“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 Bäcker & 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.
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 plante
d 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.
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.
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