“Yes,” said Blecher. I didn't understand what he meant, but I wasn't interested in pressing the issue any further.
Alarm bells were ringing inside my head. Was it a residual thrill from the fight I'd just had or the intuition that I'd just made another step forward in my investigation? Obviously, I'd become somebody's target. Although Rodriguez said he was Colombian, it didn't necessarily mean he was telling me the truth or that he was from the same team that had pursued DeLouise or kidnapped Ariel. He could be working for somebody else.
By this time, two plainclothes detectives had Rodriguez up and moving.
“We're taking him downtown for questioning. We'll let our doctor see him. What did you use on him, a hammer?”
“Wait,” I said, and gave the man's knife to Blecher. “It looked like he was going to stab me with this, so I had no alternative but to reshape his face.” Blecher asked me to come to the station to give my testimony.
“Later,” I said, stretching the leeway I had received thus far from Blecher, since I was working for the U.S. government.
I called Eric from a pay phone outside and told him about the incident. “What do the German police think?” he asked.
“I don't know yet. Blecher wants to see me in the station later. Anyway, I'm checking out of the hotel; it's getting too hot here. I'll call you from my new location.”
I packed my luggage, checked it into storage, and left the hotel through the employees’ exit. I took a bus for a few blocks, got off, and went into the lobby of a residential building. I looked through a window for a few minutes, checking to see if I'd been followed. The place was quiet. I took a cab to Rosenheimerstrasse in the center of town and got off near the German Museum, took another cab to the Sheraton Hotel, and checked in using the Peter Wooten name. I called from a pay phone and left messages for Eric and Ron asking them to arrange for my bags to be brought over from the Omni. Two hours later my bags showed up and I could relax. I decided to stay in my room and watch CNN and old American movies on the only English-speaking German channel. Although I understood enough conversational German to watch the German-dubbed English-speaking movies, it was still strange to hear Gene Hackman or Harrison Ford speak German. I ordered room service and ventured out only once to call my children in New York.
The following morning the phone rang. It was Eric. Yes, my theory concerning DeLouise's travel ploys had some truth in it. When he said “some truth” I knew all of it was true. He just couldn't admit that I'd been right.
“What did you find out?” I asked.
“DeLouise used his Romanian passport under the name Bruno Popescu and left on a Lufthansa flight from Frankfurt to Moscow on September 17th. In Moscow he checked into the Hotel Intercontinental. Three days later he returned to Frankfurt and probably drove back to Munich. We don't know at this point whom he met in Moscow or where he went.”
“Well,” I said, “it seems that you can do without me for a few days. I'm going to Moscow.” I wasn't asking Eric's permission to go; I was simply informing him of my plans.
“I need you back here in four or five days. I expect to hear from Benny by then. Also, do you plan to notify Guttmacher and the Iranians about your forthcoming trip?”
“No, I have no intention of doing that. I made it clear that I owe them nothing. Although they were intimidating at times, I think they got the message.”
“All right. When you're in Moscow, just in case, go to the embassy and make contact with a Charles Hart. He's my counterpart there. I'll let him know you're coming.”
I called my long-suffering office in New York from a street pay phone and asked Lan to book me on the afternoon flight to Moscow and make arrangements for me to stay at the Cosmos for five days. I gave her my new numbers at the Munich Sheraton and alerted her that in Munich I'd be Peter Wooten, but in Moscow I'd return to my real name. Then I asked her to connect me with Stone.
“David,” I said, “I'm through here for the moment and off to Moscow tonight.”
“Did Eric authorize that?”
“Well, I didn't exactly ask his permission, but I let him know I was headed out.”
“And what did he have to say?”
“Not much. He asked me to contact his station chief in Moscow.”
“Fine,” said David, “but I don't want more complaints from other agencies that you're too independent.”
“OK, boss,” I said obediently. We both knew the procedure; he gave me instructions and I followed them my way.
“How long will you be in Moscow?”
“Just a few days, looking for the daughter.”
“Good,” said David. “I see you're working for me again.”
“Yes, I guess so. Although I'm not sure whether she had anything to do with the other business,” I said, hoping David would understand I meant the Iranian matter. “Currently she's the only living link between the two.”
