Triple Identity (35 page)

Sean radioed the office and tersely reported the events, keeping his cool.

“I'm sorry to leave you with the mess,” I said.

“Don't worry,” said Sean. “We'll clean it up.”

I handed the gun back to Sean. “Thanks!”

“Nice shots,” said Brandon in appreciation, “Where did you learn to shoot so well?”

“I'm a hunter,” I said, “I hunt a lot.” I didn't mention that my usual prey was money launderers, not animals, and that I hunted them with my brain, not with my gun. Ariel was still cradled in my arms. I wanted it to last, but we saw the glittering lights of the airport approaching.

“Which airline?” asked Sean.

“I don't know yet; let's go to the main departure area. I want to take the first flight out, preferably to Germany, but any other major European city will do.”

“I'll come with you into the terminal,” said Brandon, as Sean brought the car to the curb.

“Go ahead, I'll join you in a minute,” said Sean. “I'll get rid of this car first. Be careful, others could be waiting for you here.”

We entered the departure hall and I looked at the big board. It was 8:15
P.M.
, and the next flight out was British Airways 875 to London leaving at 9:35
P.M.
No further precaution was necessary; the place was full of police in uniform and probably just as many in plainclothes. If word of a highway chase came to their attention we'd have a lot of explaining to do; we'd miss the flight, and I'd miss the break-in to Guttmacher's bank. I could not allow that. We needed to hurry; in this case, even the rigid Soviet bureaucracy might move quickly enough to stop us.

I ran to the British Airways counter, bought two one-way tickets to Munich via London's Heathrow, and checked in our luggage. I'd fight the bean counters in Washington later over the extra ticket. I held Ariel by her hand and rushed to passport control. Brandon joined Sean as they stood at a distance waiting for us to clear through the police passport inspection.

“Did you get rid of the car?” I asked Brandon.

“Yes, I dumped it. It won't lead to us; the registration is under the name of a nonexistent person. But I don't think it'll get to that. I left it in an area that car scavengers love. In one hour it'll be taken apart as if it never existed. As far as we're concerned, this entire incident never happened.”

I stepped forward with Ariel to the passport-control counter, manned by a grim-faced Soviet officer wearing green military uniform. “Are you family?” he asked.

“No,” I said. “She is my friend and she is not feeling well, and she does not speak Russian or English, so I'm here to help.”

“Very nice of you,” he said without the smile I expected. “Step back.”

Ariel remained standing before his counter and signaled me that it'd be OK.

A few minutes later, which felt like eternity, I heard the sound of stamping and Ariel walked away to the gate. I approached the counter. The officer raised his head and looked at my face, which was losing its blood supply fast. He said nothing. He flipped through my passport and looked at some papers on his counter that I could not see.

“Please step aside,” he finally said and buzzed a button.
That
I saw. Two men in plainclothes approached me. “Please come with us,” they said firmly.

“Why? Have I done something wrong?” I asked, hoping they couldn't hear the tremble in my voice. They did not answer. I was led to a side room. “Sit down,” said one of the men in an unexpectedly polite tone and pointed at a metal chair next to an empty desk. I sat on the chair. I saw my duffel bag in the corner of the room. I'm in deep shit, I thought.

“Can you explain that?” asked the man as he showed me my bloodstained shirt. “Airport security discovered it in your luggage.”

I needed to come up with a quick explanation or I was doomed. “Oh, that,” I said, showing them how relieved I was, and I was indeed. “There was a car accident on my way here; you must have heard about it, I was in a car just behind it. A car collided with a huge truck on the Moscow Ring Road and I rushed to help the injured. It was a terrible scene, I'm glad I could help until the ambulance came, and then I had to leave because I didn't want to miss my flight. I hope the passengers were all right; when I left they were in an awful shape.” My interrogator went to the phone in the corner and dialed a number. Moments later he returned and said something in a Russian dialect I did not understand to the other guy.

“OK,” he said, “your story about the accident checks out. It was nice of you to help a stranger. Are you a doctor?”

“No, but I was a Boy Scout and took some courses in first aid.” I'll never know how I came up with that one.

They handed me back my passport and escorted me to the gate. Ariel was at the gate when they announced last call for our flight. When she saw me her face lit up. It was all worth it, I thought.

Five minutes later we were seated in the cabin of the Boeing 747, just like a couple of tourists. “Was there a problem?” she asked.

“No, just routine bureaucracy,” I said. Ariel squeezed my arm. “I'm always nervous during takeoff,” she said apologetically, and smiled.

The plane left the gate and taxied to the runway, moving faster and faster until it abruptly stopped. I saw two stewardesses running to the front of the aircraft. My heart was beating fast again. Had they found out who I was and tied me to the shooting? I looked out through the window. There was no activity around the plane and no explanation from the cockpit as to why we'd stopped. Ariel didn't seem to notice my concern. A few passengers got up from their seats to look through the windows. “Please sit down,” said the stewards politely but firmly. I thought I should tell Ariel to call David Stone in Washington and inform him of my forthcoming arrest. I wrote down David's name and number.

“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.