Triple Identity

by Haggai Carmon

  “No,” she smiled, “there will be no battle.”

  “What do you mean? The judgment is valid and can be enforced against your father's assets, even if they are outside the United States and have already been transferred to you.”

  “Oh, I know that,” said Ariel, “but still, there'll be no battle over the money.”

  From my lowest point, which was my exact location at that moment, I didn't see what she meant.

  “How much is the judgment for? Do you know?” she asked.

  “Yes, I have a copy somewhere.”

  “Let me help you. The amount is $91,211,435.09, according to the clerk of the United States Court for the Central District of California.”

  “You mean you called there to find out?”

  “Yes,” she said, “I needed to know.”

  “Why?”

  “How else could I write this check?” she asked, and pulled out a check and gave it to me.

  It was a Credit Suisse bank check made out to “United States Treasury” in the amount of $91,211,435.09.

  I couldn't help it, my hand shook a bit as I held the check.

  “Take it to your boss. This is at least some reward for everything you did for me. I know I could have battled the government for years in courts to reduce this amount, but I decided against it. Judgment is satisfied in full.”

  “Why” I asked, “are you giving up all these millions if you think you could keep some of it?”

  “Because there's plenty more where it came from. After making this payment to the government, I'm still left with more than sixty-five million dollars in cash and securities and a lot of real estate throughout Europe and Japan. That's a lot of money for a single woman who's lived until now on an annual salary of eighteen thousand dollars and occasional gifts from her dad. Life is too short to spend it on litigation over more money. I have enough. And that money, or the majority of it, belongs to the U.S. government. I don't believe my father stole it, but the bottom line is that his bank collapsed and the government had to make good on its promise to the depositors to guarantee their deposits. So under either theory, the government has some right to receive back what it paid to the depositors.”

  I folded the check and put it in my pocket. I wasn't in the mood to tell her that her legal theory was suspect, if her father was indeed innocent.

  “I'll deliver the check to the U.S. Treasury through the consulate.” I realized that although I'd be a hero in Washington, I would never see Ariel again. Wealth and anger in a woman are a lethal combination in any relationship.

  I managed politeness, as unhappy as I was. “Thank you, Ariel. It's very considerate of you to let me deliver the check and get the credit.”

  “You deserve it, Dan. After all, you saved my life.”

  This whole hallway conversation was ridiculously formal and artificial. I'd gone through it, but I hated every moment of it.

  I put out my hand, and Ariel shook it in return. I left without another word. My eyes were damp. I tried to pretend that it was because of the cold Munich wind, or dust. But it wasn't cold inside the room, and there was no dust. I'd lied to myself. Again.

  I went to the American Consulate, walked directly into Ron's office, and handed him the check. “Please send this in the diplomatic pouch to Washington, for transmission to the Treasury. Ariel Peled gave me the money. The case is closed. The estate of Raymond DeLouise has satisfied the judgment in full.”

  “She did what?”

  I told him about the conversation I'd just had.

  “You must have done something to that woman,” Ron said, shaking his head in disbelief.

  I didn't comment, trying not to think what she'd done to me.

  Ron made a copy of the check, wrote on the copy “Received from Dan Gordon for delivery to the U.S. Treasury,” dated and signed it, and gave it to me.

  “Congratulations,” he said. I didn't feel like celebrating.

  I called Stone and reported the collection I had just made. He was elated, and after congratulating me he said, “I don't hear any joy there, Dan.”

  “No. There's no joy. I'm a little unhappy at how this matter came to an end.”

  “Dan,” said David, “do you hear what you're saying? I don't recall many cases when we've had such complete success. You're the one who's going to get the credit for it, but you sound as if you lost the whole case.”

  “I know. Stupid, isn't it?”

  “It's the woman,” said David, without putting a question mark at the end of his sentence. He knew.

  “Yes,” I admitted.

  “Come home,” said David, “and spend more time with your kids.”

  “I guess that's what I'll do,” I said. “I'm sending the check through the legat.” That was it. Short, and not so sweet for me.