David picked it up immediately. “Fine. In the meantime there are developments in California. With DeLouise dead the criminal investigation against him is over, but the civil proceedings can continue. The U.S. District Court out there has just entered a default judgment against DeLouise's estate ordering restitution in the amount of ninety-one million dollars and change. So we're in a position to seek European judicial assistance to enforce this as soon as you discover assets.”
“Good news,” I said. “Can you send over a certified copy? I could use it here to open some doors even before we file in court.”
“It's already on the way.”
“Thanks for reading my mind. Am I cleared for Moscow?”
“Well, I don't have all the approvals yet, but you can go. If there's any heat, I'll take it, given the urgency of your trip; I suspect we'll avoid a major storm. Have a good trip and call me when you get there.”
I went to the consulate of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics in Seidlstrasse to get a visa. Although I was carrying a U.S. passport issued to government employees traveling overseas on official business, I used my personal U.S. passport. With the latest incidents and hijackings involving airlines and Palestinians terrorists, like the TWA 847 from Athens, I didn't want to have to eat my official government passport in the cramped toilet of the aircraft while a guy with a foreign accent announced, “This flight is now going to Beirut. Remain seated, stay calm, and nobody gets hurt.” Besides, there was no way I could have a Soviet visa issued on the same day using an official passport, not when the KGB had to screen each application and make sure that the official visitor is officially supervised. No, I was an attorney going to Moscow on business to meet some people. No, comrade, I am not affiliated with the U.S. government.
There were about twenty people waiting at the consulate, but the line was moving rapidly. Did this mean that they were all being rejected instantaneously? I entered the consulate and filled out the visa application. The application form was in Russian and German, printed on cheap, woodpulp paper that I hadn't seen since the austerity days in Israel in the 1950s. A big red flag with a hammer and sickle was hanging above the desk of a man dressed in a uniform-like suit.
“I need an urgent tourist visa for five days,” I said in English, hoping he understood.
“What is so urgent?” he replied in English.
“I have a business meeting tomorrow in Moscow.”
“A business meeting?” he repeated.
“Yes.”
“Then why do you ask for a tourist visa? You need a business visa.”
“Fine,” I said, “let me have a business visa.”
“Give me the invitation letter, your round-trip ticket, money order, and passport, and come back in one week.”
“I don't have a letter of invitation, and I can't wait a week. This is a sudden and urgent business meeting.”
“Sorry,” he said sternly. “No invitation letter, no visa.”
“Well, I forgot that I do have an invitation; it's right here in my passport,” I said, handing him my passport with two folded hundr
ed-dollar bills inserted between the pages.
He took my passport, flipped through the pages, saw the money, and said “Just a minute,” before he exited to a back office. Ten minutes later he returned with my passport and handed it to me without saying a word. I looked in my passport; a red visa stamp gleamed at me.
I went back to my hotel where Lan's fax message with my flight itinerary to Moscow was waiting. I left the hotel, drove to the airport, and in twenty minutes I was in my seat on the plane. Airline efficiency at work — for once.
Three hours later I was in Sheremetyevo International Airport, nineteen miles north of Moscow. The airport is connected to Moscow by a high-speed expressway, notable not only for its speed but for its pollution. Years after most of the modern world had converted its vehicle fleets to engines using only unleaded gas, the Soviet Union was lagging behind in its persistent use of leaded gas. The results were visible on the cars’ dirty windshields and on the grimy houses by the side of the road. I couldn't find a cab so I took bus #551 to the Rechnoy Vokzal metro station in the center of town. I sat cramped between two old peasant women with live chickens in straw shopping bags who looked at me with curiosity. The chickens seemed to be curious as well. With my Levis jeans and wind-breaker, I must have looked different to them. From there I took a beat-up cab for a twenty-minute ride to the Cosmos Hotel on Prospekt Mira, past the center of Moscow and the All-Russia Exhibition Center. The driver suggested I visit it to get acquainted with Russian culture and to buy souvenirs. It was only a matter of minutes before he volunteered to be my personal tour guide, money changer, and provider of female companionship; he used a more crude word for the last. I declined all three offers.
