Haggai Carmon - Triple Identity

Roberto DiMarco then said, “We gave DeLouise a list of equipment and supplies we need. And now he's disappeared. As his partner, we're expecting answers from you.”

The two Iranians looked at me impassively waiting. I had to show that I was in the loop or the meeting would end there and then. The only card I had was my knowledge of DeLouise's Moscow plans; I had to share that knowledge with them. Otherwise, why on earth would these guys believe a complete stranger?

“DeLouise had plans to go to Moscow tomorrow, he'd already made airline reservations on Lufthansa. He may have left earlier, I don't know. He didn't leave me any instructions.”

DiMarco stared at me. “Anything else? Have you talked to DeLouise recently?”

“No,” I conceded, “when I arrived I couldn't find him either.” Some truth wouldn't hurt, I thought. “However, if you're really interested in moving this thing forward, you'll have to help me do it. I don't have DeLouise's lists. So one option would be to wait until DeLouise shows up. The other option is to work with me. All I have is my sincere wish to go along with you, so I suggest we stop playing hide-and-seek.”

When no negative reaction came, I took the initiative.

“Mr. Guttmacher, would you please bring copies of the documents you gave DeLouise?”

All eyes turned to Guttmacher.

Guttmacher moved in his chair, his eyes shifting from me to the Iranians to DiMarco and back. Armajani nodded to Guttmacher in approval. Guttmacher got up and went to his office. I heard the sound of metal drawers opening and closing. In a moment he returned to the conference room with a file folder. We watched his movements.

“This is the DeLouise master file,” he said and threw it on the conference room table.

I was the only one who reached for it. The folder was almost two inches thick. I opened it and started to quickly run through its contents. It had several pages of correspondence between DeLouise and Broncotrade, a ten-page document in English on onionskin paper with a letterhead in Arabic script, and photocopies of bank statements and wire transfers.

“That's enough,” said Farbod Kutchemeshgi, after less than a minute. He reached for the file folder. It was the first time he'd opened his mouth or moved.

“For example, take lithium-6 compounds, palladium, and beryllium,” Armajani's voice caught me off guard. “They are on the top of the list. Do you have any answers?”

“No,” I conceded, “at least not yet. I need to go over the list and try to follow DeLouise's lead.” I didn't like the situation or the suspicious way they were looking at me.

“This is it, for now. You are not taking any lists from this office. DeLouise received information from us, took our money, promised progress in Moscow, and disappeared. That will not happen again.” The implied threat in his voice was obvious.

“How long would it take you to find out?” asked Farbod Kutchemeshgi, ignoring what Armajani had just said.

“I don't know yet, but I understand the urgency.” I thought it was a reasonable response that would have been acceptable in any business circumstance. Evidently, it was unsatisfactory here.

“Look at me,” said Armajani slowly, in a whispering tone that echoed across the room. “We haven't got much time, and the same goes for you. We need results; we need answers. DeLouise fed us his bullshit and we have no patience for yours! The only way you could prove that you're indeed DeLouise's partner is by delivering on his promises. Otherwise…” he didn't finish the sentence, but I got the message. I could feel cold sweat traveling slowly down my spine.

“We gave DeLouise an advance on the Russian delivery and we want results. Now!” He raised his voice a couple of levels. I looked at Guttmacher. He was pale. The poor schmuck was visibly unnerved.

“I came here to help you out. So I don't think shouting or threatening me will get you anywhere. I'm willing to continue from the point DeLouise left off, but I must know what it is.”

They waited for me to continue.

“You say that you need lithium compounds, palladium, and beryllium. I need to know quantities, payment, and delivery arrangements. You don't buy this stuff by mail order, do you? If you can't tell me now, I'll look for DeLouise and his files and get back to you with my answers if I ever find him.” This was a good time to see if my last sentence triggered their attention. If they had anything to do with DeLouise's murder or if they knew about it, I could expect some human reaction. When none came, I had to conclude that either they were not human or they knew nothing about it.

I remembered what Eric told me about the Soviet scientists looking to make an extra buck and the mention of Moscow by Armajani, so I added, “If you hold your cards so close to your chest, you make it difficult for me to help you.”

“What do you mean?” asked Kutchemeshgi.

I was making progress. After the mental battle, logic and necessity won out over suspicion, though not by much.

“I mean that DeLouise got your money but I don't know if he made any payment to the Soviets. You're not telling me, DeLouise isn't around to tell me, how am I supposed to know? You may end up paying double, or not getting the goods at all, just because you're stubborn. How can you expect me to work for you while you blindfold me?”

“What guarantee do we have that you won't disappear on us like your friend DeLouise?” And when I thought he was finished Kutchemeshgi added, “How do I know you're not an American spy?”

“You don't,” I said, regaining my confidence. “You've told me nothing, I never received any money from you, I owe you nothing, but I'm still agreeing to help you. And if you believe I'm a spy, we can end the meeting right now. This may assure you are not divulging any information to a spy but will also guarantee you the dead end you were faced with before I arrived. Besides, what's espionage got to do with it? Everyone knows that Iran is trying to make commercial purchases in the world's markets. Why the secrets?” I remembered what Alex had taught: “At a certain juncture in this kind of negotiation, make a show of frankness.” I wasn't sure it would work with Iranians, whose national heritage and tradition is to negotiate. But apparently my approach worked.

“All right,” answered Armajani, although I looked at Kutchemeshgi. “We'll go along with you for now. Here is your first mission: I want you to retrieve the file DeLouise was holding. Then we'll talk.” Another cold chill went down my spine. “But we'll be watching you.”

I got up and left the room. I didn't even offer a handshake. I had achieved a few things though; they'd agreed to talk if I found the file.

Back on the street I kept my eyes open for Lovejoy or any of Eric's goons. I knew they wouldn't try to make contact with me, but I also knew they were close by. I picked up a cab and told the driver to take a detour or two, then headed back to my hotel, thinking hard.

I tried to put the pieces of the puzzle together. The people in the meeting didn't seem to know that DeLouise was dead. Either that or else they were worthy of Oscar nominations. But given what I had just heard in the meeting, DeLouise's disappearance had stalled their efforts. So, I concluded, the Iranians hadn't killed DeLouise. It must have been somebody else. On the other hand, as all lawyers like to say, if the Iranians had killed him that meant that he was expendable. As always, surprises were possible and expected.

In the cab I scribbled the names of the compounds I had seen on the list before Armajani had taken the file from me. I went straight to my room and was met with one of those surprises – a well-built stranger of a man. Before I could open my mouth, he said, “I'm Tom and I work for Eric. He has asked me to bring you over to see him.”