Triple Identity (12 page)

“I have the one on Allenby Street,” I said. “Which one do you have?”

“11–36 Weitzman Street, Haifa.”

“Yeah, that's her new address,” I said knowingly. “Allenby is her mother's address. Did she give you an address in Munich?”

“No. But she wanted her mother to be a signatory also.”

“Yes, I know that.” I quickly added, “Has Mrs. Bernstein been in yet?”

“No,” she said. “Miss Peled told us that her mother would come at a later time to sign the card.”

“Was there anything else?” I asked.

“No. That's it.”

I thanked her and left the bank. This was at least solid proof that Ariel had set foot in Munich.

So what did I know so far? Ariel had come to Munich and had rented a safe-deposit box to be jointly owned with her mother. Her father was murdered here. I didn't need to be a rocket scientist to see that there might be a connection. But that was only a possibility, not a fact.

During our training at the Mossad, we were taught the art of report writing.
NAKA
was the acronym in Hebrew for uniform writing procedure. “You must always bear in mind that the reader of your report has only the paper before him. He doesn't know you and cannot and should not read between the lines. So when you mean to report about seeing a bird, and another combatant at the other side of the world wants to
report seeing the same type of bird, both of you should use the same word bird and not one use bird and the other use fowl. The analyst reading your report would be confused: are both reports describing the same bird? Next, establish the level of security of the document. ‘Top secret’ is applied to information which, if disclosed, could be expected to cause exceptionally grave damage to national security. ‘Secret’ is information which, if disclosed, could be expected to cause serious damage to national security. ‘Confidential’ is applied to information which, if disclosed, could be expected to cause damage to national security.

“Now, how do you define national security and the level of damage it could suffer without irreparable harm?” We had spent two weeks on that. The list of topics that had to be classified included military plans, weapons systems, or operations; foreign-government information; intelligence activities (including special activities); intelligence sources or methods; cryptology; foreign relations or foreign activities of the country, including confidential sources; Jewish emigration from economically or politically distressed countries; scientific (including nuclear), technological, or economic matters relating to national security; programs for safeguarding nuclear materials or facilities; and vulnerabilities or capabilities of system installations, projects, or plans relating to national security.

In Alex's words: “Once you've done that, select the degree of reliability of the information it contains. Remember, it is not your reliability that is being reviewed but that of the information you are providing. So don't beautify the facts. If you do that, then your credibility would really be put into question. If the information is obtained from a single source, tell that to the reader, on the top of your report in bold type. The source may be your own mother, but mothers can be wrong too, you know. And finally, always distinguish between an assumption, a lead, a suspicion, an opinion, and a fact. A fact gets the highest degree of certainty, so the word is to be used only if the data provided is worthy of that definition. Preferably it would be based upon all-source intelligence; that is, information accumulated from various available sources.”

Accordingly, all I could conclude was that Ariel Peled had rented a safe-deposit box. That was a single source fact. Still, somebody posing as
Ariel could also have done the same. That she put something she felt needed protection in the box was an assumption, not a fact, because the box could still be empty. But if it was Ariel who rented the box and put something in the box, I figured it was connected to her father. That was definitely a suspicion.

Back at the hotel, I went through my papers again. I looked at the identified phone numbers Lan had sent me and compared them with Peled's hotel bill. I examined the line on the bill where the charge was made for the two calls to the Mossad headquarters in Israel. The first call was made on September 22 and lasted twenty-nine minutes; the second call was made on September 24 and lasted thirty-six minutes. Since the calls came into the Mossad's general switchboard, I couldn't tell to whom DeLouise had directed his calls or whether both calls were made to the same person. I looked at the other numbers. The California numbers were easy — two calls to his wife, three calls to his son, and two calls to his attorneys. The three Swiss numbers were made to the Credit Suisse private banking branch in Geneva.

He's no different from the others, I muttered to myself, half in contempt. People who take off with large sums of money are typically repetitive in their conduct, and therefore their actions are fairly predictable. The calls to the private banking branch of Credit Suisse indicated that DeLouise was very likely to have had some banking relationship with them. But it was too premature to take any vigorous legal action to find out. I didn't know for sure that he was the bank's client. I also didn't know what name or legal entity he used. If the U.S. government filed papers with Swiss officials attempting to force Credit Suisse to disclose all records pertaining to Raymond DeLouise, the Department of Justice would have to wait six months until the bank responded. Only then would one discover that a target might have used a different name or a company or a trust to hide his assets or might have cleaned out the account and hidden the booty elsewhere. We would have lost not only important time but also the element of surprise. I'd seen cases where unscrupulous bankers tipped their clients off about the U.S. request for
bank records or a law-enforcement inquiry, thus enabling them to move their money to a different location.

The Italian call was made to a company in Rome called Broncotrade SPA. I wrote a note to check that one out. The calls to Luxembourg were to Bank Hapoalim, a branch of Israel's largest bank. Then came the local calls. First on the list was a Herbert Oplatka. I dialed the number.

“Oplatka Travel,” said a young woman, “How may I help you?”

“I was left a message to call you.”

“And you are?”

“My name is Peter Wooten and I'm a partner of Mr. Raymond DeLouise. I don't know whether your message was meant for me or for him, because it was left on our voice mail.”

“Let me check,” she said, and put me on hold.

“Nobody here left any message for you or Mr. DeLouise, but it could be someone from the morning shift who called you,” she informed me a moment later.

“Would you please check your computer and see if Mr. DeLouise's reservations are confirmed?”

It was the longest shot in the dark I'd fired in a long time.

“Yes,” she replied after a few seconds.

