Haggai Carmon - Triple Identity

“Ariel…”

She looked at me with the deep blue eyes I'd grown so fond of in the past few days. She said nothing. “Ariel, in case of trouble, I want you to…”

The PA system came on strong. “Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. I have to apologize for the delay. There has been a severe weather warning, and air traffic control was not sure we would be allowed to take off. Now it seems that the storm is about twenty minutes away to the east, and we could avoid it if we leave immediately. So please fasten your seatbelts again. Thank you.”

The plane accelerated down the runway, as did my heart in relief. In two minutes we were airborne.

“What did you want to say?” asked Ariel.

“Nothing, just nothing.” I took her hand. She smiled.

We didn't talk much and my lovely companion was asleep as we approached Heathrow. I gently touched her shoulder. Ariel opened her eyes. “Time to wake up,” I said. “We're almost in London.”

“So soon?” she asked, and stretched like a cat after an afternoon nap.

“Everything passes quickly when you're asleep,” I said. “We need to stay near the airport; I don't think we should try to get to Munich at this late hour.”

“Munich?” asked Ariel. “I thought we were going back to Israel.”

“No, I need you in Germany. You should see Guttmacher, and,” I paused, “you promised me your father's file.”

“You're right. I'm still sleepy,” she said, and leaned her head against my shoulder.

We took a local airport bus to the Hilton Hotel at the airport. I took adjoining rooms for us without asking Ariel what she'd prefer. And like a tourist pal, she pecked my cheek goodnight.

The following morning featured typically English weather, rainy and foggy, but our flight to Munich was not delayed. I was sitting at a table in the dining room when Ariel walked in wearing blue jeans and a T-shirt. Many eyes were on her, including mine.

“Good morning, Dan,” she smiled. “Did you sleep well?”

“Like a log,” I said. “How about you?”

“I had nightmares,” she said as she sat down at the table.

“So why didn't you knock on my door?” I asked jokingly, masking my disappointment.

“Dan, people are asleep when they have nightmares,” she said in a tone that very much reminded me that she was a teacher.

“Our flight leaves at noon,” I said, “so let's take our time.” We had an English breakfast and perused the top story in the morning paper: yet another English sex scandal involving a cabinet minister.

We finished our breakfast and went through the hotel's lobby. I stopped at a television set broadcasting BBC News. With a mix of astonishment and relief, I heard the breaking news about the weather in Moscow. A sudden blizzard had swept the city, dumping two feet of snow. The next item was of similar interest; “With continued political unrest in the Soviet Union, there are growing fears of gang wars in the Soviet capital after a high-speed shoot-out on a major artery of Moscow between two gangs from the Asian Soviet republics left three dead. The Soviet Internal Security Minister said that the police were investigating. ‘We vow to keep these hooligans off our streets.’”

Approximately two hours after takeoff we were back in Munich. The skies there were gray also but the air, although cool, was clean and crisp. The foliage was gone, leaving the trees bare and ready for winter.

I suggested we go to the Hotel Intercontinental. I didn't think returning to the Sheraton or the Omni was a good idea. I would explain the sudden cost hike as a security requirement. I still didn't know how to budget Ariel's airline and hotel costs. Sundry expenses? I'd worry about that later.

I checked us in, again with adjoining rooms. I was a bit more comfortable now that we were out of Moscow. We agreed to meet in the lobby in twenty minutes. I sensed that I was nearing the end of my search and wanted to get on with it. I needed that DeLouise file. ASAP .

“It's at Pension Bart,” she said as we met and in answer to my query. “I left it there for safekeeping with Mr. Bart.”

Ariel didn't realize it, but she was holding the key to some big questions: who killed DeLouise and where his money was. I badly wanted to see the file and substitute hard facts for my suspicions and gut feelings. Obviously, the file was expected to contain vital information that both Eric and Benny could use. Would the file live up to any of my expectations?

We took a cab to the pension. “Let me go in first,” I said. “Stay in the cab.”

“Why?”

“Just routine security. I want to be sure we have no surprises.” I went inside. The place was empty, but Mr. Bart was behind the counter. I returned to the cab, and she followed me to reception.

“Hello Mr. Bart,” said Ariel. “Remember me? I was a guest here about two weeks ago.”

Bart looked at her and said, “I'm sorry, I don't recognize you. Did you forget something?”

“Not exactly,” said Ariel, “I left an envelope here for safekeeping; it came earlier from my father, Raymond DeLouise.”

Bart was apologetic, “You'll have to excuse me, but I don't remember ever seeing you or receiving any envelope for you. Is your father a guest here?”

I felt the chill of reality creeping all over me. Had Ariel been lying to me?

Ariel looked confused and looked at me in embarrassment. “I don't understand,” she said to me quietly in Hebrew.

“Mr. Bart, will you please check your records and see that I was a guest here two weeks ago. Let's start with that,” Ariel said firmly. Mr. Bart shifted his eyes from Ariel to me and back. There was silence. I got the message. I was in the way. “Let me check something outside,” I said, and walked out. I quietly returned to the space near the entry door and looked inside through a window. I saw Bart giving Ariel a thick envelope.

So Ariel was leading me on, after all, I thought in deep disappointment. But why? Being double-crossed by Ariel was not something I'd wanted to entertain, although the possibility of it lay dormant in my mind. Frustrated, I walked back inside.

Ariel walked toward me, visibly relieved, and handed me the envelope. “Let's go,” she said, sending my mood up like a rocket.

“What happened?” I asked.

“Bart knew me and knew I'd been kidnapped. He wanted to make sure you weren't part of the gang that kidnapped me and that you were coercing me to give you the envelope.”

“Smart move,” I said. “But Bart should have remembered me as a person helping your mother while she was here. I don't understand it.”

“He only said that he didn't know who to trust anymore, and until I assured him that all was well, he'd pretend to be a senile old man.”

“Let's go in again,” I said.

“Don't be mad at him; he was trying to help me,” she said.

“No. I want to thank him.”

“This gentleman was asking about you some time ago,” said Bart with a small smile, pointing at me. “I see that he found you. Or was it you that found him?”

Ariel smiled. “Actually, it was a little bit of both.”

We sat in the lobby as I sifted through the papers. My intuition had been correct; I'd stumbled on a treasure trove – so much information I didn't know where to start. This was DeLouise's entire file on his dealings with Guttmacher and the Iranians. I hoped it contained the lists the Iranians had given DeLouise. If that hope materialized, it would be my first-class ticket into the Iranian transactions, just as Cyrus Armajani had demanded.

“This is too much to digest here,” I said finally, masking my deep satisfaction. “Let's go back to the hotel. I need some study time.”

We went back to the Intercontinental and up to my room. I sat at the desk with my legal pad and computer ready. Ariel sat quietly nearby, looking at me.