“Ariel …”
She looked at me with the deep blue eyes I'd grown so fond of in the past few days. She said nothing. “Ariel, in case of trouble, I want you to …”
The PA system came on strong. “Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. I have to apologize for the delay. There has been a severe weather warning, and air traffic control was not sure we would be allowed to take off. Now it seems that the storm is about twenty minutes away to the east, and we could avoid it if we leave immediately. So please fasten your seatbelts again. Thank you.”
The plane accelerated down the runway, as did my heart in relief. In two minutes we were airborne.
“What did you want to say?” asked Ariel.
“Nothing, just nothing.” I took her hand. She smiled.
We didn't talk much and my lovely companion was asleep as we approached Heathrow. I gently touched her shoulder. Ariel opened her eyes. “Time to wake up,” I said. “We're almost in London.”
“So soon?” she asked, and stretched like a cat after an afternoon nap.
“Everything passes quickly when you're asleep,” I said. “We need to stay near the airport; I don't think we should try to get to Munich at this late hour.”
“Munich?” asked Ariel. “I thought we were going back to Israel.”
“No, I need you in Germany. You should see Guttmacher, and,” I paused, “you promised me your father's file.”
“You're right. I'm still sleepy,” she said, and leaned her head against my shoulder.
We took a local airport bus to the Hilton Hotel at the airport. I took adjoining rooms for us without asking Ariel what she'd prefer. And like a tourist pal, she pecked my cheek goodnight.
The following morning featured typically English weather, rainy and foggy, but our flight to Munich was not delayed. I was sitting at a table in the dining room when Ariel walked in wearing blue jeans and a T-shirt. Many eyes were on her, including mine.
“Good morning, Dan,” she smiled. “Did you sleep well?”
“Like a log,” I said. “How about you?”
“I had nightmares,” she said as she sat down at the table.
“So why didn't you knock on my door?” I asked jokingly, masking my disappointment.
“Dan, people are asleep when they have nightmares,” she said in a tone that very much reminded me that she was a teacher.
“Our flight leaves at noon,” I said, “so let's take our time.” We had an English breakfast and perused the top story in the morning paper: yet another English sex scandal involving a cabinet minister.
We finished our breakfast and went through the hotel's lobby. I stopped at a television set broadcasting BBC News. With a mix of astonishment and relief, I heard the breaking news about the weather in Moscow. A sudden blizzard had swept the city, dumping two feet of snow. The next item was of similar interest; “With continued political unrest in the Soviet Union, there are growing fears of gang wars in the Soviet capital after a high-speed shoot-out on a major artery of Moscow between two gangs from the Asian Soviet republics left three dead. The Soviet Internal Security Minister said that the police were investigating. ‘We vow to keep these hooligans off our streets.’”
Approximately two hours after takeoff we were back in Munich. The skies there were gray also but the air, although cool, was clean and crisp. The foliage was gone, leaving the trees bare and ready for winter.
I suggested we go to the Hotel Intercontinental. I didn't think returning to the Sheraton or the Omni was a good idea. I would explain the sudden cost hike as a security requirement. I still didn't know how to budget Ariel's airline and hotel costs. Sundry expenses? I'd worry about that later.
I checked us in, again with adjoining rooms. I was a bit more comfortable now that we were out of Moscow. We agreed to meet in the lobby in twenty minutes. I sensed that I was nearing the end of my search and wanted to get on with it. I needed that DeLouise file. ASAP.
“It's at Pension Bart,” she said as we met and in answer to my query. “I left it there for safekeeping with Mr. Bart.”
Ariel didn't realize it, but she was holding the key to some big questions: who killed DeLouise and where his money was. I badly wanted to see the file and substitute hard facts for my suspicions and gut feelings. Obviously, the file was expected to contain vital information that both Eric and Benny could use. Would the file live up to any of my expectations?
We took a cab to the pension. “Let me go in first,” I said. “Stay in the cab.”
“Why?”
“Just routine security. I want to be sure we have no surprises.” I went inside. The place was empty, but Mr. Bart was behind the counter. I returned to the cab, and she followed me to reception.
“Hello Mr. Bart,” said Ariel. “Remember me? I was a guest here about two weeks ago.”
Bart looked at her and said, “I'm sorry, I don't recognize you. Did you forget something?”
“Not exactly,” said Ariel, “I left an envelope here for safekeeping; it came earlier from my father, Raymond DeLouise.”
Bart was apologetic, “You'll have to excuse me, but I don't remember ever seeing you or receiving any envelope for you. Is your father a guest here?”
I felt the chill of reality creeping all over me. Had Ariel been lying to me?
Ariel looked confused and looked at me in embarrassment. “I don't understand,” she said to me quietly in Hebrew.
“Mr. Bart, will you please check your records and see that I was a guest here two weeks ago. Let's start with that,” Ariel said firmly. Mr. Bart shifted his eyes from Ariel to me and back. There was silence. I got the message. I was in the way. “Let me check something outside,” I said, and walked out. I quietly returned to the space near the entry door and looked inside through a window. I saw Bart giving Ariel a thick envelope.
