Haggai Carmon - Triple Identity

We had to get back to the present. I was about to get up and leave but Eric stopped me.

“Here's what I want you to do. Call Guttmacher and ask to see him together with Armajani and Kutchemeshgi as soon as possible.”

“Why?” I asked, “I thought this thing was over.”

“Not yet. We asked you here and showed you the documents for a purpose. We need postoperation reconnaissance. We need to know their next move after the break-in. You're the only one who can do that. Tell them you want to report on your Moscow trip.”

“But you still have the transmitting pen on his desk. That should tell you what's going on,” I said.

“No. It stopped working the day after the break-in. Either they found it or the battery is dead.”

“So they'll be looking for anyone who had access to Guttmacher's office and could have put the pen there. Is that a wise idea, to return to the lion's den now?”

“There is some risk,” conceded Eric, “but you'll be wired again, and our men will be outside if the meeting gets ugly.”

“OK,” I said, not particularly liking the idea but nevertheless willing.

“Duty calls,” said Benny, who'd picked up my tone.

On Monday afternoon I called Guttmacher from a street pay phone. “I've just returned from Moscow and I need to see you and the Iranian gentlemen,” I said matter-of-factly.

“I'm glad you called,” said Guttmacher hastily. “There have been some developments and we're meeting tomorrow morning at ten o'clock in my office. Please be there.”

That was easy. I called Eric to report.

“Good, we'll come to your hotel at eight-thirty to dress you up.”

On Tuesday at 10:00 A.M., wired for sound, I walked into Guttmacher's office. Kutchemeshgi, Armajani, Guttmacher, and a somber-looking Iranian man in his early forties were waiting in the adjacent conference room. DiMarco, Broncotrade's president, wasn't there, as I'd expected.

“Good morning gentlemen,” I said, and sat down next to Guttmacher. I looked at the newcomer sitting across the table next to Kutchemeshgi and Armajani, waiting to be introduced. When that didn't happen, I said, “I'm Peter Wooten.”

The grim-faced man nodded, while Kutchemeshgi said briefly, “That's Colonel Kambiz Khabar; he's a member of our counterintelligence team.”

My heart skipped a beat. Iranian counterintelligence was infamous for its ruthless treatment of their targets; if prisoners survived their interrogation, they never needed a manicure. He looked like a soldier, definitely out of place in a tailored three-piece suit. The desert sun had given his face a harsh, implacable look. His presence here could mean only one thing: they thought that the Saturday break-ins were not simple burglaries, but intelligence operations. He said nothing.

“Where is Mr. DiMarco? Isn't he coming too?” I asked Guttmacher, in an obvious effort to show that Khabar's presence left me indifferent.

“Unfortunately there was an accident over the weekend,” said Guttmacher, “Mr. DiMarco was killed in a car accident in Milan.”

“I'm sorry to hear that,” I said. “What happened? Was he driving?”

“No, he crossed the street and a passing car killed him. It is so unfortunate.”

I tried to digest the news. DiMarco's death sure didn't sound like an ‘accident.’ Was it the Iranians, the Mossad, or the CIA? There were too many deaths in this industry. I resolved to move to the antique books trade.

The atmosphere in the conference room, which wasn't cheerful to begin with, changed abruptly when Armajani said, “There's a traitor.” I felt my stomach tightening. Nobody said anything. “Colonel Khabar is in Munich to investigate certain events. I demand that all of you cooperate with him.”

Apart from the Iranians in the room, only Guttmacher and I came under the definition of “all of you.”

“Of course,” I said, “although I don't know to what events you're referring, because I've just returned from Moscow. What happened? You mean DiMarco's death was caused by a traitor?”

Col. Kambiz Khabar had no patience for my humor. “Strange things have happened since you first appeared on the scene.”

I didn't like his attitude or his piercing eyes, particularly when he had a point.

“Why don't you tell me what you mean?” I asked, although I already knew.

“I mean that you're an American agent, an Israeli agent, or both!”

My heart was pounding hard. I was sure Eric could hear it.

“Is that a joke?” I demanded. “What is this person talking about?” I asked, turning to Guttmacher.

For the first time Guttmacher looked really frightened. “It's no joke,” he finally said. “My Iranian friends are missing documents, and they think that insiders were involved in removing the documents.”

“What documents?” I asked, hoping to gain time.

“Those concerning the Iranian purchases.”

“I didn't take any documents,” I said defiantly. “I left the file on your conference table when I left your office.”

“Don't play dumb,” shouted Khabar, “I know you're behind the break-ins. Tell me who sent you.”

“Look,” I said, getting up from my chair at the conference table. I wasn't in the mood to be interrogated by this hard-nosed Iranian. “I didn't come here to be yelled at. I'm not anyone's agent, and your accusations are preposterous. I have no idea what you're talking about. Call the police if something was stolen from you. This has been nothing but trouble. I'm the one who's inconvenienced, and I think this meeting is now over.”

“You're not going anywhere,” he said, getting up. He drew a. 38 caliber pistol with a silencer, pointed it at me, and yelled “Sit down!”

Quickly assessing my options, I jumped to my right behind Guttmacher and lifted him from his chair by his shirt collar. He was heavy as a horse and sweating like one. Guttmacher became my human shield. I was taller, but at least he was wide enough. Khabar was standing across the conference table – to grab me alive he'd need help. Armajani and Kutchemeshgi were paper pushers, so I didn't think they'd constitute any serious opposition. I guessed he wouldn't shoot before he squeezed me for some answers. I had to concede, though, that my value for Khabar as a potential source of information was temporary.

“Move back,” shouted Khabar, “or I'll shoot you both.”

“No, please,” cried Guttmacher.

I had no gun and I cursed Eric and myself at the same time for that oversight.

Kutchemeshgi and Armajani moved back next to Khabar. I moved the other way, toward the sliding double doors of the conference room, dragging Guttmacher with me.

“Don't shoot him,” said Armajani. “We need him alive.”

But it was too late. Khabar fired in my direction. The pistol blasted as the doors opened and Guttmacher's secretary walked in with a tray of hot drinks. “Mein Gott!” she exclaimed as the bullet whizzed past her.

In one swift motion I grabbed the coffeepot off her tray with my free hand and threw it at Khabar. I'd aimed for the head but hit the crotch. Spilled hot coffee and hard china did the trick. Khabar bellowed in pain and surprise and as he bent over and cradled his groin. I released Guttmacher, slid the length of the conference table and jumped on Khabar. We went to the floor, with me on top. Normally, that'd be punishment enough, but not in this case. I made an effort to grab his gun, missed, took the coffeepot from the carpet, and smashed his head with it. He managed to fire another shot that hit the ceiling. Khabar's face was streaked with blood, but the blow was not strong enough to knock him unconscious. He was still struggling with me. I had Khabar's wrist. I slowly bent it backward until he dropped the gun on the carpet. Suddenly I heard voices shouting in German. Not Eric's men, for sure. None other than Polizeidirektor Karlheinz Blecher walked in, escorted by six policemen, their weapons at the ready.