  I went out to the street and decided to walk to my hotel. I had earned the right to be a worry-free tourist. Both my assignments were over, and yet I still felt a weight on my shoulders.

  As I walked I began to notice something odd out of the corner of my eye. Each time I passed a store window I could see a black BMW just slightly behind me, driving slowly. The hair stood up on the back of my neck. Here we go again. Someone was clearly following me. I continued walking as my mind clicked through the possibilities. Who would be following me now? DeLouise was dead. The Colombians, the Iranians, and Guttmacher were all in prison in one place or another. Was a reserve force sent out? Was it the check? I'd already given it to Ron.

  I had two choices — to dry clean it by entering a narrow street against traffic where the BMW couldn't enter or to turn back and confront the driver.

  I suddenly felt as if I'd had enough of all this. I was not in the mood for games. I stopped, turned around, and walked directly to the car. The windows were tinted so I couldn't see who was inside. As I got closer, the car stopped and the passenger door opened. I stepped up carefully, ready for anything — gun, fist, or foot.

  “Please get in,” I heard Ariel's voice from behind the wheel.

  My jaw dropped as well as my defenses. She was the last person on earth I'd expected to follow me, and yet the first I could have hoped to see on my lonely walk. But I wasn't ready for more berating, not even from Ariel.

  I hesitated. “Come on. I promise I won't bite,” Ariel said.

  Why was I holding back? Who was I kidding? I got in and Ariel drove off. “I just rented this car yesterday and I still haven't figured out all the buttons.”

  I said nothing.

  Ariel drove onto the autobahn. I was still quiet. She didn't speak either. I remembered how nice it had been when we were together without the need to talk. Though there were some questions on my mind, I began to relax, and smiled at how easily that wonderful feeling came back between us.

  Ten minutes later Ariel took the first exit on the outskirts of Munich and, after driving for several minutes through a beautiful neighborhood, entered the courtyard of a villa. I had no idea where we were.

  She parked the car and got out. I didn't follow, maybe in something of a daze. Ariel walked around to my door and opened it. “Come,” she said softly.

  I followed her as she entered the house. The place was gorgeous. The foyer was huge with a high ceiling, crystal chandelier, and soft Persian carpets. Some very good oil paintings hung on the walls; gleaming mahogany and glass cabinets displayed pre-Columbian artifacts and antique English silver hollowware.

  “What is this place? Why did you bring me here?”

  Ariel came closer to me. I smelled her light perfume, the one I had missed so much.

  “Don't make me beg,” she said.

  I was surprised, “Beg for what?”

  “For you to notice me,” she said.

  “Notice you?” I asked in utter disbelief. “Ariel, I can't get you out of my mind. You haven't left me since the day we met.”

  Ariel held my arm. “Come, let's go into the living room.” I followed her.

  A fire blazed in the fireplace; Rubinstei
n's recording of Rachmaninoff's Piano Concerto No. 2 played softly in the background.

  “What is this place?”

  “It's mine,” said Ariel. “It's one of the assets my father left me. Until recently, the ambassador of a South American country used it as his residence. I wanted you to be the first to see it, before I helped the staff find other jobs and put it up for sale.”

  Was she flashing her riches at me? That didn't fit the Ariel I thought I knew.

  “Why me?”

  “Because.”

  “Because what?”

  Ariel didn't answer. She went to a table and poured red wine from a carafe into two crystal goblets. She handed me one and raised hers. “This is to the future, for the good things that are about to happen.”

  Ariel was clearly toying with me again. I felt sucked into her game, not knowing what would come next.

  “I'll drink to that,” I said and sipped.

  She came to me, took the glass from my hand, put it on the table, and kissed me. First lightly as if she were testing the waters, then passionately.

  We moved to the sofa. “Hold me,” she whispered in my ear, “just hold me. I need to get used to you again. I saw you every night in my dreams, and now you're here.”