So Ariel was leading me on, after all, I thought in deep disappointment. But why? Being double-crossed by Ariel was not something I'd wanted to entertain, although the possibility of it lay dormant in my mind. Frustrated, I walked back inside.
Ariel walked toward me, visibly relieved, and handed me the envelope. “Let's go,” she said, sending my mood up like a rocket.
“What happened?” I asked.
“Bart knew me and knew I'd been kidnapped. He wanted to make sure you weren't part of the gang that kidnapped me and that you were coercing me to give you the envelope.”
“Smart move,” I said. “But Bart should have remembered me as a person helping your mother while she was here. I don't understand it.”
“He only said that he didn't know who to trust anymore, and until I assured him that all was well, he'd pretend to be a senile old man.”
“Let's go in again,” I said.
“Don't be mad at him; he was trying to help me,” she said.
“No. I want to thank him.”
“This gentleman was asking about you some time ago,” said Bart with a small smile, pointing at me. “I see that he found you. Or was it you that found him?”
Ariel smiled. “Actually, it was a little bit of both.”
We sat in the lobby as I sifted through the papers. My intuition had been correct; I'd stumbled on a treasure trove — so much information I didn't know where to start. This was DeLouise's entire file on his dealings with Guttmacher and the Iranians. I hoped it contained the lists the Iranians had given DeLouise. If that hope materialized, it would be my first-class ticket into the Iranian transactions, just as Cyrus Armajani had demanded.
“This is too much to digest here,” I said finally, masking my deep satisfaction. “Let's go back to the hotel. I need some study time.”
We went back to the Intercontinental and up to my room. I sat at the desk with my legal pad and computer ready. Ariel sat quietly nearby, looking at me.
The first important document was an agreement between Triple Technologies and Bankhaus Bäcker & Haas. Under the agreement, Triple Technologies assigned a Credit Suisse certificate of deposit in the
amount of $2,050,000.00 to Guttmacher's bank. The nice thing about it was a confirmation at the bottom of the document by Credit Suisse that they consented to the assignment. They also confirmed that DeLouise was a director who had sole power to sign for Triple Technologies. That could serve as some proof of the connection between DeLouise and Triple Technologies, in case we decided to try to pierce the corporate veil and show that the company was in fact DeLouise's alter ego. If I could show that DeLouise had commingled his assets with those of Triple Technologies and that there was really no separation between DeLouise and his company, it might convince a Swiss judge to attach the company's assets to satisfy the huge money judgment against DeLouise.
The next document was an agreement between the Italian Broncotrade and Tehran Nuclear Research Center (TNRC), Tehran, Iran. Under the agreement Broncotrade committed to act as the TNRC's liaison for the purchase of machinery, materials, and consulting services from European companies. Broncotrade received a monthly payment of $150,000 for its efforts and was promised a bonus of five million dollars when its mission was successfully completed. The agreement detailed the various services Broncotrade had agreed to provide to the Iranians. There was reference to a list of materials attached as exhibit to the agreement. I searched, but the attachment was missing from the file.
I was surprised that DeLouise had gotten his hand on this contract. He wasn't supposed to be in the loop concerning the relationship between Broncotrade and the Iranians. I guessed that DeLouise had “borrowed” a copy from Guttmacher's file, as part of his effort to build a dossier on the Iranians.
The file also contained confirmations of money transfers, through Guttmacher's bank, between Broncotrade and three accounts in other European banks. These were identified only by numbers, with no names of holders. These could be numbered accounts of individuals wanting to hide their identities.
Ariel approached and handed me a cup of hot tea and a small chocolate cookie. I found her presence very distracting. I didn't want her to see me looking through the material in the file and taking notes. After all, I was after her father's money. Not that I thought that Ariel would attempt to take the stolen money and run; she didn't seem impatient to get the money at all. If she was, she'd have been picking up from Guttmacher the envelope her father had mentioned in his first letter. Still, I wasn't professionally comfortable with Ariel leaning over my shoulder. Personally, it was another story.
Clearly it was time to call Stone and Henderson to tell them what I had. Hot stuff and plenty of it. But I couldn't do that with Ariel listening. I closed the file and turned to her. She had moved to the loveseat in the corner and was flipping through a magazine. I loved the silences between us. She didn't seem to need to fill them with useless talk. I liked that quality in a woman; she was comfortable with herself and me.
“I'm hungry,” said Ariel. “How about dinner?”
“I'd love to, but not just yet. I need to make some phone calls first.”
“OK,” said Ariel, “I'll go to my room to freshen up and meet you back here in an hour.”
“Good,” I said, “but remember — no phone calls, not one. We've got to be careful until we find out who's after you.”
“I'll be a good girl,” promised Ariel. I didn't know if she was being facetious, sardonic, or yielding.
I went to the lobby and locked the file in the hotel safe. For the umpteenth time I used a pay phone in the street to call Stone in Washington.
“Dan, where are you? Still in Moscow?” came David's friendly voice.
“No, David. I'm back in Munich. I made real progress. Things look promising, in both areas — Eric's and ours. But first I need to study some documents I've just received. I simply called to report that I'm back in Munich at the Intercontinental. I'll call you soon with another report.”
