Triple Identity

by Haggai Carmon

  “We'll see about that later,” I said, calculatingly ogling her generous cleavage. I hoped I was leading her to expect a financially rewarding transaction, albeit one that had to be postponed. For a millennium, as far as I was concerned.

  She got up from the bar stool and walked to a table where four men were playing cards. A minute or two later she returned. “There's a woman in town who came from Minsk, that's in Belarus. I'm sure she could help you.”

  “Does she speak any English?”

  “I don't know.”

  “What's her name?”

  “Oksana Vasilev.”

  That first name sounded familiar. Could it be the same heavyset woman I had just met in prison? It would be good if I could get her to talk to me.

  “And what is yours?”

  “Kiska.”

  I smiled. It meant “pure” in Russian. “Where would I find her?”

  “I don't know where she lives, but try the courthouse, across the platz. The people here said she was looking for a job as an interpreter and that the court keeps a registry of interpreters. Maybe she's listed.”

  “Smart girl,” I said, and she looked at me to see if there would be any reward other than the drinks.

  “I need to go, but I promise I'll be back,” I added, slipping a twenty into her cleavage. I never dreamed of coming back for her. My mother's warning rang in my ears: Don't pick that up; you don't know where it's been!

  I walked to the courthouse a block and a half away and found Oksana's address. Back outside, I hailed a cab and asked the driver to take me on a short tour. Although I didn't think anyone would be interested in what I was doing, old Mossad habits died hard — I needed to be sure.

  Stuttgart itself is beautifully located in the Swabian Mountains, at the edge of the Black Forest. Both Porsche and Mercedes have plants there, so the city is home to predominantly working-class neighborhoods.

  “Do you want to see the Daimler-Benz Automobile Museum? Perhaps the Mercedes-Benz factory? It is in Sindelfingen, very close to us,” asked my cabbie. He was dark with a huge mustache, but his German sounded perfect. A green crescent on the dashboard gave away his country of origin: Turkey.

  “No, thanks.” I looked at my guidebook. “Why don't you pass through the Black Forest. I'd like to take a short walk.”

  A few minutes later he drove me to a wide-open picnic area in the forest. It was empty of people. I looked at the sign in German and below it, its English translation, and burst into laughter.

  IT IS STRICTLY FORBIDDEN ON OUR BLACK FOREST CAMPING

  SITE THAT PEOPLE OF DIFFERENT SEX, FOR INSTANCE, MEN

  AND WOMEN, LIVE TOGETHER IN ONE TENT UNLESS THEY

  ARE MARRIED WITH EACH OTHER FOR THIS PURPOSE.

  I wished I had a camera. I took a short walk, getting some fresh air — and making sure I had no company.

  Next, the cabdriver drove me to the glockenspiel at the Rathaus so I could listen to Swabian music. We continued past the Alte Staatsgalerie, then Killesberg Park, the Schlossgarten, the Ludwigsburg Palace, and the botanical gardens. An hour later, according to what I could make out in the passenger's-side mirror, I was convinced that my paranoia was unfounded.

  Finally we arrived at Oksana's address. It was a shabby-looking two-story apartment building in a side street of a working-class neighborhood. Although it was only 4:10 P.M., it was already getting dark; other than passing cars, the street was quiet. It was getting colder and soon snow would cover the broken pavement, giving this place a well-deserved, albeit temporary, face-lift.

  There were three mailboxes attached to the wall next to the building's main entrance. Oksana's name was clearly marked on the bottom box. A closer look gave me heart palpitations. Below her name was written IGOR RAZOV, although an effort to scratch it off the nameplate was visible.

  So she wasn't just an interpreter. Was she a roommate, a partner, a supervisor, or all these penalties combined? I rang her doorbell and waited a few minutes, but there was no answer. I looked inside the letterbox. Empty. It was time for some action. I went to the back of the house. A small concrete structure housed the garbage cans. I looked around. Nobody was there. It was already pitch dark. Snow started to fall, muffling even the street noises. I opened one trash can, and two cats jumped from the other, petrifying me for five long seconds. I put my right hand deep into the can. I couldn't see much, and the smell wasn't helping. The can contained just two dripping plastic bags with household trash. I dropped them and wiped off my hands with a piece of newspaper. I couldn't tell if they were Oksana's trash bags, but given the freezing temperature and the dripping liquids, the bags had only recently been deposited.