  Ariel curled up in my arms. I looked at the fireplace, touched her soft hair, her face, her body, while the music conjured vistas of natural landscapes and a vast expanse of surging waves. Ariel closed her eyes. I bent to kiss her again, but she was already asleep.

  “Nice beginning,” I said to myself.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  This novel was written because one night jet lag won. In a small hotel in a remote country, after rolling from side to side for two hours, I finally gave up trying for slumber, went to the small desk, and turned on my laptop. The words that poured out had been lodged in my mind for some time. Obviously, in my years working for the U.S. Department of Justice I could not share the spine-tingling aspects of my work with anyone but my supervisors, and some adventures not even with them. Sadly, these events, which are sometimes more intriguing and thrilling than the best fiction I have ever read, are buried in reports submitted throughout the years. The story of Dan Gordon and his battle against the invisibles is my idea of the next-best thing. Many of my friends and family members read the first drafts and encouraged me to continue, particularly Dr. Jacob Dagan and Prof. Yehuda Shoenfeld. I would like also to thank Bob and Gloria Blumenthal; Alexandra Margalit, for helping me with the minute details of Munich that had escaped me; and Ed Watts. Sarah McKee proved to be not only an astute lawyer but an excellent reviewer who helped me describe the red-taped insides of the Justice Department, from which, as an outside consultant, I'd largely been spared. Many thanks to David Epstein, once my supervisor and mentor, now a very dear friend, who knew with immense wisdom and experience when to let me rush forward and when to shorten my leash. He called me a pit bull — I never knew if he meant it as a compliment, because a pit bull finally lets go. A friend from the Mossad who wishes to remain anonymous helped me put things into perspective. Marc Jaffe helped me turn a manuscript into a novel, and Nicola Smith was my patient but relentless editor. Alan Lelchuk and Chip Fleischer are old and new friends who made this book a reality.

  My in-laws have always been concerned with my safety, my sister shares that fear, and my wife, daughters, and sons are my best and worst critics. My daughters spent many hours reading drafts and making corrections, and I know how difficult it was for them to be introduced to the far and dark side of my work. My wife also endured the nonfictional tension of my long absences. Many of the hours I spent writing this book were taken away from my family, and my gratitude for their sacrifice is eternal.

  FOREWORD

  Terrorism has no borders, no authority, no laws, no territory, and no moral considerations. Nothing stands in its perpetrators’ ways. Terrorists regard disastrous and devastating consequences as achievements, not failures. They turn their own military weaknesses into strategic might. What good are tanks, missiles, submarines, or nuclear weapons when a determined handful gets access to substances that can kill millions? Many leaders and scientists believe that it is only a matter of time before bioterrorism strikes, causing thousands of casualties.

  Bioterrorism uses pathogens, bacterial and viral agents, or biologically derived toxins against people, livestock, or crops. Through the spread of these agents, terrorists seek to inflict massive fatalities. Unlike nuclear weapons, bioterror weapons are relatively easy to make, and unlike chemical weapons, only small amounts of biomaterials are sufficient to wreak havoc.

  Is the world ready? I have had the privilege of preparing Israel for the task: As Israel's deputy minister of defense, I took the initiative to make bioterrorism issues a priority in Israel's strategic defense. My communications with other governments led to the realization that many were ill prepared for the prospect of bioterrorism. It is essential for the governments of the free world to develop, test, and implement public policies and operating procedures regarding bioterrorism. The scientific community also needs to be vigilant on this key matter by actively engaging in research to develop countermeasures.

  Haggai Carmon has crafted a fictional but all too real tale. It takes place in the clandestine world of bioterrorism, where sinister plots are intertwined with money-laundering schemes. In the book, cooperation between the Mossad and the CIA is all that stands in the way of bioterrorism. By combining keen knowledge of the real-world situation, gained through his personal experience, with a vivid imagination, Haggai Carmon manages to draw the reader's attention to the real risks our modern society faces. This book provides a public service by raising awareness of terror financing and bioterror. What is remarkable is that it does so while telling a damn good story I couldn't stop reading.

