“And what is that?”
“It went down from seventy years to twenty years. Can you imagine what it would do to the superpowers’ nuclear stockpiles? They'll have to renew it faster than they thought and dump the old stockpiles when they still haven't figured out what to do with the existing nuclear waste.”
“And you are a part of that research?”
“Yes, in a small way. I'm trying to determine the mechanism that leads to the dangerous change from the safe delta phase to the volatile alpha phase.”
“Are you making progress?”
“I am, but my problem is that some nuclear scientists still do not believe they have a serious problem. I can't say I'm too popular in these circles. I'm just a doctoral candidate, and they're all accomplished scientists,” she said wryly. “Soviet scientists are the only ones so far to take this problem seriously, particularly when they are concerned that, with the dissolution of Soviet Union, the question of what happens to those stockpiles looms.”
“It's so interesting,” I said. “You are one of the few people I know who can simplify complex issues into sentences that even a lay person like me can understand.”
If Ariel noticed I was following my training, she did a good job hiding it. In the Mossad Academy, Alex had taught me the art of conversation. “You have two ears but only one mouth, so nature intended us to listen twice as much as we speak. Everyone loves talking about their work or hobby; therefore, let them talk, because they reveal themselves and it directly inspires them to trust you.”
“Thanks,” she said, “I appreciate the compliment.” I looked at her face, her tanned skin, her copper hair and her feminine body, and let my thoughts wander.
Ariel gave me an interested look and said, “We shouldn't talk about me all the time. Tell me about yourself.”
“What do you want to know? Just ask.”
“Are you married?”
It was my turn to smile. “Why do you want to know?”
“Because,” she said in a teenager's teasing tone, without elaborating. “Well?” she urged.
“I was.”
“Not anymore?”
“No,” I said with a sigh. “It's over.”
“Was it because of another woman?”
I shook my head. Ariel was digesting the information.
“You never remarried?”
“Hell, no. That would be like upgrading to a better room on the Titanic.”
“Is that what you think of marriage?” Ariel sounded hurt, as if we were married to each other.
“No, of course not. It was just a figure of speech. I divorced because it was over, not because there was another woman. I wish there had been.”
“So you haven't been in a serious relationship since?”
Ariel was giving me the third degree. But I liked her interest in me.
“No. There wasn't anyone in particular that I wanted to spend more than a week with. So I took small bites of different apples.”
“Any children?”
“Yes, two teenagers, a boy and a girl.”
“Do you see them often?”
“As much as I can between trips.”
We were now headed into quicksand. Soon she'd ask where they lived in Israel. What would I say? That they lived in New York? Then would come the next question, and soon enough my cover story would be blown. I started regretting allowing myself to get personal.
“Where did you go to school?”
“The routine route. Tel Aviv public schools; then Tel Aviv University, international relations; and finally Tel Aviv University law school.”
“So you're a lawyer,” she said. I couldn't identify her tone of voice, whether she was being appreciative or mocking. “Have you ever practiced law, I mean the usual way?”
“Yes, at the beginning, but I preferred the more exciting government work.”
I was praying she would change the subject quickly, hence my laconic answers. I couldn't lie to those huge blue eyes. But at the same time, I didn't want her to stop the personal direction she was taking with me.
“I'm tired,” I said, sounding like a yawning husband getting off the couch. “I've had a long day, flying from Munich and all that. Can I see you tomorrow? I want to do some sightseeing.” I needed to continue our conversation. It would take more time to gain her trust and make her talk about her father's business. After all, that was the reason I had come after her, not to admire her eyes.
“You never told me why you came to Moscow. Was it only looking for me?” She was putting me on the spot again.
“Hey, isn't that the question I asked you earlier?” I teased, trying the flirtation route. “I never got an answer and now you pitch it back?”
“I don't know if I should tell you,” said Ariel teasing back, inviting me to keep on asking. But I decided to take it seriously and continue to build confidence between us.
“I respect your reluctance to discuss with a stranger the details of your Moscow visit,” I said. “But the same rule applies for me. I told you earlier that I'm here to help you. I've already shown you that in fact we could be working on the same project. How do you think I knew about your kidnapping? How is it I have the letter your father wrote you? Do you think I broke into the Mielke Bank in the wee hours of the night with a mask on my face and broke the lock of your safe-deposit box just to retrieve the letter? Why the suspicion?”
“I'm sorry,” said Ariel, a little shyly. “So many things have happened during the past two weeks that have turned me from a naive scholar into a suspicious person.”
“Do you feel you can trust me?”
“I don't know. Many of the things I believed in went up in smoke, including the speed with which I used to trust others.”
“I can understand that,” I said.
Ariel looked at my face and added, “I guess when I see the letter I'll feel more able to trust you.”
Liking the change of wind, I called, “Waiter!” No response. More calls for help, but to no avail.
“Watch this,” I said. “I'll show you the fastest way to attract the attention of a waiter deliberately ignoring you.” I took my copper plate, knife, and fork and dropped them on the floor. The sound of clanking metal had the desired effect: the waiter came right over. I paid the bill and we went up to my room. I opened my briefcase and gave Ariel her father's letter.
