Triple Identity

by Haggai Carmon

  I grabbed my notes and put the list back into the envelope. I stuffed it all into the inner pocket of my blazer and went back to Helga's workstation. She was out, but Ron Lovejoy was sitting at his desk with his office door open.

  “Good afternoon, Ron,” I said, from the doorway, “Can you spare me a minute?”

  “Sure,” he said, “come right in.”

  I sat in a chair across the desk from him. Lovejoy was a well-built, clean-shaven man in his late forties with gray hair and rimless reading glasses. He must have been a jogger or maybe spent a lot of time at a health club. The thought made me feel rather guilty When I'd joined the Israeli army, I had barely 175 pounds on my 6′4″ frame. And now? Well, never mind. I knew I had to do something about it and kept promising myself to change things. But somehow, between cases and trips, I never really got around to it. If I were three inches taller, my weight would be OK. I'm not overweight, I told my friends who'd criticized my few extra pounds, I'm just short.

  “Well, the clues I dug up in Israel led me here, and I'm hoping I'll find an ex-wife and the daughter, Mina Bernstein and Ariel Peled.”

  “So you haven't found DeLouise yet.”

  “Yes, I did. He's dead.” I realized I had not yet shared this information with Lovejoy He'd left his office before I'd called David Stone in Washington with the news.

  He didn't react when I told him about my visit to the morgue. Sitting behind that consulate desk didn't expose him to those kinds of stories; it was probably his field service in the FBI that made morgue visits sound routine.

  “How long would it take to get a copy of the German police report?” I asked.

  “Well, it depends. Usually they don't share their investigations with us unless they need our help. When that happens, we insist on getting all the details before we send Washington a request for FBI assistance.”

  “Is there a better way?” I asked.

  “Frankly, though it sounds convoluted, the easiest and fastest way to get that report is for an FBI agent working the bank investigation in the States to send a message through INTERPOL mentioning the U.S. criminal investigation of DeLouise and asking urgently for a copy. Make sure he asks for a faxed copy of the complete report in German — ask INTERPOL specifically not to translate it. If the Germans and INTERPOL are willing, that will speed things up. The Bureau can get it translated once it arrives.”

  “I think my retirement could come up before we see this report travel through channels. Have they asked for your assistance?”

  “No,” he said, “at least not yet. I didn't even know he'd died until you told me. But give them time; they work slowly but meticulously. But at least, if they send a request to the U.S. through INTERPOL, they usually come and ask me to have the Bureau get them the same thing. I'm sure they'd like to have his criminal record, if there is one. Plus a background check to discover potential enemies. All that takes time.”

  “That's exactly why I'm trying to work concurrent to the criminal investigation,” I said. “If the German police insist upon completing their criminal probe before telling you anything, my own chances of making progress here are slim. His assets won't wait for the Germans to finish what they're doing. Assets of the dead have a tendency to dissipate and disappear quickly. And the assets of someone who might have been killed because of them vanish even faster.”

  Lovejoy looked at me. “Homicide investigations take precedence over civil matters. You know that.”

  I knew that, but the criminal investigation was German while the civil asset chase was American. However, I wasn't about to argue with him or wait for things to run their course. Under the rules, the legat is the representative of the U.S. Department of Justice in the country, and even if not an attorney, he or she outranks DOJ lawyers temporarily in country. So, in fact, Lovejoy was my superior in Munich. I had a feeling that unless I moved fast, the assets would. But give a little to get more. I had to share more information on DeLouise with Lovejoy.

  “There is a slight twist to this story. The person in the morgue is Raymond DeLouise, a U.S. citizen, but he was registered at the hotel, and probably elsewhere in Germany, as Dov Peled, an Israeli citizen.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Dov Peled is the legal name he had while living in Israel in the 1950s. Shortly before his assassination, he was hiding in Europe from disgruntled minority shareholders of his bank and from U.S. law-enforcement agencies, hoping that his resurrected name would shield him.”

  “Apparently, it hasn't,” said Lovejoy sarcastically.

  “I guess not,” I agreed. “We have to let the German police know about his double identity if we want their assistance. Otherwise, why would the American Consulate become interested in the murder of an Israeli citizen with no apparent ties to the United States?”

  “Are you sure Peled is DeLouise and vice versa?” asked the legat.

  “As sure as I can be from comparing the face in the morgue to the passport photo the Justice Department gave me.”

  “OK, I guess I can call my contacts at the police. I'll simply tell them that Peled was a U.S. citizen who also legally used the name DeLouise, and that he was a fugitive from U.S. justice, so we'd appreciate details of their investigation.”

  I nodded. “Can you do that now? I need to see what they have so far. Maybe they won't be so formal.”

  “I can try,” said Lovejoy, “but don't hold your breath. These guys go by the rules.”

  “Could you also ask them about Mina and Ariel? I'd like to know whether their names appear on a missing persons report.”

  “That's easy,” said Lovejoy. “I'll call you when I have something.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “I'm going to head back to my hotel now.”

  I picked up a message from the reception desk and went to my room. I reached into my pocket for the room key and out came the car keys as well. I had forgotten about the rented BMW, still parked outside the consulate. I was getting absentminded, this time not true to my Mossad training.