  — EFRAIM SNEH, M.D.

  Dr. Sneh is a member of the Knesset, Israel's parliament. During his military service as a medical doctor, he commanded the medical team of Israel's forces that rescued the hostages from their terrorist captors in Entebbe, Uganda. In 1981-82, as brigadier general, he was the commander of the Israeli armed forces in southern Lebanon; in 1985-87 he served as the head of the West Bank's civil administration. Dr. Sneh was elected to the Knesset and served as member of the Knesset's Defense and Foreign Relations Committee, as deputy minister of defense under Yitzhak Rabin, as minister of transportation, and as minister of health. He is currently serving in several Knesset committees, and chairs the subcommittee for Israel's defense strategy.

  The prisoner in the red jumpsuit was visibly nervous. He couldn't hide the subtle tremor in his left hand, which gripped a cigarette. He was very thin. Stammheim, the maximum-security prison in Stuttgart, Germany, where Andreas Baader and Ulrike Meinhof had been found dead in their cells in the 1970s, didn't exactly serve gourmet food. Even so, Igor Razov was too thin, as if consumed from the inside. His mustache had nicotine stains, as did his uneven teeth.

  “Good morning,” I said, entering the visitor's cell and setting down my briefcase, which contained only a yellow pad. The less you carry into the prison, the faster the security check goes. I decided to be as polite as I could, to distinguish myself from this man's interrogators. “I'm Dan Gordon from the U.S. Department of Justice. I'm here with the consent of your lawyer, Dr. Bermann.” I looked at his lawyer, then at the court-approved interpreter, a heavyset, thirty-something woman who sat quietly in a corner opposite the German prison guard. Dr. Bermann nodded. No wonder he'd approved; I'd paid him five hundred dollars for the honor and promised an additional thousand if his client would give me the information I needed. It was Bermann's only way to get some real money for representing Razov, having helped him avoid extradition from Germany to Belarus, his homeland. There, Razov would have had to face the hangman, following a conviction in absentia for murder. I'd paid, and now the floor was mine.

  “I'm sure your lawyer has already told you, but to avoid any misunderstanding I must reiterate that I am not in a position to mak
e any promises concerning your extradition to Belarus or the death penalty you're facing there if you are indeed extradited. The United States is not a party to the legal proceeding against you; your case is entirely in the hands of the German and Belarus courts and governments.”

  I spoke in English. Bermann had assured me earlier that Igor had learned rudimentary English in Minsk, and had then improved it while living in New York these past few years. Bermann and Igor communicated in English, because Igor didn't speak German and Bermann didn't speak Russian or Belarusian. Bermann had brought in the interpreter, Oksana, as insurance, in case of a failure of communication.

  As I spoke, I realized that this statement sounded very formal, full of legal jargon, and was too complex and long. But I had to say it. I had to make sure that both he and — more particularly — his lawyer understood the rules of our meeting. The last thing I needed to hear later was that his lawyer had argued for special consideration because Razov had talked to me. The Belarus government would file a complaint, and I'd find myself having to explain. Again.

  “Do you understand that?”

  Igor was motionless. He didn't even look at me. I knew he understood by the gaunt, haunted look he cast at the opposite wall. I was betting that his desperate situation would help me crack my case — one of the several international fraud and money-laundering cases I was investigating for the Department of Justice. Igor had to have answers for me because I could no longer ask his two comrades. I'd arrived in Minsk, Igor's hometown in the republic of Belarus, too late to talk to them. They had already been executed. But Igor still had a pulse. At least there was that.

  Caveats aside, I had to give Igor a glimmer of hope, something to cling to. Otherwise this interview would be like trying to get a parrot in a pet shop to speak on command. “Helping me would make your life easier, more comfortable,” I went on. “It would mean money to buy things at the prison's commissary. I could also ask the warden to let you watch television longer than the other inmates. It could mean a lot of other things that would ease your stay here, but you must help me first.”