“Hello,” said a woman's voice in English. “You left me a message?”
Strange, I thought, it didn't sound like Mina Bernstein. This woman had a deeper voice than Mina's and her tone was far more aggressive. It was definitely not Mrs. Bernstein. But who would be impersonating her, and why?
“Yes,” said a man with an accent I could not immediately identify. “Who are you?”
“I'm Mina Bernstein. Where is my daughter? I want to talk to her.”
“She's OK,” said the man, “but you must give me what I want first.”
I still couldn't place his accent.
“What do you want?” asked the woman.
“DeLouise gave Ariel an envelope. I want it,” he said firmly.
“But if he gave it to Ariel, how can I give it to you?” asked the woman. “Tell me what it is, or if you know where it is, I'll look for it.”
“Ariel says you have access to it.”
“I don't understand. Let me talk to Ariel. Maybe she could explain it to me. I haven't received anything from Ariel; I haven't even seen her in Germany. This must be a big mistake. Let me talk to her. If I have what you want, I'll give it to you. I promise.” With the same breath she added, “Where can I meet you?”
“You can't meet me. Call this number again tomorrow at the same time. And if you call the police, Ariel will die,” he said abruptly and hung up.
I waited a few seconds then heard his voice again as he spoke to the person next to him, and I finally placed his accent. It was Spanish.
“La putana! Ariel was lying to us. I'll kill her!”
“What did the woman say?” asked another voice.
“She said that she doesn't have any papers from Ariel. We'll have to go back and squeeze the little bitch.”
“Wait,” said the other voice. “Let me call the boss first. We can't call from the apartment.”
Then I heard another series of touch-tone beeps. A man's voice answered the phone, “Ja?”
“It's me,” said the voice in English. “The woman called. She says she has no papers but she wants to meet.”
A pause. “Are you sure she didn't contact the police?”
His voice sounded familiar but I couldn't place it. He also had an accent — German, if anything, surely — it certainly wasn't Spanish.
“She never mentioned it and she was very anxious to see Ariel. She isn't stupid enough to do that.”
“OK, get back to the apartment and I'll call you there.”
“Yes, boss.”
The boss's accent came through again. It was clearly German. Was I just imagining that the speaker sounded familiar?
The tape ended. I turned off the recorder, marked the date and time on the cassette label, and put it in my pocket.
I sat at my desk thinking through next steps. The first move was easy; speaking of bosses, I had to report to Stone.
I went out to the street, found a pay phone, and used my prepaid phone card to call Washington.
“David,” I said, “things are getting hotter here.”
“I guess you don't mean the weather.”
“No,” I smiled, “the German weather is cooling but our climate is warming. I have a safe-deposit box I suspect contains papers my target gave his daughter in Munich before he was killed. It's possible that he had already felt the heat. Next, the daughter called her mother in Israel. The mother came to Munich looking for her daughter, who shortly was kidnapped. It didn't make the papers.”
David listened attentively, as always. “Are the German police on the kidnap matter as well?”
“Certainly,” I said. “I'm also trying to help them. They don't seem to appreciate it, but you know me. I hang on anyway.”
“Don't create a turf war.”
“Well, some kind of war is already on,” I countered.
“What the hell do you mean by that?”
“Something is brewing but I'm not sure exactly what it is. Just to identify one player, I suspect the Israelis are in on this matter as well. I mean the Israeli government.”
Stone let this one hang for a moment, then came at me. “What do you make of it? These are your people, after all.”
“Well, our friend was in their service more than thirty years ago, but I don't understand their current interest. Assistance could come now for old times’ sake, or maybe he had something they wanted as well.”
“So where is the war?” puzzled David.
“I'm guessing they're not the only ones following my target's trail; there seem to be others.”
“What others? Do you know who they are? You should always know who you're up against.”
“Take it easy, I'm working on it. The problem is that I'm not sure each player has the same goal. The people holding the daughter have a distinct agenda. They want to get some papers her father gave her.”
“Do you know who they could be?”
“Could be Latinos. I suspect that in addition to the Latinos and the Israelis, there are others. I'm walking in a fog, and every now and then I bump into something.”
“Don't let me lose you,” said Stone with genuine concern. “Is the legat helping you?”
“As much as he can, I guess. Don't worry; I always land on my feet. I'm more concerned with what's going on around my dead target.”
