and Armajani moved back next to Khabar. I moved the other way, toward the sliding double doors of the conference room, dragging Guttmacher with me.

  “Don't shoot him,” said Armajani. “We need him alive.”

  But it was too late. Khabar fired in my direction. The pistol blasted as the doors opened and Guttmacher's secretary walked in with a tray of hot drinks. “Mein Gott!” she exclaimed as the bullet whizzed past her.

  In one swift motion I grabbed the coffeepot off her tray with my free hand and threw it at Khabar. I'd aimed for the head but hit the crotch. Spilled hot coffee and hard china did the trick. Khabar bellowed in pain and surprise and as he bent over and cradled his groin. I released Guttmacher, slid the length of the conference table and jumped on Khabar. We went to the floor, with me on top. Normally, that'd be punishment enough, but not in this case. I made an effort to grab his gun, missed, took the coffeepot from the carpet, and smashed his head with it. He managed to fire another shot that hit the ceiling. Khabar's face was streaked with blood, but the blow was not strong enough to knock him unconscious. He was still struggling with me. I had Khabar's wrist. I slowly bent it backward until he dropped the gun on the carpet. Suddenly I heard voices shouting in G
erman. Not Eric's men, for sure. None other than Polizeidirektor Karlheinz Blecher walked in, escorted by six policemen, their weapons at the ready.

  One of the cops approached us quickly and took Khabar's gun from the carpet. I got up slowly. Khabar was still down, blood covering his face. He looked around and realized that the scuffle was over. He wasn't stupid. The cop handcuffed him and pulled him over to a chair.

  “Who are you?” demanded Blecher.

  “I'm Colonel Khabar, an Iranian military officer.”

  “What a pleasant surprise,” said Blecher, and for a moment I thought something was wrong. No, it was just Blecher's sense of humor. “We've been looking for you,” he said. “You're under arrest. INTERPOL has just notified us that they've been searching for you. They'll be impressed at how efficient we are,” he concluded in irony.

  “Who is looking for me?” asked Khabar. “And on what charges?”

  “Italy, for question number one, and the charge is murder of one Signor DiMarco,” answered Blecher dryly.

  “Sir,” said Guttmacher, trembling, “Colonel Khabar has just tried to kill me. He's totally crazy.”

  “That'll be another add-on to the long list of good deeds Colonel Khabar is being accused of.”

  Khabar said nothing as he was led away and betrayed little concern. This wasn't surprising. Iranian agents abroad rarely feared arrest. If they were apprehended for whatever reason, you could be fairly sure that citizens of the arresting government would soon be kidnapped somewhere in the Middle East, and that an exchange would quickly be arranged through Iranian intermediaries offering their help for “humanitarian reasons.”

  “Herr Hans Guttmacher,” said Blecher as he approached Guttmacher.

  “Yes?”

  “You are under arrest for the murder of Raymond DeLouise. You are also under arrest for the kidnapping of Ariel Peled in Germany, grand larceny, and the attempted kidnapping of Ariel Peled in Moscow. Other charges including conspiracy and violation of Germany's export laws shall also be brought against you. Anything you say will be used against you.”

  Guttmacher had gone pale. I was sure he was going to faint. Two policemen approached to handcuff and search him.

  Blecher turned to me. “And who are you, sir?”

  I wanted to say, “Are you kidding, Blecher?” but kept my mouth shut, realizing that Blecher was protecting me. I put on my best frightened look.

  “I'm Peter Wooten, an American attorney.”

  “Take his passport and his local address as well; we'll need his testimony,” he said to another officer.

  That was fine with me. I owed Blecher a lot of testimony, and I was glad to have waited as long as I had. Now I could do it all in one session.

  Guttmacher didn't look at me when the cops led him out. Armajani and Kutchemeshgi were still standing next to the conference table. Blecher approached them. “You are under arrest for violation of Germany's export laws, and for an attempt to smuggle nuclear materials in violation of German federal laws.”

  “We have diplomatic immunity! You can't arrest us. I protest!” said Armajani, enraged.

  “Why do you think you have immunity?” asked Blecher almost cordially.

  “Because I'm an Iranian diplomat accredited to the government of Italy, and so is this gentleman,” Armajani pointed at Kutchemeshgi.

  “This is Germany,” said Blecher wryly. “Your immunity is good only in Italy.” Turning to the policemen, he snapped, “Take them away!”

  A couple of weeks later I arrived at the Munich police station with Benny. Snow was starting to fall, not enough to accumulate on the ground but enough to paint the silver-lined branches of the evergreen trees in white.

  “Do you know what Blecher wants?” I asked Benny as we cleaned the mud from our shoes at the entrance.

  “No, he just called and asked that we come to the station for a short meeting. Ron and I met him yesterday,” he added, in a voice that told me that something was wrong.

  “What happened?” I asked, although I'd already guessed.

  “Blecher raised hell.”

  “Is my ass in a sling?”

  “Was,” replied Benny.

  “Past tense?”

