Haggai Carmon - Triple Identity

As a result Saddam had had to wait almost two years for the next shipment. Again, Israel wouldn't allow it, and Israeli jets flew one thousand kilometers and destroyed the reactor site in Iraq just shortly before it became “hot.” As usual, political hypocrisy went into operation, with public rebuke of Israel but a silent satisfaction that the Israelis had done the dirty work of others. “It was a world-class ‘bang and burn,’” I said.

“Yes, but anyway it's not for me to decide if Israel should participate in the planned break-in into Guttmacher's office,” Benny continued, taking the last bites of his sandwich and bending forward, trying to keep the oozing sauce from staining his pants and then throwing the paper napkin into a garbage can on the street corner. “My recommendations would come only from the operational perspective. We should let the politicians make their own decisions, or mistakes. Do you remember the MOG rule?” No, I hadn't forgotten the rule governing break-ins, commonly referred to by its Hebrew acronym. But Benny answered the question anyway. “Operations and incursions must be approved by the prime minister. Although I believe that the planned break-in is not included in the list of activities requiring preapproval, in the ‘cover your ass’ atmosphere I wouldn't be surprised if the head of the Mossad would nevertheless seek an approval.”

“You still haven't told me what you know about Raymond DeLouise and the Soviets,” I persisted.

“Let's talk inside. Eric must clear it first. I don't want to be caught in a turf war here.”

We took separate entrances and went to the seventh floor.

“Food is here. And it's about time!” said Tom, when he opened the door. I noticed that although we were expected, Tom had a. 38 in his hand as he opened the door.

We went to the table and distributed the food.

“Eat,” said Benny to Eric, Tom, and Jeff. “Probably your first shot at kosher food. Enjoy it!” It was only the second time I saw Eric smile.

Eric's mouth was full now, so it was a good time to ask him about the information that the Mossad had given him on DeLouise's contacts with the Soviets. After he heard what I was about to say, he'd choke – an outcome that was not undesirable in my book. “Eric, I was under the impression that while I'm here to help you, you would also provide me with some information on my own case. I am aware that Benny shared information with you on DeLouise and I've been the last to find out about it. Last time I checked, you and I work for the same government.”

“There was never any such understanding,” said Eric coolly. “The Justice Department had agreed to attach you to our operation because of your familiarity with DeLouise's affairs and your initial contact with Guttmacher. I don't know of any agreement in which I give you what I have. You're the one who's giving, not me.”

I couldn't believe my ears. The guy had more nerve than I thought. My mother used to call it chutzpah, and I was about to call it quits. I got up and said, “In that case, I'm leaving, and you can call the Justice Department if you don't like it.” Although I had started this tirade as partly genuine and partly staged, I now felt real anger surging in me. Benny, who sensed the storm coming, quickly said, “I'm sorry, it's my fault. I told Dan that I gave you what we have on DeLouise's European activities and his Soviet and other connections. I didn't intend to create a rift. We all need Dan in this matter.”

Eric swallowed his food. “We do work for the same government, but I can't allow you to use the same information we are working on and potentially risk CIA operations.”

“Look,” I said, “you have no monopoly on information. The fact that the Mossad has given you whatever they gave you means only that they have that information. I could have developed it independently, and I'm sure others have it as well. I'll run my business, and you'll run yours, but you can't stop me from doing my job. In my asset-recovery work, when I come across information that could be useful to another U.S. government law-enforcement agency, I relay it on. Nobody has ever tried to control me the way you do. You want to work together? Fine. You don't? That's also fine, but I've had enough of your little games.”

Eric looked almost guilty, conceding that he'd overdone it. He didn't need me walking out on him, reporting to Washington about his tactics and making him look like someone who couldn't coordinate a multi-agency operation. That wouldn't look good on his efficiency report. After all, I wasn't asking him for confidential national-security information. I didn't even ask him to reveal his sources; the source was sitting in the same room with us. So why the bullheadedness?

“Look,” said Eric, in his best conciliatory voice, which wasn't much to begin with, “I wouldn't mind giving you more information on DeLouise, but you'll have to agree to coordinate with me so that you won't accidentally expose our other sources or interfere with our operation.”

“I have no problem with that. But coordinate should mean what it really means. Don't expect me to take orders from you when it concerns my work.”

Eric didn't answer.

“I'm waiting,” I said. It was now or never.

“Fine,” said Eric. “Benny, you can tell Dan what you've told me.”

Benny opened his briefcase, pulled out a yellow pad, leafed through the pages, and began.

“First I want you to know that substantially all of the information you're about to hear is single-source information. And you know what that means. The single source is DeLouise himself. We interviewed him after he had asked for our help. So if you intend to rely on this information, you should corroborate it from other sources as well. Use it as intelligence, not facts or evidence.”

“I understand that,” I said. “Go on.”

“When DeLouise left the United States, he thought he wouldn't be gone for long. It seems that his attorneys knew federal banking law but not enough about federal criminal law, and they assured him that the storm would soon be over.”

“I've heard this before,” I said. “I've seen how even experienced civil lawyers might simply not understand that their clients had committed federal white-collar crimes. One of them once even said to me, ‘That's just the way we do business.’”

Benny went on. “So in mid-1990 he settled at the Noga Hilton in Geneva, using his DeLouise name. He was busy having a good time. But as the weeks passed he began to understand that his problems were far from over. First he heard from his attorneys that, once it filed, the U.S. government was likely to win a ninety-million-dollar civil suit against him unless he was present to testify and fight it. Next he heard that the indictment had come down, and he knew that within hours INTERPOL might have every police force in every country in Europe looking for him.”

“How did he hear that?” asked Ron. “Grand jury deliberations are confidential. He was a fugitive, so the indictment would undoubtedly have been sealed. There'd be no public announcement of it and no public record. Did he tell you that someone was leaking that information to him?”

“I don't know,” said Benny. “We didn't ask and he never told us. Anyway, he then realized that a Colombian drug cartel was also on his back, and finally he realized that your office was looking not just for his money but for him as well.”

That was a surprise. I was sure my office maintained tight field security to prevent our targets from knowing we might be after them. I'd have to report this to David and our security officer. Benny paused for a moment, as if he'd read my mind.

“The last straw was a call from the hotel porter at the Hilton telling him that two men were asking questions about him. DeLouise withdrew $250,000 in cash from his account at the small Credit Suisse branch in the hotel; that was all the cash they had on hand at that time. But he couldn't wait for the bank to replenish its cash, and, therefore, he took only cash. I guess he didn't want to take a bank check that could be traced back to where he cashed it; that would have revealed his new location. He took a cab to a used-car lot in Geneva and bought a Mercedes. He drove directly from the car lot north toward Germany. He didn't even check out of the Hilton, since he didn't want to be seen leaving the hotel with luggage; departing without checking out had its advantages. Anyone looking for him would assume he was still in the area because his hotel room was still under his name. By the time the hotel, or any of his pursuers, had figured out that he'd gone, DeLouise would already be hundreds of miles away. As you know, there are very few border checks within Europe. DeLouise had a U.S. passport and a respectable appearance, so I guess the German border police didn't bother stopping him. He drove through Germany looking for the right spot. Through a recommendation of an acquaintance that had previously used Guttmacher's bank for untraceable money transfers, DeLouise made contact with the bank.