although Benny had told me earlier that Peled left in 1957. Was something being kept from me?
The only other document in the envelope was a letter of appreciation Peled received from Professor Ernest David Bergman, the legendary founder and first head of Israel's Nuclear Energy Commission. The letter, only three lines long, commended him for a job well done. There was no mention of the type of work he did to deserve this letter. Why did Benny bother to include this letter among the documents he gave me? It didn't seem to have any relevance. Or maybe it was Benny's not-so-subtle way of saying it did.
Ralph came to see me two hours later. We went out to the park surrounding the hotel to sit on a bench and enjoy the sea breeze. I didn't need to keep our meeting a secret, and I wanted fresh air. Then again, with two people with backgrounds such as ours, even an innocent meeting might suggest we suspected the KGB was watching.
“Ralph, I need you to find a woman for me. Her name is Mina Lerer.” I gave him her ID number. “She was married to a Bruno Popescu, who later changed his name to Dov Peled; he probably divorced her.”
“How do you know that?” he asked.
“I don't, but I know of an American-born current wife. So I don't know what last name Mina Lerer would be using now. Call me at the hotel when you make progress. I think I'll be here for another week.”
“Sure,” he said, “I'll get right to work on it.”
I returned to my room and stood at the glass door looking at the sea. I was trying to conjure up Dov Peled in my mind. He must have been pretty sharp if he was in the nuclear science section of the Mossad. Israel's nuclear weapons policy and efforts, and the Arab countries’ capabilities, were off-limits, even within the organization, except for those actually assigned to that section. We were warned that it was the most closely guarded secret of Israel. In the mid- and late 1960s, Israel kept its nuclear capability under a dissembling cloud while vowing not to be the first nation to introduce nuclear weapons into the Middle East. “Non-introduction” meant doing it anyway, but quietly. Peled, I recalled, had joined the Mossad in 1952 and left in 1957. I wondered what Israel's “nuclear policy” had been in those years.
A call from Ralph woke me up the next morning. I'd closed my curtains so I didn't realize how late I'd slept. It was already past 10:00 A.M. – a case of jet lag at its worst. Ralph continued our conversation as if it had stopped only moments before.
“Your Mina Lerer is now Mina Bernstein. She lives in Haifa on Allenby Street.”
Half asleep, I jotted down the address, then made it a short conversation for both of us. “Thanks, send me your bill.”
I washed and dressed quickly and went downstairs. I fueled my system with a little of the famous Israeli breakfast – freshly cut salad, soft cheese and olives, and fresh-squeezed orange juice – and headed for the garage and my car. Haifa was just sixty miles north of Tel Aviv on the coast, and I figured I could be there within an hour or so. As it turned out, other drivers had similar plans, and they were ahead of me. The trip stretched to almost two hours. But the great views of the sea were some compensation. The color of the water changed from emerald green to azure blue as the waves broke on the beach. Seagulls shrieked; a few fishermen were trying their luck in the shallow waters. The breeze carried a strong smell of salt water and seaweed. It all looked so serene. But it was deceptive; I knew that the undertow just offshore was strong and dangerous.
I finally entered Haifa and drove through the busy port area to a residential area of tree-lined streets winding along the hills overlooking the harbor. I found Mina's house without any difficulty. It looked exactly as Ralph had described it: a two-story stone building, circa 1920, with an iron gate and a path leading to the entrance. I went through the unlocked gate. There were three old vines and a couple of orange trees in the small yard. This house had seen better days. Neglect and disrepair were visible, but so were traces of its former glory. There were four broken letterboxes at the door, each with several names crossed out. The landlord must have had a firm short-lease policy. Unusual. On one of the mailboxes I saw the name Bernstein-Peled. I went up shabby stairs to the first floor. I found the name I was looking for on the door on the left.
I rang the bell. There was no response, and I could detect no noise inside. I waited a few more minutes. It was apparent that either nobody was home or somebody didn't want visitors. I looked at my watch. 1:25 P.M. I hoped Mina Bernstein was at work and would be back soon. I decided to sit in my car and wait it out.
A few people, mostly children, came in but not one looked like a Mina Bernstein. I knew she had to be in her sixties, but no woman of that age entered the building. Finally, after three hours, I went back into the house, up the stairs, and rang the bell. Still no answer. I turned to the door opposite and knocked lightly. A woman in her late thirties in a dressing gown, hair tied up in a haphazard knot, opened the door.
“Yes?” she asked.
“Excuse me,” I said in Hebrew, “I'm looking for Mrs. Bernstein. Would you know when she is expected back? I was to meet her here about this time,” I lied with a smile.
She sized me up. In the background I heard a child crying, and the smell of cooked cabbage seeped from the kitchen. She didn't seem to have much time to spend talking to me.
“All I know is that she left a few days ago. She told me she was going overseas. She didn't tell me where she was going or for how long. That's all I know.” The last sentence was said in a subdued tone. I realized the woman probably thought I was a cop; her attitude was becoming defensive. I needed more information before she asked to see a badge. Let her think I was a cop.
“What about her mail?”
“I collect it,” she replied and pointed to a small table with a stack of mail on it. I went over to the table and shuffled through the envelopes. Mostly junk, some bills. I pulled out the phone bill and slid it into my pocket. The neighbor said nothing.
“Do you know where she works?”
“She was a teacher, but I think she retired last year.”
As I turned away she hesitated and added, “You could also ask her daughter.”
I stopped. “Her daughter?”
“Yes,” she said, “Ariel.”
“Ah,” I said. “Do you know where I can find her?
“She's a chemistry teacher at Ramot High School. You could try there. I don't know where she lives.”
“Thanks,” I said, and walked outside. I looked at my watch; it was 4:12 P.M. No point in going by the school at that late hour.
In my car I opened Mina's telephone bill. It listed service and other charges for two months through September 30,1990. There were no details concerning any local calls – just a flat fee. But there was one line that attracted my attention. It was a collect call made to Mina Bernstein from Munich, Germany, on September 26, 1990, from number 004989227645. The duration of the call was 5 minutes 11 seconds.
I drove back to Tel Aviv and called my office in New York from a pay phone just outside my hotel. “Please do a reverse search on this little item,” I asked Lan, and gave her the Munich telephone number. Not much, but it was a start. I hung up and called Ralph.
“I thought it would be easy,” I said.
“Well, did you find her?”
“No, I found her apartment, but she's been gone a week or so. The neighbor said she went overseas, but I want to make sure it wasn't the neighbor's assumption. How about checking to see if she actually left Israel.”
“And,” I added, in an exaggerated dramatic tone, “Mina has a daughter, Ariel, who teaches chemistry at Ramot High School in Haifa. I don't have a last name. It could be Peled, but she could be married and using her husband's name. Check her out, will you?”
“No problem,” answered Ralph. “I'll get back to you.”
Israel maintains a very efficient computerized system at the Ministry of the Interior, controlling all exits and entries across its borders. The information, available to the police and other law enforcement and intelligence agencies, was retrievable pretty much any time. At that late hour the ministry's offices were closed, but Ralph, with his connections, could do it over the phone in no time.
The phone rang in my room. It was Ralph. I looked at my watch – it had been twenty minutes since I'd called him.
“Writing this down?” he said.
“Go ahead.”
“Mina Bernstein left Israel on El Al flight LY 353 to Munich on September 28 and has not returned. There is