And before David could comment, I added, “I have Ariel with me.”
“Good,” said David, “is she cooperating?”
“So far, so good,” I said, “but she still doesn't know who I really am, and that bothers me.”
“It never bothered you before,” said David.
“It's different this time. I hope to be able to explain — to you, to her, and to myself.”
Next I called Eric. He wasn't available. I left a message. I'd done my part. I retrieved the file from the safe, went back to my room, and continued going through its contents. Then I saw it — a handwritten note: “Cyrus Armajani, Schwanthalerstrasse 122, Munich. Tel (089) 555-6765.” That must be Armajani's private residence and phone number. There were many more documents that I was curious to read, but Ariel called and asked me to meet her downstairs for dinner. I took the file with me and back it went into the hotel safe.
We went casually into the hotel restaurant, almost as though we were going out on a date for the sixth or seventh time. We didn't talk about work, or about anything meaningful. Ariel spoke with her body. She liked to touch me with her hands. She touched my arm occasionally, my cheek, or my hand. This was her way of saying things and I needed to learn her language. I didn't want to miss a sentence, or even a single word.
After dinner we took a short walk. The streets were fairly empty and it was cold. This was no way to relax, with me having to constantly be on the alert, so back we went to the hotel.
“You must be tired,” I said. “We've had a long day.”
“Not really,” she countered, with, I thought, an invitation in her voice. But I couldn't ask her to my room again. Self-control was the order of the day, but it wasn't easy. I had to separate my work from all else.
“I'll see you in the morning,” I said.
“And I need to arrange a meeting with Guttmacher,” she reminded me matter-of-factly.
“Not just yet. Please. This is important and I've got to check some things out before you call him. Trust me.”
I couldn't tell her that I had to speak to Henderson first, clear her meeting with Guttmacher, and hear how the break-in operation was progressing. I went on.
“I'll see you for breakfast at eight. Is that too early?”
“No. That's fine.”
“Remember,” I repeated, “no phone calls.”
I stepped over to her, held her arms, and said, “We'll have a lot to talk about when it's all over, so forgive me for being a bit cool. I'm simply focused on my work, and it's not easy when you're around.”
It was the most direct statement I'd ever made to her.
She came closer, rose on her toes, kissed me lightly on my lips, turned around, and left without a word. I went to the lobby, took the file from the hotel safe, and asked the receptionist to let me do some photocopying. “The business center is closed now,” she said. “Why don't you try in the morning?”
“I can't wait; these are medical documents that are needed for an emergency surgery. I must send them out with a courier to the United States.”
That must have convinced her, and she unenthusiastically showed me to a back office. An hour later I was done. I returned the original file to the safe. I still had to satisfy my curiosity with respect to Armajani's Munich address, so I took a cab to the building and surveyed it. Upon my return there was a message waiting from Henderson. No need to wait. I called him back from the lobby.
“I need your report on Moscow,” said Eric. He must have had some advance warning from Hart.
“I think we should talk in person,” I said, “as soon as possible.”
“I'll send Tom around to pick you up. Be ready in thirty minutes.”
Eric was in the safe house when we arrived. “Benny came to Munich last night, and he called ten minutes after we spoke. I told him about this meeting. He'll be here shortly.”
“Good timing.” And, I thought, Benny's presence always instills sanity into a conversation. I proceeded to brief Eric on my Moscow trip, omitting the important details. I wanted Benny to be around to hear those.
A few minutes later Benny arrived.
“Greetings, friend. Looks like we coord
inated our return to Munich.”
“Like clockwork.”
We sat down at the table and Eric began. “Benny came with a positive answer from his government. So the Mossad is in.”
“Great,” I said.
“There are certain conditions attached,” said Benny. “This will be a joint operation. We share everything — means and information. As to the operation itself, we condition our participation on silent entry without the use of explosives at the vault.”
“Does that complicate matters?” I queried.
I meant for Eric to answer, but Benny responded. “Not really. I think we solved that problem, largely thanks to you.”
I was flattered. “What did I do to deserve the honor?”
“You remember the woman you caught on film after she left Guttmacher's office?”
“Yes, I remember. So tell me more.”
“I had her followed during her lunch break. While she was having lunch in a restaurant, our guys picked her pocket and took her keys, went outside, made an electronic imprint, and returned the keys to her purse.”
I laughed, “And she didn't catch on?”
“No. My guy is an expert; he could strip you of your underwear while you're wearing your pants.”
“Tell him not to try.” I laughed. “So you have the vault keys now. But will Shimon still need to enter through the roof?”
“No. She had keys to the back door of the bank as well. We checked them already. Our copy works fine. But I don't know if the vault's copy will also work. Obviously we couldn't test it.”
“Talking about matched keys,” I said, “you may want to consider an additional target: Cyrus Armajani, the head of the Iranian's nuclear purchasing mission in Europe.”
“And where do we find him?” asked Eric.
“Right here in Munich.”
“And we call information to find his address?” asked Eric sarcastically. “We've been looking for him for months now.”
“Your search is over. Here's the address. I checked out the building; it's purely residential. It could be his home address in Munich.” I gave Eric the address I copied from DeLouise's file.
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