“Here it is,” I said. “I'm sorry I had to read a personal letter, but I thought it might help me find you.”
Ariel took the letter and put it into her purse.
“Thanks,” she said softly, “for helping my mother. I do appreciate it. Call me tomorrow.” She came over, took my face in her hands, and kissed me lightly on the cheek. My heart pounded as she left the room.
I went to sleep thinking of Ariel, but I had bad dreams. I needed to make sure which side she was on. Was she continuing with her father's work or was she working with us? Could she be doing both?
Next morning I called her room. “Feel like sightseeing?”
“I have an important meeting in a little while,” said Ariel. “I'll call you when I get back.”
“Leave a message if I'm not in.”
Blue eyes or not, she wasn't going to get out of my green-eyed sight. I wasn't going to wait for her call. I definitely wouldn't allow that in Moscow, where her father's plans concerning the Iranians’ shopping list were so vague and needed to be clarified. I wasn't sure what motivated me most: my original assignment to retrieve the money DeLouise had stolen, to gather intelligence for the forthcoming joint American-Israeli operation in Munich, or, as much as I hated to admit it, my growing personal interest in Ariel.
Duty comes first, I concluded quickly but sadly.
Following a quick cup of tea, I went outside the hotel and found a garden bench where I could sit and watch the hotel's main entrance. The late October sun was shining, but there was a real chill in the Moscow air. I was wearing only a light coat, and as the minutes passed I became colder and colder
. Finally, I saw Ariel in a pants suit, long coat, and sunglasses leaving the hotel. She hailed a cab. I dashed to the next one and said in English, like they did in the old Hollywood movies, “Follow that cab!”
The driver sized me up in the rearview mirror.
“Girlfriend?” he replied in English.
“Yes,” I said, “and don't lose her.”
After cruising through a few busy streets, still in the center of the city, the cab stopped and Ariel got out. I paid my cabbie with an extra-large tip and said, “Stick with me. There's more of the same for the whole day.”
“Sure, boss,” said the cabbie. “I like these games.”
I watched Ariel approach a small wooden ticket booth. With a ticket and a brochure in her hand, I saw her join a group of tourists. I kept my distance. The guide, a woman in her early fifties, began her spiel in a loud tour-guide voice, then led the group off to visit Moscow's highlight attractions. I stayed discreetly to the side.
“Good morning. This tour of the center takes you to Moscow's three main central squares — Sverdlov, Revolution Marx Prospect, and Red Square — and concludes at the KGB headquarters at Dzerzhinsky Square.
“This area is called Sverdlov Square because of the three theaters dominating the northern side. Hard to imagine that decades ago it was just a stinking bog of the Neglinka River, also used as a garbage dump by rich people living in the city center.”
The group continued walking to the right from the western exit of Ploshchad Revolutsii metro station around the square, looking up at the high walls.
“These walls were built by Prince Vassily III in the sixteenth century to protect Kitai Gorod, the main trading area of the city.”
Ariel seemed disinterested in the tour guide's explanations. She kept looking around. That made my job more difficult, but I had to be there because I felt that something was about to happen. Ariel wasn't being a tourist. The tour guide continued her monotone narrative.
“In the center of a minisquare on the right you will pass an interesting pile of stone blocks. This was the site of the statue of Yakov Sverdlov, a comrade of Lenin and the so-called first head of Communist Russia.”
I moved closer to the group.
“On the side of the square facing you is Metropol Hotel, one of Moscow's finest examples of art nouveau architecture, which at the time of its building filled conservative citizens with horror. It was built by William Walcott, an English architect also known for his imaginary sketches of ancient classical buildings.” The guide pointed her finger up and said, “Look up to see the two large mosaics created by Mikhail Vrubel; they were inspired by Edmond Rostand's play La Princesse Lointaine. Meanwhile, look at the second floor; above it you can see an inscription of a proverb by Friedrich Nietzsche: ‘It's the same old story, when you build a house; you notice that you've learned something.’” Cameras clicked, but I was too focused on Ariel.
“I'm not going to tell you about Metropol restaurants, you'll have to find this information on your own,” the guide continued.
I didn't pay much attention to the tour details. I was troubled by Ariel's presence. Why had she taken the tour when she'd told me that she had a meeting? Was it her subtle way of avoiding me, or was there a place on the tour where she would meet her contact? What was she doing in Moscow? Who is she working for, if anybody? If her father was seeming to be working for the Iranians, is she into that as well? Was I asking myself all these questions to defray the possibility that she simply was not interested in my company? The group continued on and I lingered three hundred feet behind, my cabbie in the distance.
When the tour guide headed everyone toward the Maly Theatre, across Okhotny Ryad near the Metropol Hotel, a new face joined the group from the rear — an unshaven man in his thirties dressed in a long black leather coat. He didn't look like a tourist to me and apparently not to Ariel either. He looked as if he came from one of the “Stans,” the Asian Soviet republics: Azerbaijan, Kazakhstan, or Uzbekistan. I saw Ariel and the newcomer make eye contact.
The tour guide continued. “This theater was designed in 1824 by Osip Bove, who was in charge of Moscow's rebuilding after the fire of 1812. Currently Maly's repertoire concentrates on historical plays in traditional dramatic style and on Russian classics.”