  “Yes. We got you out of it somehow. We promised that in the future the German police would not be the last to know when representatives of foreign countries play cops and robbers on their soil.”

  “Thanks,” I said in relief. “Who else will be at the meeting today?”

  “Blecher didn't say, but Eric told me today that he and Ron Lovejoy will be there too.”

  Benny shot a pointed look in my direction. “Aren't you going to ask if Ariel will be there?”

  “Will she?” I admitted in defeat, realizing that my interest in her had become public knowledge.

  “I think so.”

  It had been two long weeks since I'd last seen her; two long and aching weeks somewhat eased by a seven-day vacation in Vermont with my children. Eric and his staff had been very busy analyzing the material found at the bank and in Armajani's apartment while I'd been feeding on the trail that led to DeLouise's money.

  Surprisingly, there wasn't a lot concerning DeLouise's assets. I suspected that most of it had been left behind in Guttmacher's vault, and I wondered why. The documents that had been retrieved from the vault were nevertheless valuable, since they gave me a good many leads to Swiss bank accounts. But there was a missing link: the proof that these bank accounts and various trusts were in fact DeLouise's. It could still be done, I thought, but I expected a long legal battle. However, the days weren't as tense as before the operation. A carnivore dissecting and devouring his prey is somewhat calmer than when he is stalking.

  I wanted to finish it all and move on, and this sudden meeting could be the last phase of the entire operation.

  When I entered the briefing room with Benny, I saw Ron Lovejoy, Eric Henderson, Mina Bernstein – and Ariel.

  A minute later Blecher came in. Without much ado, he said, “It's all over. Guttmacher has confessed.”

  Sitting or standing, we all leaned closer, waiting for Blecher to continue.

  “I have a written statement from Hans Guttmacher in which he confesses to all charges. Therefore, I don't think we'll need the testimony of any of you at a trial.”

  “Tell us what Guttmacher said,” said Ariel. “I want to know how he thought he could get away with everything he's done.”

  “I think you have a right to know,” agreed Blecher. “According to Guttmacher's confession, approximately three or four months ago DeLouise sought his advice about how to move his money from Switzerland to Germany without revealing his whereabouts. At the beginning of their relationship, DeLouise told him that the amount was only one million dollars. But when Guttmacher was able to transfer it without letting the Swiss bank know where the money finally landed, he gained DeLouise's confidence. Guttmacher said that DeLouise wanted to move his substantial assets from Switzerland to another location but didn't know how to do it without leaving any trace. He feared the movement would reveal his new location to his pursuers: two divisions of the U.S. Department of Justice, one of which he was sure had called in INTERPOL, and the Colombians.

  “So after the first million was successfully transferred, DeLouise became convinced that Guttmacher could help him; Guttmacher started moving DeLouise's money in relatively small amounts through third parties until it ended up in Germany. Although Guttmacher's bank commissions for the transfers were hefty, DeLouise was pleased.

  “Then Guttmacher suggested that DeLouise participate in the financial package of the Iranian purchase of nuclear equipment and materials. It was more a matter of disguising the true identity of the buyer and the final destination of the goods than financing the transaction. The Iranians had the money available, but they wanted the transactions to look like commercial contracts between individuals and companies for peacetime use rather than purchases by a government already on the U.S. list of pariah countries.”

&
nbsp; “Did Guttmacher know about my father's Israeli Mossad background?” asked Ariel.

  “I don't think so; he never said anything,” said Blecher. “I don't believe your father would have told him that, knowing how deeply Guttmacher was involved with the Iranians.”

  “Guttmacher said that when DeLouise agreed to participate, DeLouise even suggested bringing in his own contacts in the Soviet Union and elsewhere, and the Iranians agreed. So instead of being simply a ‘front name’ for the Iranian nuclear purchasing mission, DeLouise had become a recruited agent as well.”

  “What the Iranians didn't know, though, was that my father had his own agenda, and had never intended to deliver what he had promised,” said Ariel.

  Blecher nodded and continued. “DeLouise brought a sample of trace nuclear material and the Iranians became enthusiastic. They gave him two million through Guttmacher's bank as an advance payment and the bank guaranteed their advance. As collateral DeLouise gave the bank an assignment of a $2.05 million deposit his company kept in a Swiss bank. Guttmacher said that the whole advance matter was nothing but an elaborate money-laundering scheme to free up some of DeLouise's money that was still stuck in Switzerland. So Guttmacher received two million from the Iranians and gave it to DeLouise, but DeLouise never returned the advance or delivered the goods. Then Guttmacher withdrew the $2.05 million collateral deposit from the Swiss bank, returned two million to the Iranians, and kept his fifty-thousand-dollar commission. Everybody was happy.”

  “Why was my father happy?” asked Ariel.

  “Well, for one thing, he'd laundered two million dollars at a cost of fifty thousand dollars. That's cheap in this trade,” volunteered Eric. “However, Guttmacher's bank collected the collateral DeLouise gave Credit Suisse only after DeLouise was murdered. In short, the operation was successful, but the patient died.”