Haggai Carmon - Triple Identity

One of the cops approached us quickly and took Khabar's gun from the carpet. I got up slowly. Khabar was still down, blood covering his face. He looked around and realized that the scuffle was over. He wasn't stupid. The cop handcuffed him and pulled him over to a chair.

“Who are you?” demanded Blecher.

“I'm Colonel Khabar, an Iranian military officer.”

“What a pleasant surprise,” said Blecher, and for a moment I thought something was wrong. No, it was just Blecher's sense of humor. “We've been looking for you,” he said. “You're under arrest. INTERPOL has just notified us that they've been searching for you. They'll be impressed at how efficient we are,” he concluded in irony.

“Who is looking for me?” asked Khabar. “And on what charges?”

“Italy, for question number one, and the charge is murder of one Signor DiMarco,” answered Blecher dryly.

“Sir,” said Guttmacher, trembling, “Colonel Khabar has just tried to kill me. He's totally crazy.”

“That'll be another add-on to the long list of good deeds Colonel Khabar is being accused of.”

Khabar said nothing as he was led away and betrayed little concern. This wasn't surprising. Iranian agents abroad rarely feared arrest. If they were apprehended for whatever reason, you could be fairly sure that citizens of the arresting government would soon be kidnapped somewhere in the Middle East, and that an exchange would quickly be arranged through Iranian intermediaries offering their help for “humanitarian reasons.”

“Herr Hans Guttmacher,” said Blecher as he approached Guttmacher.

“Yes?”

“You are under arrest for the murder of Raymond DeLouise. You are also under arrest for the kidnapping of Ariel Peled in Germany, grand larceny, and the attempted kidnapping of Ariel Peled in Moscow. Other charges including conspiracy and violation of Germany's export laws shall also be brought against you. Anything you say will be used against you.”

Guttmacher had gone pale. I was sure he was going to faint. Two policemen approached to handcuff and search him.

Blecher turned to me. “And who are you, sir?”

I wanted to say, “Are you kidding, Blecher?” but kept my mouth shut, realizing that Blecher was protecting me. I put on my best frightened look.

“I'm Peter Wooten, an American attorney.”

“Take his passport and his local address as well; we'll need his testimony,” he said to another officer.

That was fine with me. I owed Blecher a lot of testimony, and I was glad to have waited as long as I had. Now I could do it all in one session.

Guttmacher didn't look at me when the cops led him out. Armajani and Kutchemeshgi were still standing next to the conference table. Blecher approached them. “You are under arrest for violation of Germany's export laws, and for an attempt to smuggle nuclear materials in violation of German federal laws.”

“We have diplomatic immunity! You can't arrest us. I protest!” said Armajani, enraged.

“Why do you think you have immunity?” asked Blecher almost cordially.

“Because I'm an Iranian diplomat accredited to the government of Italy, and so is this gentleman,” Armajani pointed at Kutchemeshgi.

“This is Germany,” said Blecher wryly. “Your immunity is good only in Italy.” Turning to the policemen, he snapped, “Take them away!”

A couple of weeks later I arrived at the Munich police station with Benny. Snow was starting to fall, not enough to accumulate on the ground but enough to paint the silver-lined branches of the evergreen trees in white.

“Do you know what Blecher wants?” I asked Benny as we cleaned the mud from our shoes at the entrance.

“No, he just called and asked that we come to the station for a short meeting. Ron and I met him yesterday,” he added, in a voice that told me that something was wrong.

“What happened?” I asked, although I'd already guessed.

“Blecher raised hell.”

“Is my ass in a sling?”

“Was,” replied Benny.

“Past tense?”

“Yes. We got you out of it somehow. We promised that in the future the German police would not be the last to know when representatives of foreign countries play cops and robbers on their soil.”

“Thanks,” I said in relief. “Who else will be at the meeting today?”

“Blecher didn't say, but Eric told me today that he and Ron Lovejoy will be there too.”

Benny shot a pointed look in my direction. “Aren't you going to ask if Ariel will be there?”

“Will she?” I admitted in defeat, realizing that my interest in her had become public knowledge.

“I think so.”

It had been two long weeks since I'd last seen her; two long and aching weeks somewhat eased by a seven-day vacation in Vermont with my children. Eric and his staff had been very busy analyzing the material found at the bank and in Armajani's apartment while I'd been feeding on the trail that led to DeLouise's money.

Surprisingly, there wasn't a lot concerning DeLouise's assets. I suspected that most of it had been left behind in Guttmacher's vault, and I wondered why. The documents that had been retrieved from the vault were nevertheless valuable, since they gave me a good many leads to Swiss bank accounts. But there was a missing link: the proof that these bank accounts and various trusts were in fact DeLouise's. It could still be done, I thought, but I expected a long legal battle. However, the days weren't as tense as before the operation. A carnivore dissecting and devouring his prey is somewhat calmer than when he is stalking.

I wanted to finish it all and move on, and this sudden meeting could be the last phase of the entire operation.

When I entered the briefing room with Benny, I saw Ron Lovejoy, Eric Henderson, Mina Bernstein – and Ariel.

A minute later Blecher came in. Without much ado, he said, “It's all over. Guttmacher has confessed.”

Sitting or standing, we all leaned closer, waiting for Blecher to continue.

“I have a written statement from Hans Guttmacher in which he confesses to all charges. Therefore, I don't think we'll need the testimony of any of you at a trial.”

“Tell us what Guttmacher said,” said Ariel. “I want to know how he thought he could get away with everything he's done.”

“I think you have a right to know,” agreed Blecher. “According to Guttmacher's confession, approximately three or four months ago DeLouise sought his advice about how to move his money from Switzerland to Germany without revealing his whereabouts. At the beginning of their relationship, DeLouise told him that the amount was only one million dollars. But when Guttmacher was able to transfer it without letting the Swiss bank know where the money finally landed, he gained DeLouise's confidence. Guttmacher said that DeLouise wanted to move his substantial assets from Switzerland to another location but didn't know how to do it without leaving any trace. He feared the movement would reveal his new location to his pursuers: two divisions of the U.S. Department of Justice, one of which he was sure had called in INTERPOL, and the Colombians.

“So after the first million was successfully transferred, DeLouise became convinced that Guttmacher could help him; Guttmacher started moving DeLouise's money in relatively small amounts through third parties until it ended up in Germany. Although Guttmacher's bank commissions for the transfers were hefty, DeLouise was pleased.

“Then Guttmacher suggested that DeLouise participate in the financial package of the Iranian purchase of nuclear equipment and materials. It was more a matter of disguising the true identity of the buyer and the final destination of the goods than financing the transaction. The Iranians had the money available, but they wanted the transactions to look like commercial contracts between individuals and companies for peacetime use rather than purchases by a government already on the U.S. list of pariah countries.”