Triple Identity

by Haggai Carmon

  From where I sat, Mina was just a road sign, not a destination. Did DeLouise keep in touch with her during all these years? On the other hand, why would her visit to Munich be connected with DeLouise at all? I had no answers, only questions.

  With nothing more to follow up on, I sat at my desk in my hotel room, pushed the papers aside, and glanced at my watch again. It was 6:45 P.M.

  I called Gila, an old friend of mine. She and I enjoyed each other's company for the time we were together, but there were never any strings attached. We didn't talk much. It was … comfortable.

  The next morning I awoke to the sound of the rain pounding on the sliding door. I opened the heavy curtains and looked outside. The sea was black except for the foam-capped waves that broke on the shore. The city was under a heavy rainstorm. No one in the streets, only cars with headlights on and windshield wipers working at full speed. The streets would soon be like canals, minus the Venetian charm.

  It was time to talk to Benny again. I called his office.

  “Benny,” I said, “we need to talk. Care for lunch on Uncle Sam at my hotel?” It was either my place or his, and in the pouring rain, I'd rather it be mine.

  Benny never said no to good food as long as it was kosher, and all hotel restaurants in Israel keep kosher, for the most part to satisfy the observant Jews among the tourists.

  Benny showed up precisely at 12:30, as agreed. We went downstairs to the hotel's restaurant and sat at a corner table, both with our backs to the wall. Realizing that, we exchanged a maven's smile.

  Abie, one of our Mossad Academy instructors years ago, had taught us operational tactics. “When you enter a public place, what is the first thing you do?” he had asked with his Yemenite accent, his wide-open mouth showing us perfect white teeth. He obviously enjoyed asking the question. No one answered, so he continued, “You look for the way out! Always be ready to leave, under favorable or unfavorable circumstances. You came in from one end, so that could be your exit, but look for other ways out as soon as you go in. Then you look at the people around you. See if you can identify something unusual. Never stare or let them know you are looking. Make it seem as if you are looking through them and not at them. See how many exits the place has, and which one is best to use in case of emergency. When you check out the place, look for the unusual, something out of the ordinary that could mean trouble. That, in fact, very rarely happens, but when it does, you'd better be ready. The second piece of advice is always to sit with your back to the wall so nobody can surprise you from behind. Be ready to turn the table over and be on the move.”

  We ordered lunch. Benny looked at me pensively.

  “What's on your mind?”

  “Benny,” I opened, realizing that I needed to select my words carefully, “was Peled ever in contact with the Mossad after he left? I mean recently.”

  Benny gave me a long look. “I'll have to get back to you on that,” he said. Already I didn't like the sound of it. For the first time ever, I felt that Benny was holding out on me. But if he wanted to be evasive, why was he helping me? And if he was helping me by giving me copies of documents from DeLouise's file, why was there no information about DeLouise's last two years in the Mossad? Why the contradiction? I needed to find out why Benny was being vague. There was a pause.

  “Any progress since you've been here?” Benny asked.

  I sensed he felt my surprise and disappointment and wanted to change the subject.

  “Not much,” I said, handing him back his envelope. “I saw that Peled was married to a Mina Lerer, so I tried to find her.”

  “Any success?”

  “No. She's gone to Munich.” I looked him in the eye. “Any idea if her departure is connected to Peled?”

  Benny said nothing. He took a special interest in his sandwich. Maybe he doesn't know, I thought, trying to find a brighter side.

  “I don't know,” he finally said, with his mouth full. “But remember, Peled was trained like me and you. That stays even after we leave the shoo shoo business.” He used the old slang for clandestine activity. It had been a long time since I'd heard that.

  “So, if Peled wanted to keep things undetected, and if her departure is connected to him, you'll have to find out independently,” he concluded. “I've got to go.”

  I looked at his plate in amazement; he had devoured a New York–style hot pastrami sandwich in ten minutes. “But I'll ask someone in the office to do a search — just as a favor. I'll call you if we find anything.”

