Haggai Carmon - Triple Identity

“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.

“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.”