“Did you try to escape?”
“Yes. When I understood from their conversation that my mother was in town, I was afraid they'd kidnap her too. I had to warn her. I constantly looked for ways to escape. When they left the apartment for the day they chained me to a water pipe in the kitchen with a chain long enough to let me reach the toilet. I started looking in the kitchen drawers to find a tool to break the chain — a knife, a can opener, anything. There was nothing I could use. Then I thought of a completely different angle. Under the sink there were a few bottles with detergents — cleaning stuff, you know.”
I nodded.
“The chain they used seemed to be made of iron. So I looked through the detergents’ labels for ingredients I could use to prepare a caustic acid that would eat the metal.”
I looked at her, amazed, and then remembered that she was a chemistry teacher. But my chemistry teachers in high school never looked so good.
“Did it work?”
“Eventually, yes, I used a drain cleaner, which I mixed with other detergents,” she smiled. “But the problem was that the solution I was preparing would emit dangerous gases. It would also leave a stench and, most importantly, would take a long time to consume a thick iron link. I didn't know how much time I had.”
“So what did you do?” I asked. I found her, and the story, fascinating.
“I covered my face, prepared a small quantity of the acid in a glass cereal bowl, and left one ring of the chain dipped inside. I tried not to move, to keep the link soaked in the acid, but my eyes and nose were watering. I was able to keep it dipped for about an hour when my captors returned.”
“Did they notice anything?”
“Yes. They noticed the smell immediately and asked me what it was.”
“I said, ‘It was dirty here, so I cleaned.’ I guess they were satisfied with that.”
“Did they use the phone?”
“I didn't see any phone at the apartment. During the night they locked me in the living room and kept me chained to the sofa bed's metal leg. When they fell asleep, snoring so loudly they could've torn a hole in the wall, I checked the link I'd dipped in the acid and it looked to me like it had been damaged, but not enough to break. The following morning they brought me an apple and a roll for breakfast and tied me back onto the kitchen pipe. As soon as they left I started working on the acid and doubled the quantity. I said to myself, better to cry now because of the fumes than have my family cry over me. Two hours later, the metal was becoming weak so I twisted it and a few drops of the acid flew on my leg.”
“That must have hurt.”
“Well, I have a scar now,” she said, bending to show me her ankle. She came so close I could smell her light flowery perfume.
“You'll live,” I said. “Tell me how it ended.”
“Around noon I was able to break the link but it wasn't enough to release me. I couldn't touch the broken link because of the acid, and the broken part was not big enough to unlink the chain. I almost panicked. I didn't know when they'd be coming back. If they found what I'd done, they would've hurt me.”
“So what did you do?”
“I placed the broken link between the kitchen door hinges and opened and closed the door a million times until the weak metal was flattened and then broke. Then I was free! I still had the handcuffs on my left wrist and a chain of three feet dragging from it. I ran out the door and into the street. I know I must have looked awful, but I didn't care. I stopped a taxi and he took me to the Israeli Consulate. And the rest, you know,” she said, assuming that I already knew the whole story.
“You're lucky to be a chemistry expert,” I said admiringly.
Ariel smiled. “In fact my education and expertise are in physics. I'm finishing my Ph.D. in nuclear physics at the Technion. I teach chemistry in high school to support myself.”
The Technion, Israel's top technological academic institute, was often compared to MIT. So Ariel was following her father's path. Was she also doing it now in Moscow?
“So whom did you meet there?” I thought Benny Friedman might have been on the scene.
“It was a man named Ilan. He debriefed me and wanted me to leave on the first flight out to Israel. I refused and demanded to talk to my dad first.”
Her calmness took me by surprise.
“So they told you?”
“Yes.” She paused. I could see she was fighting tears; her eyes glistened. Impulsively I reached a hand out to touch hers, resting on the table.
“I'm sorry,” she said. “I didn't cry then. It hit me later. They told me that they'd had to send my mother back to Israel and that she was fine. I spoke with her on the phone and she begged me to return home. But I was angry and wanted to stay. I had to see what I could do to track down my father's killers. Everything happened so quickly. I went with Ilan to the safe-deposit box but it was empty. I guess my mother had taken everything out.”
This was a good opportunity to upgrade my credibility level with her. “In fact, it was a combined effort of your mother and me. I have the letter in my room; I'll give it to you later.”
The place had become noisy all of a sudden. I looked around. A wave of people had washed into the restaurant. I'd been so immersed in our conversation that I hadn't even noticed.
“Have you met Hans Guttmacher?” I asked.
“My father's banker? I know he's holding some things for me, but I didn't get a chance to see him. When I first arrived in Munich, two or maybe three weeks ago, I've lost track, there was no answer from my father's hotel room. So I called Guttmacher. His name was mentioned in my father's letter. I thought that as his banker he might know where my father was. We had a short conversation.”
