Haggai Carmon - Triple Identity

“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 fiance, 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 fiances 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 fiance 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.