Authors: Haggai Carmon
Triple Identity (17 page)
“Please help me get up,” I asked the person standing next to me. I didn't even know whether it was a man or a woman.
“No,” he said. It was a man after all. “You must to wait for the ambulance.” I couldn't allow that. Whoever had attacked me might come back. I had to leave. I got up, despite my dizziness. I was as nauseated as if I were on a bobbing boat on the open sea without any air. Air! Yes! That's what I needed most.
“Thank you,” I said in the man's general direction and walked slowly outside, my knees weak, my vision foggy The crisp October wind blowing in my face had had never felt better. My vision was slowly coming into focus, but my head hurt even more as the shock wore off. I looked down. My shirt and jacket were spattered with blood. Somehow my overcoat had escaped the flood. I buttoned it over shirt and jacket. I wiped my face with a tissue I found in my pocket.
I was still breathing heavily, trying to inhale every bit of air I could into my aching body. “That guy must have used a blackjack on me,” I thought with the one small part of my brain that wasn't aching.
I hailed a cab. It would really say something about Munich taxi drivers if one stopped for me in the shape I was in, I thought grimly. But one did stop and I slid into the backseat and asked the driver to take me to the Omni Hotel.
Then a thought struck me. What if they — whoever “they” were — were waiting for me at the hotel? They wanted something I had, clearly. The envelope! Again I checked my pocket; the envelope was still there. No, I couldn't go back to the Omni.
“Driver,” I directed, “I've changed my mind. Take me to the Sheraton.” Without a word, he turned the car around, and within minutes I was at the door. The doorman helped me out, visibly shocked by my bloody face. I walked into the lobby praying they would give me a room.
I went to the reception desk. “I need a room for one or two days.”
The receptionist looked at me and asked in genuine concern, “What happened to you? Do you need help?”
“Thanks, no, I'm fine. I had a car accident. I wasn't badly hurt but I need a room immediately to rest.”
“But there's much blood on your clothes. Are you sure? I could call our doctor.”
“I'm fine. The blood you see on me is actually the other passenger's. I helped him into an ambulance.”
I placed my American Express card on the counter. In five minutes, I was on my way to the twenty-second floor and a clean and spacious room.
Even through the pain, a nagging sense of responsibility intruded. Breaking the rules, I picked up the telephone and called Lovejoy at the consulate; a phone call by an American citizen to his consulate could be regarded as benign. “Ron,” I said wearily, “I have a small problem. I was attacked leaving the bank. I managed to get away.”
“Holy shit,” said Ron, “do you need help? Are you OK?”
“Yeah, I'm OK. In this business, the fleas come with the dog. I have a little bleeding and a lot of headache. I didn't go back to the Omni because I don't know what or who is waiting for me there. Would you send your men to my room and check it out? I'll call you later.”
“Where are you now?” he asked.
“I just checked into another hotel. I need to lie down. I'll call you later.” I'd broken the rule of leaving traces but I simply didn't want anyone to disturb me. I didn't mention the envelope. I needed to collect my thoughts first.
I
took off my bloody clothes and got into the shower. Even though the gashes on my head stung like hell, I stood underneath the hot water for ten minutes. I was going to have to do without stitches, whether I needed them or not. I wrapped myself in the thick terry-cloth hotel robe and slowly sat on the bed. My head was still throbbing. Any sudden move felt like a million needles pricking me from all directions. I suddenly remembered the envelope. Had they gotten it?
I reached over and took it out of my jacket pocket. It was an unsealed standard white envelope. Four folded sheets of ordinary writing paper were inside. It was a letter handwritten in Hebrew.
September 13, 1990
My Dear Ariel,
I hope this letter finds its way to you. I left it with Mr. Bart at your pension with your name on it, in case we do not meet.
I know I wasn't much of a father to you, and I can't change that now. It may help you to know you are the only person I can trust. There are a few things I want you to know before you hear about them from others.
I had to leave the United States because my bank, First Federal Bank of Westwood, was failing. The real estate market collapsed in the late ’80s, and soon afterward commercial developers who had already borrowed money from the bank could not repay their loans because the real estate market was dead; they made no sales and had no cash flow. Soon enough the value of property was lower than the value it had been appraised for when we made the loan. This was happening all over the country. Federal regulators demanded that
banks’ owners bring more capital, but who wants to throw good money after bad? So the federal government started seizing banks by the hundreds, including mine. The federal regulators who swarmed the bank told me that there was more than $90 million dollars missing. I knew I couldn't win any battle against them since most of the $90 million had financed my personal transactions; a complete violation of the law, I admit, particularly when some of those transactions went sour. I was already fighting off several civil lawsuits by investors who claimed they'd lost their money. I heard rumors that the U.S. Attorney's Office was about to bring criminal charges against me. I was removed from my position as chairman and chief executive officer of the bank under the order of the federal regulators. I knew I couldn't endure a battle with them for the next five years, spending millions of my own money on lawyers. So I moved to Europe to put an end to it all.
Between 1957 and 1990 I had accumulated substantial assets in Europe and Japan but I couldn't move them to the U.S. because there was no way I could explain these assets to the U.S. government after I'd neglected to report them all along. Frankly, I didn't feel like paying the hefty American taxes on income unrelated to the United States, generated from businesses I started before I became a U.S. citizen.
But my troubles with the government were not my only problems. Other issues followed me to Europe because of a bad decision I made. I had depositors in the bank who were wealthy businessmen from Colombia. They deposited more than $75 million with the bank. They always told me that they were in the tobacco and coffee businesses. I even visited them once in Cali, and they gave me red-carpet treatment. They hinted that they wanted to keep their money outside Colombia to avoid paying income taxes. I had no problem with that. However, I later discovered that the source of their money was cocaine, not coffee, and that they were using my bank to launder their dirty money.