The Cosmos Hotel was an amazing twenty-six-story building, crescent shaped with sprawling gardens, completed in 1979 to accommodate visitors to the 1980 summer Olympics. I checked in and went with my one bag to the nineteenth floor. The room was small. It had two beds, an armchair, and a desk. The furniture was all dark oak. It was modest but clean.
I opened the curtains and saw a beautiful view of the Botanical Gardens and Lossiny Ostrov, the national nature reserve.
Near the elevator was a floor lady's post. Seated constantly at her table, she sold bottled water and could monitor who was entering or leaving each room and when. I suspected she didn't keep the information to herself.
I went downstairs and spoke to the receptionist. Although the tall blond young lady had a British flag pin on her lapel to indicate her command of English, she had difficulty understanding me, and it wasn't because I spoke American English instead of British English.
“I'm looking for Ariel Peled,” I said. “Is she still staying at the hotel?”
She looked at her file index, pulled out a card, and said, “Yes, she is in room 1123.” That two-sentence exchange took almost five minutes using a combination of English and sign language. I decided not to spend the rest of my adult life trying to ask the receptionist if she knew whether Ariel was in her room. I simply looked at the key box behind the desk. Her room key was not there. I decided to make a direct approach, like most Israelis would.
I used the house phone and called Ariel's room. After two rings a woman's voice answered.
“Is this Ariel?” I asked in Hebrew. If she answered in Hebrew, then she would pass the first identity test.
“Yes,” said the woman in Hebrew, in an amazed tone. Moscow isn't Tel Aviv or New York, so it was obvious she didn't expect to hear Hebrew on the phone. “Who are you?” Her accent was that of a person who had been born and lived in Israel all her life. She'd passed the second test.
“I'm Dan Gordon,” I said. “I'm your mother's friend. May I see you?” I had to be Dan Gordon, not Peter Wooten. Gordon was the name her mother knew.
“Where are you?”
“I'm in the lobby.”
“How did you find me?”
“Please come downstairs; you'll soon find out, I promise.”
She paused a moment, then said, “I'll meet you in twenty minutes at the Dariali restaurant, located on the left wing at the main lobby level.” I knew that Ariel would not hesitate, because she'd recognized in my voice the unmistakable inflection and dialect of a native Israeli and would trust that. Besides, we were about to meet inside the hotel where Ariel would feel protected.
“Good, I'll see you there.”
I hadn't planned on finding Ariel so quickly, so I had no plan for an introduction or how to lead the conversation. Was she friend or foe? Was she really Ariel Peled?
I decided to allow the meeting to flow naturally and let my instincts be my guide. This method left many things to chance, of course, and went against my training. If she were Mina Bernstein's daughter, I'd relax my level of caution. But then again, she would also be DeLouise's daughter; I tried to put that out of my mind.
I entered the restaurant. The place was completely empty. A mustached waiter greeted me wearing a costume typical of the Caucasus, a kaftan with two lapels in Turkic manner and a round embroidered cap laced with gold thread.
“Welcome,” he said in English, “Deutsch?” That sounded bizarre.
“No,” I said, “English. And I'd like a table for two.”
He looked down at his reservations book and said, “I don't know if I have a table available for tonight, let me see.”
I thought the guy was just a pompous ass playing games. The place was empty, so why the show? To get a tip for a stale joke?
Finally he said, “Yes, I can give you one table, please follow me.”
He took me through the empty restaurant and to a table like all the others, covered with a red tablecloth and set with Caucasian-style copper plates.
“Thank you,” I said, giving him a dollar. He thanked me vehemently. A U.S. dollar went a long way in the Soviet Union, where his salary might be only thirty dollars a month. “I'm waiting for a lady. My name is Gordon; please direct her to my table.”
“Of course, sir,” he said.
I sat so preoccupied with my thoughts that I was surprised to hear a woman's voice so close to me, “Dan Gordon?”
I got up, smiled, and said, “Shalom, Ariel.”