  I lifted the lid off the other can. Inside were two plastic trash bags of frozen garbage and one bag of papers for recycling. I untied the latter bag. Russian newspapers were on top. I was getting close, unless there were other Russian speakers in the building. Below these lay a few envelopes, but all with windows — no addressee name. I stuck my hand in again, this time fishing out invoices and handwritten letters in Russian. I emptied the newspapers into the trash can and took the bag with the remaining papers. I hoped that the city of Stuttgart would forgive me for mixing garbage. I hid the trash bag under my coat and hastily walked to the street. I walked up a block, but saw nothing unusual or suspicious. I got on a city bus, getting off a few stops later next to a cab station, where I hailed a cab to my hotel. I must have smelled, because the receptionist gave me a funny look. In my narrow room, I opened the bag and spread its contents on the carpet. I realized I'd hit the jackpot as soon as I started rummaging through.

  I meticulously went through every piece of paper, setting aside both empty envelopes without the sender's address and Oksana's utility bills. If I needed proof that I was digging in Oksana's trash and not that of a neighbor, I need go no farther. I dumped the useless junk back into the trash bag — let it rest in peace. Next, I picked up six handwritten letters in Russian script in their original envelopes. They carried a Belarusian stamp and the sender's address. I couldn't tell who the senders were, given my limited knowledge of Cyrillic script, especially handwritten. But the addressee's name appeared Latin letters, probably to help the German letter carrier identify the addressee: Igor Razov.

  From my prior Department of Justice cases, I knew that Belarus had a long tradition of using Lacinka, the Belarusian Latin script writing. Until the 1920s Lacinka had been more popular than the Cyrillic alphabet. As the Soviets moved in with their Russification policies, however, Lacinka almost entirely disappeared.

  Next were thin, carbon-copy receipts. My heart started racing again. There were banking receipts from Germany, Panama, Venezuela, Saint Kitts and Nevis, and one from a bank in the Seychelles. Most of the papers were second or third carbon copies. Some were slightly torn; others had coffee and other unidentifiable stains. All smelled bad. I opened my room's window. Cool fresh air entered. I breathed in deeply, hoping the smell would go away. Then a sudden wind burst sent the papers on the carpet flying, and I immediately shut the window. Reviewing these documents had to take precedence over recoiling from the stench. I reorganized the papers and continued.

  Next came deposit slips — some of them blank — used-up checkbooks, a three-page handwritten document covered with numbers and Cyrillic script, and two black-and-white family photos. I had no idea whose family.

  I sat next to the desk and tried to read the bank receipts. The Justice Department's lab would need to take a better look at them, but from what I could already make out, the numbers were big: At least sixty million dollars was reflected in these documents. On four deposit slips I could clearly identify Igor Razov's name. The other receipts were smudged. My suspicious mind kicked in again. The fact that Razov left behind such compromising evidence looked amateurish. Maybe he'd never thought the German police would arrest him. But once in prison, wouldn't Oksana at least shred the documents? Why did she wait until now to dump these papers? Or maybe Oksana was smarter than that, an
d was deliberately constructing a false trail for me to follow? I had no answer. Not yet.

  I worked for three hours, until my eyes grew sore. I took another look at all the documents I had found, made a list, and put them in a big manila envelope. I returned the trash I had no use for to the original plastic trash bag.

  I thought of Alex, my Mossad Academy principal instructor. We teach you to see in everyday events things that others don't. Underneath anything you hear or see, there are hidden undercurrents. These undercurrents, the minutiae, the details, can direct a careful observer toward evidence or conclusions that the average, unobservant observer would miss. A trail could begin with something mundane and unpleasant. Remember, every finding is only a lead to the next discovery.

  Obviously, today's findings bore out this wisdom.