I admit that even when I discovered that, I did not stop taking
their money; it was a very good source of income for the bank. Practically speaking, I couldn't stop working with them. Although they never threatened me, they made sure I understood their ruthlessness. So I kept copies of some of their money-transfer documents in case something went wrong. It was my insurance policy. I also found out that they were making “campaign contributions” to four politicians and three judges in the U.S. In Cali they'd shown me the politicians’ autographed photographs along with “thank-you letters.” “They'll help us on a rainy day,” the Colombians told me.
When things got worse and the federal regulators auditing the books at the bank increased their number from three to fifteen, I smelled trouble. They told me that I was undercapitalized and, unless I acquired fresh money, the FDIC would have to seize the bank. So I called Ignacio Perez, the Colombian businessman, and asked him to convert some of his deposits into capital by purchasing shares of the bank. That would have solved the capital-shortage problem and driven the regulators away. He refused. I told him about the transfer documents I kept elsewhere. He did not lose his composure; he told me that I'd made a mistake, wished me well, and hung up. I have not heard from him since. Once I'd left the bank, and with the cloud of pending criminal investigation hanging over me, I thought I'd be better off in Switzerland. I settled in a Geneva hotel where I hoped I could put the recent past behind me. But lately I've begun to suspect that Perez's people were following me. So I left Geneva. I didn't tell anyone where I was going. I drove a car to Munich.
Now I'm coming to the important part: I never told you about it, but I'm sure your mother must have revealed my distant past to you. For more than five years I served in the Mossad. I was sent by them to France to work in a French nuclear research facility. But when hiring me, the French government didn't know that I was also working for the Mossad. You may call what I did spying, but Israel needed the information badly and the French had it. I wasn't damaging France by helping Israel. Later I left the Mossad over a
serious disagreement with my superiors. I had not been in touch with them for many years, but I still remembered one or two of the old guard who served with me, and I'm sure they know my name. Now that things were becoming complicated I needed help. I couldn't ask the Swiss or the German police for protection from the Colombians; I had to assume that they'd report my whereabouts to the United States through
INTERPOL
or the FBI. I'd be arrested and extradited to the United States for trial.
So I turned to the Mossad for assistance. I knew I'd made a mistake by threatening Ignacio Perez and telling him about the documents I had, so I asked the Mossad to protect me. I didn't think they'd do it just because I was an operative thirty-three years ago, but I was sure they didn't want me to be captured by anyone who could get out of me what I knew about Israel's espionage in France. I'm thinking of asking them to call you, to ask you to come over, so I could talk more freely with you and guarantee your future. I didn't want to call you directly and expose you. I have sufficient financial reserves to cover the missing $90 million. But that is not the problem; I have a plan to relieve me of the criminal charges. I'll tell you more when I see you. If anything happens to me, see Mr. Hans Guttmacher, the manager of Bankhaus Bäcker & Haas, a banking institution in Munich. I left him an envelope with documents for you. There is enough there to compensate you for my not being a father to you all these years.
Although I have seen so little of you, I love you with all my heart. Remember the nickname I started calling you when you were five years old? Be sure to tell it to Mr. Bart, the pension's owner. He'll laugh hearing it.
The letter was signed All my love, Your Father, Dov Peled
The name was written at the bottom of the last sheet in those round Hebrew letters. I felt as if I had invaded his privacy. It was too much for one day. “The son of a bitch,” I said loudly, not
knowing whether I meant Benny or DeLouise. Benny had hidden the most important part of the story from me. DeLouise, Dov, or the devil knows what other names he used, wasn't just a scientific researcher at the Mossad; they had planted him in France to spy. Mina wasn't exaggerating or bluffing. So did DeLouise blackmail the Mossad to provide him with protection when his blackmail attempt on the Colombians backfired? If that was the case, how did the Mossad react? Was he telling Ariel the whole truth? It seemed as if, to preserve his daughter's memories of him as an honorable man, he was not being entirely forthcoming in this letter to her; that he'd fudged some facts. Did DeLouise let the Mossad in on his hidden assets to smooth his way out of his problems, with their help? Is that why Benny had kept me in the dark?
The most important thing was that DeLouise had told Ariel to see Guttmacher. He was the money keeper. Finally — a breakthrough in my own chase. I felt satisfied; I forgot the pain in my head. I was only tired, very tired. I called housekeeping and left my clothes outside my door to be washed and dry-cleaned. I lay back on the bed, asleep before my head hit the pillow.
I woke up suddenly. My head was numb with pain. I went to the bathroom and looked at the mirror. I looked like a second-rate boxer. There was an ugly slash on my forehead, covered with clotted blood, and a potato-sized lump on my cheek.
There was a scratch at the door. I opened it warily and was relieved to see my dry-cleaned clothes hanging on the knob, wrapped in rustling plastic. I shaved with the help of the hotel kit in the bathroom, dressed, and went to eat breakfast. I had no appetite, but I had to kill time until Lovejoy arrived at the consulate.
At eight thirty I decided to head over without advance warning. I called through to Ron's office from the guard station and got a quick OK. Ron looked me over and asked, chuckling, “Are you sure it wasn't some jealous husband that knocked you down?”
I was in no mood for jokes, and I still had a headache.
“Listen,” I said, “I did some investigating and I think I have a lead on Ariel's kidnappers.”
“Do you know something that the German police don't?”
“I don't know what they know. But now I know plenty. Remember, this guy Blecher isn't too generous with information. He has his duties and I have mine.”