  I opened the message envelope and read: “Ron called and asked that you return to his office immediately. He has important information.”

  I went straight back in a cab. An opportunity to retrieve the forgotten BMW had just been handed to me.

  Back at the consulate, I went quickly through security checks and up to Lovejoy's office. He was on the phone. He looked up and waved an invitation to sit down.

  A minute later he hung up and smiled at me. “Welcome back. It's been a while, hasn't it? Anyway, I've got some news. A bit too special for a phone conversation. And not about DeLouise. I told the Germans about our man's multiple identities and asked for their help. I still don't have an answer on that, but not too long after they called and told me something that may be helpful to you.

  “Apparently, Ariel Peled appeared at the police station downtown here in Munich to complain that two men were following her. When the policeman, a Sergeant Baumann, went outside to see them, as she insisted, he couldn't find anyone. So he brushed her off. Later that day, the owner of a motorcycle garage complained that two men attempted to steal a motorcycle parked outside his garage. When he noticed them through his window he went after them, and they escaped on a different motorcycle — apparently the one they came on. Sergeant Baumann described them as young, in their early thirties, with darkish skin, black hair, and medium builds. Could be Hispanic, Turkish, or from the Middle East. The garage owner got their motorcycle's plate number.”

  “And?” I asked anxiously.

  “It had been reported stolen the day before. The description of these guys matched the description Ariel gave of the men who followed her.”

  “Did she leave her address with the policemen?”

  “No. As I said, he thought she was imagining things, so he didn't write a report or anything. But he remembered her name and that she spoke English with an accent, and that she looked shaken up.”

  “And he let her go?!” I asked in disbelief.

&nbs
p; “Yes, I guess so. He didn't have any reason to question her or anything.”

  “Did she say anything else?” I pressed.

  “I don't know. Why don't you go there and ask him? No investigation is pending, so he might cooperate. Tell him you're a boyfriend or something.”

  “Thanks Ron,” I said. “Surely worth a special trip from the hotel. Now I'll need a secure phone for a couple of minutes. Can you provide?”

  “No problem,” Lovejoy replied, and promptly showed me into an adjoining office.

  “It's all yours. We're here to help.”

  I had no trouble reaching Benny in Tel Aviv. “I'm in Munich. I found our guy, mostly thanks to you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He registered at the hotel under his Israeli name, that's why we couldn't find him earlier. And it was you who gave me his previous identity.”

  “Don't mention it. Is he still in Munich?”

  “Yes, in the morgue. He was assassinated in the street before I came.”

  There was a pause, then Benny responded. “Well, that I didn't expect.” His reaction didn't sound convincing. He continued, “Any information coming in on who might have pulled this off?”

  “No, the German police are working on it now. By the way, since he was registered here as an Israeli citizen, I'm sure the German police notified the Israeli Consulate. So maybe the foreign ministry would have more details than I do at the moment.”

  “Thanks for telling me,” said Benny.

  “I'll keep in touch,” I said, and hung up. Was I the last to know? Something was happening, but I was out of the loop.

  I left Ron's office and drove to the police station.

  It smelled of cigarette smoke and muddy water. A man with a glazed look was mopping the floor. He looked like a prisoner serving his term. I went to the desk and asked for Sergeant Baumann. I was directed to an office in the back. Sergeant Baumann was a very short and portly policeman in his early fifties. He looked like a man who'd seen and heard it all.

  “Sergeant Baumann?”

  “Ja,” he said, looking up. When he realized I was an American, he added, “I don't speak English too well.”

  “My friends at the American Consulate told me that you saw my fiancé, Ariel Peled.”

  He gave me a puzzled look, and I continued. “She's from Israel? She came to complain about two guys following her?” I hoped it would ring a bell in his shrinking brain.

  He paused for a second. “Ja, Ja, I remember now, nice girl from Israel,” he said, scratching his head.

  I tried to speak slowly. “You see, I came from the United States to meet her, but she didn't show up for our meeting, and now I don't know where to look. Did she tell you where she stayed?”

  “There are too many questions about this woman,” he said, as if he knew more.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, first, this morning. Two other persons with a funny accent (he said “ak-tsent”) came asking about her. Now you. Tell me, how many fiancés she had?” he asked sarcastically. He hadn't believed a word I'd told him.

  I wanted to punch him, but I reminded myself that I wasn't Ariel's fiancé after all, so as a substitute display of hurt emotions, I gave him a look to show how vexed I was by his sarcasm. He didn't seem to care.

  “Did she say where she was staying?”

  “No.”

  “Did you notice any more details about her?”

  “No,” he said. “She told me that she left Mielke Bank on the next street and saw two guys. At first she thought they were trying to,” he paused, searching for the right word, “you know, to meet her. But then when they did not come closer and just followed her, she was afraid that they were trying to rob her. So she stopped and asked a person in the street where the police station was, and she came right over. We are just around the corner.”

  I tried to remain calm. “Mielke Bank,” I repeated. “Where is it?”