“Did you ask Guttmacher if he knew where your father was?”
“I only mentioned that I hadn't been able to talk to him yet.”
“Did Guttmacher say anything about it? Did he know where your father was?”
“No, he had no reaction at all, or maybe he said he didn't know. I don't remember.”
“So you never met your father in Munich?”
“No. I first called his hotel, but there was no answer from his room. I called him again several times and left messages but he never returned my calls.”
“Now you know why he never called you back.”
“Yes,” Ariel said quietly. “And I'm just beginning to accept the fact that he's gone.”
“Did you talk to Guttmacher again?”
“Yes, but only briefly.” Ariel pushed away her plate. She put her head in her hands. “I don't think I can deal with food anymore.”
I signaled the waiter to clear the table. But I needed to continue.
“Why did you travel to Munich in the first place? Did your father talk to you about that?” I found myself asking her a question to which I knew the answer from Benny. Was I questioning his story?
“The whole thing was very strange. First I got a call at home in Haifa from someone who told me his name was Gideon. He claimed to be my father's friend and that my father needed me badly in Munich. I didn't quite believe him. But Gideon insisted and told me that my father had wired ten thousand dollars to my bank account in Haifa from Bank Hapoalim in Luxembourg to pay for my trip and expenses. So I decided to check my account and see if the money was there. I thought that would indicate whether Gideon was telling me the truth.”
“And the money was there,” I said knowingly.
“Yes. Exactly the way he said. I had another indication that it was my father's money because he had used that bank to wire me money from time to time. He found it convenient, since the bank in Luxembourg is a branch of my Israeli bank. But this time I noticed something different: the money came from a trust with a long German name that I couldn't pronounce, not from my father's regular account.”
“Do you know who the man was who called you?”
“Gideon? No; I think he's from the Office. He never said it, but I suspected he was working for the Israeli government and
that the call was connected to my father's distant past at the Mossad.”
“Interesting,” I said. “Did he explain why your father didn't call you directly, why he needed somebody else to call his own daughter?”
“Gideon said that my father could not call but that he had asked him to make the call to me. The man calling himself Gideon gave me the pension's name in Munich where I should stay and my father's hotel name and room number. He told me to call my father's hotel when I arrived but not to go there. I called my mother and told her briefly that I was going to meet my father in Munich and that I'd be back in a week. I bought the ticket and left for Germany.” She stopped for a moment, then continued.
“I waited at the pension for one day but nobody called. I didn't have Gideon's phone number in Israel. I called the Israeli Consulate and they didn't know what I was talking about. I knew something was wrong but I didn't know exactly what. When none of my calls were returned, I went to my father's hotel and asked the manager to take me to his room. His things were there, but there wasn't even a note to tell me where he'd gone. The manager said that my father might have been traveling. He didn't seem to think anything was wrong. So I decided to wait. Perhaps my father had had to leave unexpectedly. But as I returned to my pension I had a strange feeling that I was being followed. So I went to a bank, I changed some money, and I opened a safe-deposit box and put the letter there. I had a feeling that the whole mystery of my father's disappearance was somehow connected to the people who were following me.”
“That was a very wise move,” I said. “But why this next move — to Moscow?” I asked, directing the conversation back to the present.
“You don't know? I thought you were working together with Ilan from the consulate in Munich, and that he sent you here to protect me.” Her tone became suddenly suspicious. I knew I'd tripped; I was supposed to know. Damage control, quickly.
“I did come here to help you. I don't know everything, but isn't your visit connected to the Russian contacts your father was building?”
“Yes. So if you know, why are you asking these questions? Are you testing me? Is that it?”
“No, Ariel,” I said, trying to calm things down. “I'm simply trying to pull the story together. Tell me what you've accomplished so far.”
The waiter came again, cleared our plates, and opened a folding table. Whether we liked it or not, there was more food. Another waiter came carrying huge plates with a mountain of yellow rice, cubes of lamb, and grilled vegetables. It looked wonderful and smelled even better — a welcome change from stolid German food.
“I don't know if I should tell you. I want to keep it a secret. I don't need a replay of my shouting match with Ilan in Munich when I first told him I was going to Moscow, while he wanted me back in Israel.”
“That's fine with me,” I said agreeably.
“Mutual confidence must be built first,” were the words that Alex, my Mossad instructor, had used. “Never try to kiss on the first date.” I'd made a mistake by trying, but Ariel's story was exceptionally tempting. I had to play it safe for a while. Adam and Eve had been expelled from Eden for a lesser transgression.