“With all the international interest in this guy, I'm surprised he managed to live sixty-three years.”
“The whole thing is a mystery,” I agreed. “There are too many players, and all of them seem somewhat in the dark.”
“I'll have to report this to the State Department,” said Stone, somewhat reluctantly.
“I guess so,” I said. Scandals in foreign lands are their territory. Since I was working out of the consulate, Ron Lovejoy was kept in the loop. It was his job to keep the ambassador informed. Then it was the ambassador's job to do the same with the State Department. But I knew David — he covered all the bases.
I went back to my room, looked at the yellow pad on the desk, and drew several square boxes. In the middle box I wrote “DeLouise.” Then I drew a line to another box and wrote “Ariel” in it; next to it, in a separate box I wrote “Mina.” I drew five additional boxes on the side and inserted in each a different name: “Mossad,” “German police,” “U.S. Department of Justice,” “Latinos,” and finally a question mark, for all others yet to emerge.
I looked at the pad again and tried to identify each group's interest in DeLouise.
The German police: That was easy. They wanted Ariel, and to prosecute anyone involved in her kidnapping and in her father's murder.
The U.S. Department of Justice: That was a two-pronged effort. I was after DeLouise's money, but that trail now seemed to pass through Ariel and Mina. So I was stuck with them as well. And the criminal division, through INTERPOL, was trying to locate DeLouise so that it could request his extradition to the United States for trial. Although INTERPOL does handle requests for police interviews of witnesses, many countries, including Germany, require either an MLAT request under a Mutual Legal Assistance Treaty between the countries or a letter rogatory — a formal request from a court in one country to the appropriate judicial authorities in another country — for such interviews and have such questioning done by (or, less often, supervised by) a magistrat, with a greffier — a legal assistant of the court — making a procés-verbal of it.
If the person to be interviewed abroad is a suspect or the target of an investigation, the matter becomes sticky. The United States would not send Germany a letter rogatory for the questioning of an actual defendant. And there's no international criminal-law mechanism for compelling a person to return to the States just for questioning. Although DeLouise was dead, rendering this issue irrelevant, I still wanted to know if Germany had commenced with an investigation following a request through INTERPOL. In that case their findings could become handy for my investigation. I made a mental note to ask David to find out.
Finally, the Mossad: If they were in on
this, as I suspected, I had no idea what their objectives might be. To get Ariel? To help Mina? To get something DeLouise gave Ariel? Did they want the same thing the Latinos wanted? What documents could DeLouise have held that could cause such havoc?
I went out to the street again to call Benny at the Mossad. It was cold and drizzling. I was going to catch pneumonia just so I could maintain confidentiality. There had to be a better way.
There was no answer on Benny's direct line. I left a message on his voice mail asking him to call my New York number. I called his home. No answer there. I called Blecher at the Munich police headquarters but a detective told me that he was gone for the day.
I went up to my room, activated the touch-tone-identifier software on my laptop, and replayed the audiotape recording of the call the Latinos made from the pay phone. The identifier quickly interpreted the touch tone beeps into numbers: 2-3-5-9-9-0-9. This was probably a local number, since no area code was punched. I called the police station again, asking them to trace Blecher for me. Where were all these guys when I needed them? Nobody called me back and I fell asleep.
The next morning I woke up in a belligerent mood. A delay in my efforts here meant more guilt for being away from my children and increased pressure from David to produce results. After spending most of the morning writing my report, I took a cab to Mielke Bank. I was determined to get access to the safe-deposit box. If Mina was with the Mossad guys, she might tell them about the box. They would ask her to open it, and I would be chopped liver.
At the bank I asked to talk to the legal counsel. He wasn't available. I asked to talk to his assistant. A slim young man with short blond hair and rimless glasses showed up.
“How may I help you?”
“My name is Dan Gordon,” I said and handed him the Tibor-made power of attorney. “I'm here about the safe-deposit box rented by Ariel Peled, and …”
“I already know the details, Herr Gordon,” he interrupted me mid-sentence, “but I'm afraid there is nothing to be done without Ms. Peled's signature.”
“Look,” I said aggressively, “I am an attorney from the United States. I have a power of attorney from an owner of a safe-deposit box, signed in Israel before the German Consul. A few days ago the bank refused to honor it, telling me that it must be signed on a bank-issued form. Then the owner of the box came to Munich and signed your damn form here at the bank, in front of the assistant manager. Hours later I was told that since there were two owners of the box, I needed authorization from both owners.” I paused and added venomously, “Nobody bothered to tell us that earlier.”