Ariel, the newcomer, and I were no longer even mildly interested in the tour. The pair exchanged a few words and the man then left the group. Ariel turned her back to him and drifted from the group as well. My training again came to my aid or she would have spotted me. I immediately turned around to the opposite direction, stopped a passerby to ask a stupid question (only to be seen talking to someone), and turned slowly sideways so as not to lose my eye contact with Ariel. She tried to hail a cab, initially without success, then one pulled over for her. I quickly walked to my waiting driver and we got underway. I had to restrain him from getting too close to the other cab. He liked the sport too much.
It was clear I had to find out quickly if Ariel was with us or with the opposition, a process called IFF: “identifying friend or foe.” I didn't like what I'd just seen. Why was Ariel taking this risk? Was she working for the CIA or for the Mossad? Was either one helping her hide her father's money in return for services rendered?
I decided to break off the chase and went back to my hotel. I needed to talk to Benny, but how? I couldn't use the hotel phone, with the KGB a likely listener. I couldn't go to the Israeli Embassy or to the American Embassy for much the same reason. It was possible that I had an invisible tail. I had had at least one in Munich, so I could expect to have another here. I was confident that the Iranians had not followed me to the Munich airport. They'd had no idea where my new hotel in Munich was and therefore couldn't have trailed me. So Moscow was a relatively Iranian-free atmosphere. Although it was possible that I was under the watch of the KGB, I believed that they did that to most foreign tourists as a measure of counterintelligence rather than as an attempt to recruit and develop new sources of information. I wasn't concerned about being either observed or subjected to recruitment attempts. But I didn't want to create an unnecessary risk when none was needed. I couldn't be sure that in addition to the Iranians and the KGB there wasn't someone else interested in what I was up to. I hadn't even begun to investigate the Colombians and their motives, and clearly they were players. If Ariel was being watched, then I could be spotted watching her and become a target as well.
I weighed my options. One was a short conversation with Benny that could answer my questions or clarify my doubts, or expose me to the Soviets as someone who was more than just a lawyer. Another was to go to the American Embassy; it was plausible for me as a tourist to do that and certainly less risky than venturing into the Israeli Embassy. I chose the former and went to the American Embassy on 19–23 Tchaikovsky Street. Surprisingly, it was easier to enter the Moscow compound than the one in Munich; perhaps American security officers thought that the Soviet perimeter security was better. I considered contacting Eric's counterpart in Moscow. But if he was anything like Eric, I didn't want to spoil this sunny day with its brisk wind and beautiful Moscow sky. So instead I showed the Marine on duty my government ID and asked to use the phone. “Secure?” he asked.
“Yes, if possible.”
“You'll need to clear it first with the RSO, the regional security officer.”
He directed me to the first floor. Minutes later I was talking to my children. Tommy asked me to come home. Karen was more understanding of my work requirements, which made me feel even guiltier. Then I called Eric. No, he had no idea whether Ariel worked for the Mossad; Benny hadn't said anything. And she didn't work for Eric either. Why was I wasting my time on her? It took a strong will not to slam the phone down. Waste time over the beautiful, rosy Ariel? To me it was beginning to sound like a better idea than chasing the secrets of the Iranians.
I called Benny in Tel Aviv.
“Having fun in Moscow?” Benny asked jovially.
“I haven't had time yet. Isn't there
something else you forgot to tell me?”
“Such as what?”
“About Ariel, for example.”
“What about her?”
“Is she on your payroll?”
“No. Whatever gave you that idea? Is she there?”
“Yes.”
“Dan, I have no idea what she's doing there. I told you right from the beginning that even my interest in her father was limited and only preventive. With him gone, I have no interest in the daughter.”
“Don't rush. Wait until you see her.”
“Aha, does she have an admirer now? Forgot the rules?”
“No. I keep the rules, but I can still enjoy what I see, can't I?”
“Did she tell you what she was there for?”
“No. I wanted to make sure she was on our side first.”
“I can double-check, but I'm certain that she is not under contract to us.”
“OK. I won't ask you about developments in the other matter. I'm sure I'll hear more from Eric.”
“Thanks for not asking.”
I waved to the Marine in the lobby by way of thanks and went out to the street. Although the country had been disturbed by Gorbachev's consent to the reunification of the two Germanys just a few weeks previously, Moscow was surprisingly quiet.
I went back to my hotel and found a note written in Hebrew from Ariel: “I looked for you. Still want to spend some Moscow time? Call me. Ariel.”
What a few words can do to improve your mood! I lifted the receiver and called her room.
“Hi, Dan,” she said. Her voice was light, cheerful, and open.
“Did you have a good meeting?”
“Yes. Even though I was locked in a room full of smokers. I hated that, but the meeting was good.”
“Whom did you meet, if I may ask?”
“Three Soviet scientists, something to do with my work.”
“Good.” I said. So big blue eyes could lie, too.
“What would you like to do?” I asked.
“I don't know,” she said. “Have you been to Red Square yet?”
“No. But sounds like a good idea.”
Triple Identity Page 24