Bingo! A hit.

She continued. “I see now. His flight tomorrow on Lufthansa from Munich through Frankfurt to Moscow is confirmed. I also see that he hasn't picked up his tickets yet, so that could be the reason for the message. Please ask him to pick them up, or maybe you want us to deliver them to his hotel?”

“I'll ask him to get back to you. Thanks.”

This was my lucky day. I went back to the list and picked up the next number, a Sonja and Ernest Bart. I called the number; an elderly man answered.

“Pension Bart.”

“I'm sorry, please say that again,” I asked.

“Pension Bart,” he repeated.

“Ah yes, thanks,” I said, recognizing the word finally. “May I have your address?”

He gave it to me and I went down to my car and got underway.

I was getting excited now that I was at long last warm, if not hot, on the trail. The pension was in a residential area, surrounded by evergreen trees and apartment buildings with small balconies. Flowers grew in pots on many of the balconies. Everything looked neat and clean.

I
walked inside and approached the desk in the hall just beyond the door. Behind it stood an elderly man with white hair and a small mustache. A fireplace crackled across the hall, filling the air with the pleasant smell of burning hardwood. From the kitchen behind the counter floated the smell of home cooking. The ambience was cozy.

I tried to think of the best opening line, but what did I want to know? DeLouise wasn't staying here, he only called. But whom did he call? This guy wasn't about to show me his guest list.

Without thinking it through I took a flyer and asked directly, “Is Mina Bernstein here? My friend from Israel.”

“Israel? Oh, yes, we have Mrs. Mina Bernstein here, and she is from Israel.”

“Exactly,” I said in huge relief, this time genuine. My gamble had paid off. “Is she in?”

“I think so, let me call her room,” and he went to the telephone. He returned a moment later and said, “She'll be right down.”

I moved to the small lobby, enjoyed the fireplace, and waited. A woman of medium height came in — blue eyes and gray streaks in her hair, dressed in a wide flowery skirt and a white blouse.

I got up. “Shalom, I'm Dan Gordon,” I greeted her in Hebrew.

“And I am Mina Bernstein,” said the woman in a subdued voice. “You are looking for me?” she continued in our shared native language.

“Yes, I need to talk to you about a family matter.”

“A family matter? Do you have news about my Ariel?” she asked with a mix of apprehension and hope.

A small sitting room adjoined the lobby. I motioned her along, delaying my answer to her question.

As we sat down Mina looked at me with soft, deep blue eyes. I could tell she'd once been a beautiful woman.

“The reason I am looking for you is that I believe you, and possibly Ariel, could be in danger.”

“Who are you?” she asked in a frightened voice.

“All I can say now is that we share a common background, and I want to help you.”

“Are you from the — Office?”

I nodded. Misleading her was enough; I didn't want to tell her lies more than was absolutely necessary. Yes, I was with the Office, but not the one she assumed. “Office” was the code word used among Mossad employees to describe their workplace. You'd never hear the name
Mossad
from a true Mossad person. I was dragged into a typical false-flagging scenario now — hiding my true employer — without the ordinary preplanning, without the time to develop a good cover story. The fact was that many successful Mossad recruitment operations of Arab informers were made possible only because the informer, “a source,” was convinced the recruiter was working for
NATO
or for some European country and not for Israel.

“Tell me, why did you come to Munich?” I asked.

“Ariel called,” she answered.

“What did she tell you?”

“I must say it was a bizarre conversation. She said I must come to Munich immediately, and that I should not tell anyone.”

“Did she give you any reason?”

“She hinted that it had something to do with her father's past, so I must keep it a secret. Ariel said I should stay at this pension. She didn't answer my questions and only asked that I come as quickly as possible. But when I arrived, she wasn't here, although her luggage was in her room.”

So we had a missing persons case in addition to the homicide. If the events thus far could have been described as questionable, they had now been upgraded to strange.

I asked Mina if she was aware of any previous irregular behavior of Ariel's that could explain her disappearance.

“No,” she replied, “she has never given me any cause for concern. Ariel
always used good judgment. She's not the kind of person to disappear all of a sudden for no reason.”

“Has Ariel been in contact with her father lately?”

“I don't know for sure. She used to call him now and then, and he also called her at least once every month or so and sent her money. I don't know about recent calls. She's a grown woman and leads her own life. But then, there were hints in our last telephone conversation that she's here in connection with her father. So I don't know what to think.”

“Did you call the police?”

“I intended to do that today, unless I hear from Ariel. I was also thinking about calling Dov, but I have no idea where to find him. He moves between California, Europe, and Japan. Does he know that Ariel is missing? We should notify him.”

So Mina didn't know that her former husband had been murdered. I suspected that the sad chore would fall to me.

“Mina,” I said, “it's a very complex matter and I don't want to burden you with the details, not just now anyway, but we must find Ariel. You'll also have to tell me about Dov's work in the past; I think Ariel's disappearance has something to do with that.”

“I thought you know about his past work,” she said.

“Yes, I do, of course. But I need you to tell me exactly what he told you about his work, the kind of things that are not reflected in his file, particularly if you know whether he attempted contacts with the Office recently.”

I had almost slipped. I needed to know if there was a continued connection with the Mossad, as Dov's two phone calls to their Tel Aviv headquarters indicated. For a split second I even considered the theory that DeLouise had kept his Mossad contacts. Then was the disappearance of the ninety million dollars also connected to the Mossad? Was it their way of financing a slush fund? If my suspicions could be verified then it might have a surprising effect on my asset chase, not to mention Israeli–American relationships. I quickly brushed it off as complete insanity. But still.