  I leaned back. Was today cleanup day for Oksana? The used envelopes carried postal stamps dated two and three months ago. Of all days, she'd decided to throw out Igor's stuff today? Hardly a coincidence. Given the fact that I'd left the prison five or six hours ago, the only possible explanation was that she'd returned to her apartment not long before my arrival and had removed all papers connecting her to Razov. But why? Igor had been in prison for over a month now, and the German police had never bothered to search his home. Had Oksana guessed that my next move would be a request to the German authorities for a warrant to search Igor's apartment? How could she know?

  I'd never mentioned getting a search warrant to anyone but David, and that had been from a pay phone in the street. Had it been bugged? Unlikely. I'd chosen it at random. The only remaining conclusion was that I was bugged, or that whatever enemies I'd just discovered had planted a mole in David's office.

  The latter option was simply not possible. I was up against a criminal organization, not a superpower. The phrase Never say never didn't seem relevant here.

  I decided to go with the more logical explanation. I turned on the TV and closed the curtains. I completely undressed and went through all my pockets, the jacket lapels, my shirt and tie. Nothing but fabric. I inspected my shoes and socks. Nothing. I sent my fingers through my hair. Just hair and some dandruff.

  I unscrewed the telephone handset to see if it had a harmonica bug — those transistorized transmitters that are inserted into the mouthpiece, making it a hot mike. Nothing. I opened my briefcase and emptied its contents on the bed. It all looked benign. I pulled out my radio frequency detector. Today's wireless transmitters are so small that they can be hidden in many common objects, including neckties, eyeglasses, and pens. Thus visual inspection of objects can be insufficient. My detector scanned radio frequency ranges from 30 megahertz to 2.4 gigahertz, which are the ones used by most wireless video and audio devices.

  I spread my clothes and shoes on the carpet and scanned them slowly. An amber light on the detector went on, telling me that a device emitting a radio signal was close. I scanned again, but the amber color remained steady. I turned to my briefcase: nothing. So where was it? I threw my coat over the chair and scanned it. The light changed to red. I had a bug in my coat. I kept scanning, carefully — and then I saw it. A pinhead-sized device had been inserted behind the lapel. Oksana had stuck it into my coat when I'd left the prison cell to talk to Dr. Bermann. She'd known who I was and that I was coming to interview Igor.

  I washed my hands thoroughly and got dressed. I pulled the tiny transmitter out of my coat and placed it next to the television, blaring at full volume.

  Enjoy the music, comrades, I thought, and walked out to have dinner. The smell of garbage was still in the air, but the sweet scent of success was already taking over. I took the elevator to the hotel basement and dropped the trash bag into a giant trash receptacle. I went to the reception desk and deposited my newfound treasures in the hotel's safe. The fact that somebody had gone to the trouble of hiding a microphone on my coat lapel indicated I wasn't alone; someone was watching me. As a precaution, I thought about changing my plans to go out and instead have dinner at the hotel restaurant. But then I reconsidered. It was in my nature to be defiant, to ignore doubts, to dispense with routine safety measures. This rebellious streak sometimes got me into trouble but also led me to victories. My ratio of trouble to success wasn't bad.

  I walked into the nearly empty snow-covered street, looking for a good German restaurant. As I crossed the road to a corner restaurant, I felt the first blow to my head. Because I'd just turned, the slug lost some impact, although it was still too strong to ignore. I completed the turn and saw two guys built like linebackers, intent on finishing the job. The first guy aimed at my solar plexus. My Mossad martial arts instructor had told us drily: A blow to the gut could kill. This is one of the best ways to knock out your enemy. And if you doubt me, think of the great magician Harry Houdini. He died from an unexpected blow to his gut. I instinctively shifted to the side, redirecting the blow to my obliques — the muscles around my ribs. It was painful, but I could tell I'd avoid damage to internal organs. The second guy punched my head directly, hitting my right ear. Against my instincts, but in keeping with my Mossad training, I moved forward. Recoiling backward would actually have resulted in my head taking the punch at full force.

  It was time to go on the offensive.