  His promise sounded useless, a token gesture. I said nothing.

  I went upstairs to my room. The telephone was ringing as I entered. It was Ralph.

  “Well, at least the neighbor wasn't lying. Ariel, the high school chemistry teacher, is Ariel Peled; she's DeLouise's daughter with Mina Lerer. She'd asked the principal very suddenly for a few days off to take care of an ‘urgent family matter.’ Said she'd be back in three or four days, but it's been much longer than that already and they haven't heard from her. They're worried. Ariel isn't married and has no children. She leads a quiet life and doesn't have many friends at the school.”

  “Do you know when she asked for the leave?”

  “The principal said he thought it was on September 23, but I spoke to him at his home so he couldn't verify the exact date.”

  “Ralph, I need to find these women. Get a border-exit run on Ariel as soon as you can. I just want to make sure she hasn't disappeared like her mother.”

  More than a week away from school during the school year. That was unusual. Events were unfolding so quickly that I felt as if I were playing catch-up. “I'll call you as soon as I can,” said Ralph, picking up on the urgency in my tone.

  Twenty-five minutes later he rang.

  “You were right; she's gone too. Left on September 24. Guess where she was headed?”

  “Munich,” I stated flatly.

  “That's right,” he said approvingly, and gave me the flight details.

  A few moments later a fax message from Lan was slipped under my door. It read: “The number you gave me is a pay phone located in the Grand Excelsior Hotel in Munich, Germany.”

  Three road signs leading to Munich: the pay phone and Mina and Ariel's sudden departures. Clearly Munich was my next stop. And I had to get there in a hurry.

  The next day I boarded Lufthansa flight 693 to Munich Airport's Terminal C. The New York office had made the travel arrangements and I'd contacted our embassy legal people. My man, Ron Lovejoy, would be on duty when I got there.

  When I arrived, it was almost 7:00 P.M. and raining lightly. A BMW waited for me at the Hertz counter with a note, as Lovejoy's office had promised. I drove to the Omni Hotel on Ludwigstrasse.

  I checked in and then headed over to the Grand Excelsior Hotel, where the trail to Mina Bernstein went cold. She'd accepted collect charges from a pay phone located in the Grand Excelsior's lobby.

  The hotel was one of those pre–World War II landmarks with plenty of Old World charm and prices far above my budget. I still remember the startled look one of the bean counters in Washington, D.C., had given me when I'd tried to explain why my bill from a Tokyo hotel ran four hundred dollars a night. “Frankly, the place looked like a youth hostel,” I'd said with feigned exasperation, “but with the yen so strong against the dollar that's what you pay there.” He had not been amused.

  The first questions I had to answer were whether it had been DeLouise who'd called Mina in Israel and whether he had been a guest at the Grand Excelsior.

  I went to the desk and asked for Raymond DeLouise. They had no such guest. The response was too pat, I thought. But then, he wouldn't have used that name. How about Mina Bernstein? No. I left the desk disappointed. Then I turned around and made yet another try.

  “I'm sorry, is there a Dov Peled?” I asked.

  The reception clerk hesitated, and then said, “Minute!” and disappeared into the back office. She returned a minute later with another man, obviously senior staff.


  “I am looking for Mr. Dov Peled. Can you give me his room number?” I repeated. The clerk's action told me I was getting close.

  “I'm sorry,” said the man, with somewhat fraudulent solemnity. “We were notified this morning that Mr. Peled has died.”

  “Died?” I repeated after him in disbelief. “What happened?”

  “We don't know,” said the man. “The police just told us that he is in the city morgue. That's all we know.”

  “Are Mina Bernstein or Ariel Peled registered? We were all to meet here,” I asked, adding feigned shock to the real thing.

  He looked at the woman next to him. She shook her head. “No, I'm sorry sir, we have no such guests,” the man replied.

  I thanked them, turned around without another word, and went to my car.

  I had my answer. Yes, he had been a guest at the hotel under his old Israeli name, but had he been the one to use the pay phone at the hotel to call Mina in Israel? And if so, why use the pay phone?