“That's precisely what the rules say,” said the lawyer, looking a bit startled at my belligerence. “Well, I don't think so,” I said, my anger brewing. “Look at the signature card of the bank, which was generated when the box was rented.” He looked at it. “Now tell me, can each owner open the box without the presence of the other?”
He looked at the form again and said faintly, “Yes.”
“Now,” I continued, like a teacher in a school for the intellectually challenged at the end of a long day, “as I am sure you know, a power of attorney is a delegation of power by the principal appointing another person or entity to act on the principal's behalf, having the same powers as the principal has or those he has delegated, right?”
He was starting to get the picture.
“So, if Mina Bernstein could open the box independently of Ariel Peled, and empty it, she could also give me that same power. And, sir, your games,” I spat, finally letting my rage burst, some real and some inflated, “are causing my client severe financial damage, which I intend to recover from the bank and from anyone involved in this delaying tactic!”
I was following the advice Alex had given us. “Always aim your veiled threats against the person standing in your way in an otherwise indifferent bureaucracy; make it personal. The bigger the organization, and the smaller the hurdle you are trying to pass, the more chances the person will yield. He or she wouldn't want to be blamed for creating a legal mess. Who'll defend them if they are personally named in a complaint or a lawsuit?” This time, no veil disguised the threat. It was unequivocal and direct.
“Wait here,” said the assistant. He seemed pleased to walk away.
I must have sounded convincing because he didn't give me an argument. I sank into the soft leather couch next to the legal counsel's office and looked around. Moments later he returned and said, “OK, I checked the power of attorney Mina Bernstein signed, and it seems to be in order. I'll take you to the vault.”
“Thank you,” I said, “but I don't have a key. Yesterday the assistant manager prepared the keys but I never received them.” Then as a second thought I added, “Do you know if Mrs. Bernstein received her set of keys before she left?”
“No,” he said, “I have the envelope with her keys.” That was a relief, since it meant that Mina hadn't opened the box.
“I'll take the keys and give them to her,” I said, holding out an open hand.
He hesitated.
“Remember, I have full power of attorney,” I reminded him.
He relented and gave me the envelope. “At this time we are honoring only the power of attorney Mrs. Bernstein signed here. Here is the one signed in Israel. Please ask Ms. Peled to come in and sign our own form.”
He returned the power of attorney Tibor had prepared.
Frankly, I couldn't have cared less why he was yielding, as long as I could get access to the box. I followed him to the lower floor, went through a chrome-plated, metal-barred door, then a ten-inch-thick steel door, and finally into the safe-deposit box area. I opened the key envelope, took one key and read the number — 114. The box was in an upper row. I inserted my key and my guide inserted his master key into the slot. The box opened.
“I'll wait here until you're finished,” he said, moving into the adjacent room to allow me privacy.
I composed myself, resolving to be businesslike. But excitement overtook me. Here was the information I'd been looking for, and it might give me new insight into Dov Peled. The safe-deposit box door opened and inside was a white envelope. I took the envelope, put it in the inner pocket of my jacket, locked the box, took the key, and left the room. I looked at my wristwatch; it was 1:15 P.M.
The main door of the bank was closed and I was directed to a side door. As I stepped out, I noticed a shadow to one side. I felt a hard, sharp blow on my head. Then blackness.
The first thing I heard when I came to was the sound of an elevator door opening and footsteps. Then I felt the thick, sweet taste of blood in my mouth. My blood. I was half sitting on the floor, breathing heavily. I was dizzy, disoriented. My head was a ball of pain. I felt wetness. Darkness, more pain. There were voices around me, speaking in German. Where was I? The darkness began to clear and I saw the blurred figure of someone trying to help me get up.
“Mein Gott,”I heard a man's voice say, coming through the pain. “He is bleeding.”
I lifted my left hand and touched my face. It was sticky and warm. There was blood coming from my nose and forehead. I raised myself slightly and leaned against the wall.
My head began to clear. I realized I'd been hit — hard. I reached into the inner pocket of my jacket. The envelope was still there. That was all that mattered, but I knew I'd better move out of there fast.
“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?”
Triple Identity Page 12