  I made a full-body swing and kicked the shorter guy hard in his groin; as he bent forward I kicked him again. My shoe hit his lower abdomen and my knee smashed into his face. That did it. He fell on the sidewalk vomiting. He'd be quiet for a while until his dinner completed its journey onto his clothes and the sidewalk. The other guy shot a quick look at his friend on the ground and realized that fists weren't enough. He pulled out a knife. I had no weapons other than my hands and my experience. Because I was much taller than he, and had longer arms, I jabbed the fingernails of my right hand directly into his eyes; with my left I punched his kidneys so hard I was afraid I'd broken my wrist. He groaned in pain, dropped the knife to the pavement, and tried to push my hand out of his eyes. I let him cover his eyes with his hands as I swiftly picked up the knife and hurried back to my hotel.

  The entire episode had taken only a minute or two, and we didn't seem to have attracted any attention. There were no pedestrians around, and the few cars that were passing hadn't bothered to stop. I took inventory: Other than breathing heavily, a ringing in one ear, and my disheveled clothes, there'd been no serious physical consequences. I went up to my room, leaving the front door open so as not to lock myself in with an intruder. When I was certain I had no uninvited company, I bolted the door.

  Who were these guys? Was the attack random, a failed robbery of a tourist, or was I was the intended target? It had to be the latter. They hadn't tried to rob or kill me; one bullet would have done that. Their purpose had been to intimidate, to send me a message to back off. First the bug in my coat, now the attack. I got the point: Their next move could be less friendly. But I had no intention of taking these hints seriously.

  Since I had no further business in Stuttgart, my first instinct was to check out of the hotel and leave Germany. But reason overtook anxiety, and I changed my mind. In any case I would have to find another hotel for the night, or go to the airport immediately. I did not want to meet up again with Igor and Oksana's associates.

  I waited in the room until the early morning, then checked out; two porters carried my luggage. I walked between them, making them an improvised protective phalanx, and ignoring their surprised expressions. I took a cab to the Echterdingen airport, checking occasionally to make sure I had no escorts behind my cab. We were alone on the road.

  From the airport gate, just before boarding, I called Dr. Bermann. “I'm writing my report and I need your help.”

  “I am very sorry, Herr Gordon” he said candidly. Well, of course he was; the nincompoop had dragged me all the way to Germany only to realize that his smelly client wouldn't talk. He could have done it over the phone and spared me the trouble.

  “I spoke to Igor again. He is not responding to my request to reconsider talking t
o you. In fact, he won't even discuss it.”

  “Too bad about that. Anyway, I need to describe our meeting to my boss. Could you please give me the interpreter's full name?”

  “It is —” He paused for a minute. “— let me see here … .ja, her name is Oksana Vasilev.”

  “Got it. And she is an official interpreter?”

  “Yes, authorized by the court.”

  “You were lucky to find a Belarusian interpreter; I don't suppose too many people in Stuttgart speak that language.”

  “You are correct, Herr Gordon. In fact I think this is her first job. After our first telephone conversation, I asked Igor if he knew of any Belarusian interpreters because we would need one for his court hearing. A few days later, Frau Vasilev called me and said she spoke both German and Belarusian and even some English, so she could be an interpreter in Igor's case. I assumed Igor had sent her. I told her that she had to register with the court first. It took her one week to prepare the application, and now she is an official interpreter with the court. Otherwise she would not have been permitted to enter the prison. If Igor or Oksana were to have any difficulty with English, then I could translate from English to German and Oksana from German to Belarusian.”

  “Nice of you to think of it, and at the same time to help her,” I said, thinking of the chaos a twice-removed translation could cause.

  “I think so, too. She told me that she was new in town and needed a job. I paid her fifty dollars just to be in the prison for one hour. I don't think she made that much in Belarus in a month.” I could almost see him grinning in self-satisfaction.

  I called David from a different airport pay phone; my cell phone could easily have been picked up by a sophisticated listening device. After my encounter with the state-of-the-art bug, I didn't want to take any further chances.

  “There have been some positive developments,” I said.