  I juggled the various plausible answers around in my mind. Whoever had called didn't want the call to be traced to him or her or else was already afraid that any telephone associated with him or her was being monitored.

  If it was DeLouise/Peled who had called, who or what was he afraid of? No answers. Not yet, anyway. But given his probable horizontal position in the city morgue, his concerns had been justified.

  A visit to the morgue confirmed that Popescu/Peled/DeLouise wasn't going anywhere. I had to find Mina and Ariel; they were my only viable leads to DeLouise's money. Where were they? Munich could be just their point of entry to Europe. They could have taken another flight to Timbuktu in the sub-Saharan desert or driven to Finland. And come to think of it, why was I using the plural form: they? Why should I assume that Mina and Ariel had met in Europe?

  I didn't know where to start, although I had a hunch they weren't far away. I decided to stay in Munich for a serious looksee. I suspected that Mina and Ariel must have been here and had left their mark. Did they have anything to do with DeLouise's death? Or were they potential victims?

  Lovejoy left me no information about whether he had contacted the German police. It was too late to call him, so I decided to go to the local precinct and find out what I could. If DeLouise died of natural causes then the police would not be involved. But I had to find out what they knew. I asked the man at the desk if I might speak to the officer in command. My basic workable German, even if not fluent, could help. A few moments later, I was shown to a small office.

  “Good afternoon,” I said as I entered, in the friendliest tone I could muster and politely showing my ID. “My name is Dan Gordon, and, as you can see, I'm with the U.S. Department of Justice. I have an interest in Mr. Dov Peled, who I understand is in the Munich city morgue. Is there a police investigation into the cause of his death? Could I help you out with anything?”

  The officer looked at me with ice-cold eyes, as if I had just vomited on his best suit, and said in excellent English, “I am sorry, sir, this is a German criminal investigation. If your government has a relevant and parallel criminal investigation, I am sure it can find out more through INTERPOL when I send my report to my superiors.” The sarcasm virtually seeped through his pores.

  Hell, I thought, he was right. You wouldn't get a different answer from an American police detective investigating a homicide in Cleveland or Miami. But national sovereignty or not, I had to know Raymond DeLouise's movements and activities after he had left the United States. Besides, the officer confirmed that there was a criminal investigation. I left the police station and returned to the Grand Excelsior.

  A mild-looking, middle-aged man dressed in a ridiculous uniform, too much pomp and circumstance, stood behind the cashier's counter. I told him that I'd come to settle Dov Peled's hotel bill. I sensed he was not about to object.

  “By all means, sir, by all means,” he said quickly, and rattled the keyboard to get the printout.

  The printer started spewing out a surprising number of pages. The clerk stapled them and handed me the lot.

  “Twenty-one thousand, six hundred thirty-two marks and seventy pfennig, please,” he announced coolly.

  I put the packet in my briefcase and said casually, “Thank you, I'll forward it to the family's attorney for his review,” and walked away without waiting to see his astonished look.

  The bastard probably thought I was about to pay this hefty tab. That's all I needed: give the bean counters in Washington yet another reason to climb all over me.

  On my way out I calculated the dollar equivalent. It came to roughly fourteen thousand dollars. I tried to figure out how long he'd had to stay there to amass that charge, given the hotel's top mark rate. Quite a tab for a short stay. It would be interesting to see the details when I reviewed the bill.

  Back in my hotel I started working on my loot. On the top left corner of the invoice appeared his name: Herr Dov Peled. No address. Citizenship: Israeli. Date of check-in: September 20,1990. He had taken the Bavarian Suite at a rate of one thousand German marks per day. Payment method: cash. Manager's note: “Herr Peled is a VIP who has patronized our hotel in the past. He insists on his privacy. Do not discuss this guest with anyone inquiring about him.”