In the back of my mind I feared that I was not being professional. These were the facts: While on the trail of plutonium-seeking Iranians I meet, for the first time, a woman who is also the daughter of DeLouise, who had contact with the Iranians. Now she suddenly mentions her research in nuclear physics. Could Ariel, with her expertise, be part of the Iranian conspiracy? According to my training, every alarm bell in my head should be going off. But they weren't. Was I accepting her story at face value? Did that mean I considered her trustworthy? Were my instincts right, or was I being lulled by my attraction to her beauty? I came to no conclusion other than to be careful, and to watch and wait.
“How long will you stay in Moscow?”
“I don't know yet, I need to see some people first.”
“Tell me more about your doctoral thesis.” I wanted our meeting to last longer.
Ariel chuckled, “How well do you know your physics?”
“Try me.” Only when I'd said it did I realize that my reply could go both ways.
“Now, that's going to take even longer than my kidnapping story,” said Ariel in a teasing tone. I didn't quite follow what she meant. It could have more than one meaning. But I kind of liked that idea.
“Go ahead,” I finally said.
“I'm working on the naturally occurring changes in plutonium.”
“You mean the radioactive metal?”
“Yes. Plutonium is one of the more mysterious and complex elements in nature. Although it can be found in nature, for nuclear-power purposes it must be manufactured in a process developed only fifty years ago. Have you ever seen plutonium?”
“No,” I admitted.
“OK, here's a quick course for beginners,” she said.
“Do I need to take notes?” I asked with a smile.
“No, and there'll be no exam at the end. Plutonium, element 94, is named after the planet Pluto. It was discovered in 1940 at Berkeley by the physicists Glenn Seaborg, Edwin McMillan, Joseph Kennedy, and Arthur Wahl.”
“Was that discovery part of the Manhattan Project that created the first atom bomb?”
“No,” she responded, “But it certainly led the use of plutonium in that project. Anyway, the isotope Pu-239 exists naturally in trace amounts in uranium ores. The quantity is really minute, only several parts per quadrillion.”
“I'm ashamed to ask, but how much is a quadrillion?”
“It's one thousand trillions or one followed by fifteen zeros.”
I nodded. “What big number comes after that?”
“Quintillion, that's one thousand quadrillion, or one followed by eighteen zeros.”
I looked at her eyes. They glittered when she talked about her work.
“So, isotope Pu-239 is produced by the capture of spontaneous fission neutrons by uranium-238. Extremely small amounts of plutonium-244, the longest-lived plutonium isotope, have been detected in cerium ore; apparently surviving residues of plutonium were present at the formation of Earth.”
I began to feel sorry that I'd skipped my physics classes in high school. Then I could ask Ariel an intelligent question and show interest in more than just her. That part of physics was not included in the nuclear overview at the Mossad Academy. I wasn't completely ignorant of the subject, however.
“Plutonium is produced in a process called ‘breeding,’ by bombarding uranium-238 with slow neutrons in a nuclear reactor. If a slow neutron is captured then uranium-239 is produced, and the compound then quickly decays into neptunium-239 and then plutonium.”
I nodded because I wanted to continue looking at her. In fact, everything she was telling me was somewhat familiar from my science classes at the Mossad Academy. But in the sciences you had to run twice as fast just to hold the same ground; otherwise, the others would pass you — and I didn't run. I had to admit that I'd gotten out of the science race immediately after my Mossad training.
Ariel continued. “Plutonium is silvery in color and naturally warm. But when you expose it to the atmosphere it changes color to yellow. One of the reasons that plutonium is so complex is the great number of its stable structures. Carbon, for example, has three, while plutonium has six, each with a different density, and they change in accordance with temperature.”
She paused and looked at me with curiosity. “Did you understand any of it?”
“Some,” I admitted. “Does your research have any practical applications?”
“Definitely,” she said. “Since plutonium changes its condition rapidly and each new version has different qualities, it is very difficult to control. You must control it if you want to use plutonium in a nuclear device.”
“Such as the big A?”
“Yes. American scientists at Los Alamos discovered that plutonium is stable when alloyed with aluminum and gallium. After the smelting and the cooling off, plutonium enters its
most stable condition, known as ‘delta phase.’ This phase proved to be very convenient, because it made plutonium behave like a normal metal. It was unbreakable, did not corrode over time, and was simple to mold.”
“So what's the problem?” I asked.
“It's a problem of catastrophic magnitude,” said Ariel seriously, her blue eyes intent. “For years everybody believed that plutonium with aluminum and gallium alloy was the ultimate solution to handling plutonium. But Soviet scientists repeatedly claimed that with increased temperature, plutonium might change from delta phase to alpha phase. That is alarming, because alpha phase is far less stable and might induce a spontaneous chain reaction.”
“A chain reaction leading to a nuclear explosion?”
“Yes. That's why I said it could be a catastrophic problem. The world scientific community is only beginning to realize that the life span of a nuclear warhead is much shorter than previously anticipated.”
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