  “On Marsstrasse,” he answered, “It's just around the corner. I walked with her outside. I couldn't see them and told her that she should go home and if she is still followed, then she could call the police again.”

  “Did you ask her name?”

  “Yes, she told me at the beginning that her name was Ariel Peled and that she was a tourist from Israel. She thanked me and left. She was dressed in a black pants suit with a white shirt. That's all I remember. Later on during the daily activity review session in our station, I heard that two men tried to steal a BMW motor-tsykel.” I nodded. He continued, “I told my officer that the description I heard from the woman was similar to the description of those men who tried to steal the motor-tsykel.”

  I left the station. Police sergeants are all the same, no matter what language they speak. But it was another break for me. I placed another call to Israel, this time to my private-investigator buddy Ralph Lampert.

  “I need something unusual,” I said.

  “Go ahead. I'm an adult, you can ask me anything.”

  “Good,” I said, “I need an official-looking power of attorney, signed by Ariel Peled, giving me general banking powers on her behalf. See that it carries the authentication of the German Embassy in Tel Aviv.”

  “Do you want it real or funny?”

  “I just need it, as soon as possible, but it must be dated before September 24,1990. Make sure the date won't be on a Saturday, Sunday, or during Jewish or German holidays — the embassy is closed then. You can obtain a sample of Ariel's signature from her ID card file at the Ministry of the Interior.”

  “Then it must be a custom-made repro,” he said. “Do you want me to use Tibor?”

  Now that was a name I hadn't heard in a long time. Tibor was a document artist at the Mossad. A Holocaust refugee from Hungary, he'd escaped to Israel, where the Mossad soon spotted his talents. Tibor could fake any document with such perfection that even the original creator would not be able to tell the difference. “Official” documents were his specialty.

  “Is he still alive? Last I saw him he was about to retire, and that was ten years ago.”

  “Alive and kicking. He looks his age, but his hands are steady as ever.”

  “Good, I'll call you tomorrow. Just push it.”

  On my way back to the hotel I passed the Mielke Bank. It looked like any other. I decided not to tell David about the homemade power of attorney; sometimes “need to know” includes keeping even your own boss in the dark.

  I entered the hotel restaurant and ordered the biggest veal schnitzel they had. A schnitzel as big as a carpet came with potatoes and cabbage. It set me up for a good night's sleep.

  Early morning on the following day I called Ralph. “Well?” I asked.

  “It's ready. The old man worked on it last night; it's just one page. Where do you want it delivered?”

  “Send it by DHL to my hotel, but do not indicate your name or return address on the envelope. Pay them in cash.”

  The envelope came in the next day. It was too early to go to the bank, so I drove the streets of Munich trying to reconstruct DeLouise's movements and what had happened to him. I went to the street corner where he'd been shot. A professional job. The hitman had selected a congested area where an experienced motorcyclist would have no problem disappearing while any police cars in pursuit would be caught in the traffic. That was clever. On the other hand, I was reluctant to give him that much credit. After all, he had shot DeLouise only once and my training had emphasized that to be absolutely certain that your victim is dead, more than one shot is needed, especially if you retreat immediately and cannot return to complete the job. “Death verification” was the chilling term. He hadn't done that, so I downgraded him to semiprofessional.

  It was time to go to Mielke Bank. I went through revolving doors and asked to see the assistant manager. A heavy woman with eyeglasses on a chain over her ample bosom approached me. “I'm the assistant manager,” she said sternly, “yes?”

  I showed her my power of attorney.

>   “I'm attorney Dan Gordon,” I said. “I have a power of attorney signed by your client Ms. Ariel Peled. I need to get copies of her records.”

  The assistant manager looked at the power of attorney I gave her and snapped, “Please wait.” She walked away, the paper in her hand. She seemed so regimented that I was sure that when she walked into a room, mice would jump on chairs. She returned ten or fifteen minutes later.

  “Problem. Miss Peled has only a safe-deposit box at the bank but no account.”

  “Good,” I said, ignoring the negative beginning of her statement.

  “But under the bank's policy, we need a special power of attorney. That's a form our bank issues. We can't accept this document,” she ended, returning the power of attorney I had given her.

  I couldn't believe my luck, even if it outwardly looked like a rejection.

  “At this time I don't need to open the safe-deposit box,” I said. “She moves between Israel and Germany, but all I have is her Israeli address. So let me see what local address she gave you. I'll leave a message for her to come in and sign the bank's form. I am an attorney working for her in an estate matter. As you can see, she signed this document before the German Consul in Tel Aviv and I don't know if she's still in Israel or here. I must return soon to the United States. It was entirely my mistake not knowing your procedures. I'm sure that the power of attorney I have is enough to see what local address she gave you.”

  “Wait,” she ordered, looking annoyed, and walked back into her office.

  I had aimed low when I'd asked for the address, but for my current purpose, that's what I needed to help me trace Ariel.

  The assistant manager came out a few minutes later.

  “The manager allowed me to give you the details you wanted, but you cannot see the actual signature card or open the safe.”

  “That's fine,” I said, thinking it was better than nothing, particularly when it was just what I wanted at the moment.

  She pulled out a white sheet of paper and read it to me.