  The invoice listed charge items for minibar use, restaurants at the hotel, dry cleaning service, and more than one hundred phone calls. I pulled out my laptop, keyed in my user name and password, and went directly into the investigative telephone database. People usually have a pattern of calling. If you analyze it you can discover amazing facts. Identify all the numbers called, then let the software pick up the pattern. It's simple but clever. I had designed the application myself on an existing software platform.

  I started with the tedious work of typing in the numbers I'd first highlighted on the invoice. Some of them were local German numbers, but many were international. An hour later I had finished logging them all. I plugged into my room's telephone line and uploaded the data into my office computer in New York. I attached a note to Lan. “Please do a reverse lookup for these numbers.”

  It was late, and I was tired. I shut off the laptop and lay down, satisfied that promising results awaited me the next day and that my investigation was progressing nicely. I fell asleep then and there, street clothes and all.

  Next morning I went back to the Grand Excelsior, avoiding the reception area. I took the elevator to the third floor. A housekeeper was hard at work on the carpet.

  “Excuse me,” I spoke in German over the hum of her vacuum cleaner, “Where is the Bavarian Suite?”

  “It's on the seventh floor,” she replied in strongly accented southern German, and went calmly back to work.

  I took the elevator to the seventh floor. Another housekeeper's service cart was in the hallway, and the door of the Bavarian Suite was open. I walked in. A young waiter was checking the minibar.

  “Excuse me,” I said nonchalantly, “I think I must have left something in the room before I checked out.” He did not respond.

  I looked around. The two-room suite was empty of any personal belongings and already made up. The police must have removed Raymond DeLouise's stuff. I opened the closets and went through the walnut chest-of-drawers, but I couldn't find anything unusual. Finally, I knelt beside the bed and looked under it. There I saw a small yellow Post-it. I grabbed it, put it in my pocket, and left the suite. The waiter never even looked at me.

  In the elevator I checked the note. There was a handwritten telephone number without an area code and a name written in Hebrew: Hans Guttmacher, and a scribble that looked like 2:00 P.M.

  I returned to my own hotel room and called the hotel operator.

  “Excuse me,” I said apologetically, “I received a message to call a Mr. Guttmacher, but I don't know who he is, and I don't want to offend him by calling him back and asking him all sorts of questions. I may have simply forgotten him, and it's quite embarrassing.”

  The operator listened and responded immediately with “No proble
m, sir, let me have the number. I'll call and see if it is a private residence or an office. Maybe that would help you remember.”

  I gave her the number and a few minutes later she rang me back.

  “Well,” she said, “I think I can help you. Mr. Guttmacher is the manager of Bankhaus Bäcker & Haas. This is a bank here in Munich.” Sometimes luck is better than smarts, and this time I was lucky. I'd done a research job on this very bank in connection with another case.

  She gave me the address, which I wrote down on the pad on my night table. I hung up and removed the three blank pages under the sheet on which I'd written. Another old, hard-to-break habit for preventing others from finding out what you'd written on the top sheet by rubbing the one underneath with a pencil. Although I didn't think I had any rivals in this game, caution was never a bad thing. I picked up Peled's Grand Excelsior Hotel bill, scanned through it quickly, and nodded in satisfaction as I spied Guttmacher's number.

  Bankhaus Bäcker & Haas, located in the heart of Munich's business district, occupied a three-story office building. I went directly to a counter and asked the teller to exchange a hundred dollar bill. Without comment, she passed the bill through a machine to check its authenticity. I suppose she was checking to make sure I wasn't offering her a banknote I'd printed earlier in my basement. She must have been satisfied with the result because she quickly and efficiently handed me 156.77 German marks. I looked around. The place looked old-fashioned, with wood paneled walls and a slight smell of stale carpets mixed with a strong cigarette odor. I took two brochures off the counter and left.

  Outside, I looked at them. They were routine, describing all sorts of financial services the bank offered. Their logo had the German eagle and the words “Ganz Privat und Sehr Personlich,” which translates as “Totally private and very personal.” I went to a pay phone at the street corner and called the bank.

  “Bankhaus Bäcker & Haas,” announced the receptionist in an abrupt voice.