Ariel looked very much like her mother, perhaps taller and more slender but with the same blue eyes and the same smile. No further identity tests were needed; she was definitely Mina Bernstein's daughter. I was taken with her immediately. She looked younger than her early thirties. Her face was tanned and her body looked athletic in blue jeans. A close-fitting white sweater outlined her ample breasts. Her copper hair was braided loosely, falling below her shoulders.
As soon as she sat down Ariel began firing questions at me. “How did you find me? Are you one of them? How is my mother? Does she know I'm here?”
“Which one do I answer first?” I smiled.
“About my mother, does she know I'm here?” she asked in a serious tone.
“I don't know. I saw her in Munich just before she went back to Israel. She was worried about you; so frankly, I have no idea if she knows that you've escaped from the Latinos. Tell me, how did you manage it?”
She smiled. “I spoke with her on the phone from the consulate after I escaped. So, if you were with my mother before she returned to Israel, you must be from the Office!”
“I'm one of the good guys,” I said, deftly sidestepping a more direct answer. “Tell me.”
At that inopportune moment, as usual, the waiter came with the menu. It consisted of a sticky plastic card with an attached handwritten list in Russian, which I couldn't decipher. “Do you have an English menu?” I asked.
“No. But I can explain,” said the probably fake Caucasian.
“Never mind,” I said, figuring that the best way to get rid of him quickly was to ask him to decide for us.
“Don't pay attention to the menu; their selection is actually very limited,” said Ariel.
“Just give us your freshest meal,” I told the waiter, “and please make it only mildly spicy.” Off he went.
> Ariel smiled at me again. “I see that you're impatient. When did you arrive?”
“Two hours ago. So, tell me, how did you get away?”
“From where?”
“From your captors in Munich.”
“How much time do you have?” she asked jokingly. She didn't look or sound like someone who'd just been through an ordeal. She sure was putting up the front of a tough cookie.
“All the time it will take. Just tell me the story.”
“There were two of them,” she recalled. “One who said his name was Tony, but I heard his friend call him Julio. I don't know the other's name. I'm not sure he could speak English, maybe only Spanish.”
“Do you know where you were?”
“No. It was a small apartment somewhere in Munich or its vicinity.”
“Did they tell you what they wanted?”
“They kept demanding that I give them some papers, which they said that my father had given me. But I didn't know what they were talking about. I told them that I had just received a personal letter from my father but no other documents. They kept on pressing me. I was petrified; I was sure I was about to die.”
“Why?” I asked. “Did they hurt you?”
“They never touched me, but they threatened to kill me five times a day. But oral threats weren't the reason I was worried. I wasn't blindfolded and I could identify them. That scared me.”
“Why?”
“Because if they didn't care that I saw them, that must have meant that I would never live to describe them. There was something alarming in their story that my father had kept documents that belonged to them. I didn't know if my father was looking for me, because I couldn't find him when I arrived. I couldn't take it anymore, so I told them about the safe-deposit box where I left my father's letter.”
The waiter came with ten small plates of a variety of unidentified salads and a loaf of freshly baked bread with a thick crust. Ariel waited until he left and continued.
“I told them it was in the Grand Excelsior hotel safe and that only I had access to it. I was hoping that I would be able to attract the attention of somebody at the hotel to help me get away from those terrible people. But when we went to the hotel, they were so close to me, one of them holding a knife underneath his jacket telling me he'd slaughter me like a pig if I made any move, that I realized I couldn't get away. So I had to invent a story: that I had forgotten and that the envelope was in fact in a safe-deposit box at the Mielke Bank. I guess they didn't want to risk going to the bank with me as their hostage, so they demanded to know who else had access to the safe. I told them that the only other person who had access was my mother, who lived in Israel, hoping that would force them to give up the idea. I always add her name to all my accounts, as she does with me. They made me call her in Israel from the hotel pay phone and reverse the charges. They put a tape recorder by the phone to record the conversation and said that if I told my mother anything alarming in Hebrew, I would die because their people can understand Hebrew. I was totally petrified and confused, so I did what they wanted. I asked my mother to come to Munich to help me. I really didn't care about giving them the letter, as long as I got away from them. But when my mother came over, I wasn't allowed to call her.”
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