was getting absentminded, this time not true to my Mossad training.
I opened the message envelope and read: “Ron called and asked that you return to his office immediately. He has important information.”
I went straight back in a cab. An opportunity to retrieve the forgotten BMW had just been handed to me.
Back at the consulate, I went quickly through security checks and up to Lovejoy's office. He was on the phone. He looked up and waved an invitation to sit down.
A minute later he hung up and smiled at me. “Welcome back. It's been a while, hasn't it? Anyway, I've got some news. A bit too special for a phone conversation. And not about DeLouise. I told the Germans about our man's multiple identities and asked for their help. I still don't have an answer on that, but not too long after they called and told me something that may be helpful to you.
“Apparently, Ariel Peled appeared at the police station downtown here in Munich to complain that two men were following her. When the policeman, a Sergeant Baumann, went outside to see them, as she insisted, he couldn't find anyone. So he brushed her off. Later that day, the owner of a motorcycle garage complained that two men attempted to steal a motorcycle parked outside his garage. When he noticed them through his window he went after them, and they escaped on a different motorcycle – apparently the one they came on. Sergeant Baumann described them as young, in their early thirties, with darkish skin, black hair, and medium builds. Could be Hispanic, Turkish, or from the Middle East. The garage owner got their motorcycle's plate number.”
“And?” I asked anxiously.
“It had been reported stolen the day before. The description of these guys matched the description Ariel gave of the men who followed her.”
“Did she leave her address with the policemen?”
“No. As I said, he thought she was imagining things, so he didn't write a report or anything. But he remembered her name and that she spoke English with an accent, and that she looked shaken up.”
“And he let her go?!” I asked in disbelief.
“Yes, I guess so. He didn't have any reason to question her or anything.”
“Did she say anything else?” I pressed.
“I don't know. Why don't you go there and ask him? No investigation is pending, so he might cooperate. Tell him you're a boyfriend or something.”
“Thanks Ron,” I said. “Surely worth a special trip from the hotel. Now I'll need a secure phone for a couple of minutes. Can you provide?”
“No problem,” Lovejoy replied, and promptly showed me into an adjoining office.
“It's all yours. We're here to help.”
I had no trouble reaching Benny in Tel Aviv. “I'm in Munich. I found our guy, mostly thanks to you.”
“What do you mean?”
“He registered at the hotel under his Israeli name, that's why we couldn't find him earlier. And it was you who gave me his previous identity.”
“Don't mention it. Is he still in Munich?”
“Yes, in the morgue. He was assassinated in the street before I came.”
There was a pause, then Benny responded. “Well, that I didn't expect.” His reaction didn't sound convincing. He continued, “Any information coming in on who might have pulled this off?”
“No, the German police are working on it now. By the way, since he was registered here as an Israeli citizen, I'm sure the German police notified the Israeli Consulate. So maybe the foreign ministry would have more details than I do at the moment.”
“Thanks for telling me,” said Benny.
“I'll keep in touch,” I said, and hung up. Was I the last to know? Something was happening, but I was out of the loop.
I left Ron's office and drove to the police station.
It smelled of cigarette smoke and muddy water. A man with a glazed look was mopping the floor. He looked like a prisoner serving his term. I went to the desk and asked for Sergeant Baumann. I was directed to an office in the back. Sergeant Baumann was a very short and portly policeman in his early fifties. He looked like a man who'd seen and heard it all.
“Sergeant Baumann?”
“Ja,” he said, looking up. When he realized I was an American, he added, “I don't speak English too well.”
“My friends at the American Consulate told me that you saw my fiance, Ariel Peled.”
He gave me a puzzled look, and I continued. “She's from Israel? She came to complain about two guys following her?” I hoped it would ring a bell in his shrinking brain.
He paused for a second. “Ja, Ja, I remember now, nice girl from Israel,” he said, scratching his head.
I tried to speak slowly. “You see, I came from the United States to meet her, but she didn't show up for our meeting, and now I don't know where to look. Did she tell you where she stayed?”
“There are too many questions about this woman,” he said, as if he knew more.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, first, this morning. Two other persons with a funny accent (he said “ak-tsent”) came asking about her. Now you. Tell me, how many fiances she had?” he asked sarcastically. He hadn't believed a word I'd told him.
I wanted to punch him, but I reminded myself that I wasn't Ariel's fiance after all, so as a substitute display of hurt emotions, I gave him a look to show how vexed I was by his sarcasm. He didn't seem to care.
“Did she say where she was staying?”
“No.”
“Did you notice any more details about her?”
“No,” he said. “She told me that she left Mielke Bank on the next street and saw two guys. At first she thought they were trying to,” he paused, searching for the right word, “you know, to meet her. But then when they did not come closer and just followed her, she was afraid that they were trying to rob her. So she stopped and asked a person in the street where the police station was, and she came right over. We are just around the corner.”
I tried to remain calm. “Mielke Bank,” I repeated. “Where is it?”
“On Marsstrasse,” he answered, “It's just around the corner. I walked with her outside. I couldn't see them and told her that she should go home and if she is still followed, then she could call the police again.”
“Did you ask her name?”
“Yes, she told me at the beginning that her name was Ariel Peled and that she was a tourist from Israel. She thanked me and left. She was dressed in a black pants suit with a white shirt. That's all I remember. Later on during the daily activity review session in our station, I heard that two men tried to steal a BMW motor-tsykel.” I nodded. He continued, “I told my officer that the description I heard from the woman was similar to the description of those men who tried to steal the motor-tsykel.”
I left the station. Police sergeants are all the same, no matter what language they speak. But it was another break for me. I placed another call to Israel, this time to my private-investigator buddy Ralph Lampert.
“I need something unusual,” I said.
“Go ahead. I'm an adult, you can ask me anything.”
“Good,” I said, “I need an official-looking power of attorney, signed by Ariel Peled, giving me general banking powers on her behalf. See that it carries the authentication of the German Embassy in Tel Aviv.”
“Do you want it real or funny?”
“I just need it, as soon as possible, but it must be dated before September 24,1990. Make sure the date won't be on a Saturday, Sunday, or during Jewish or German holidays – the embassy is closed then. You can obtain a sample of Ariel's signature from her ID card file at the Ministry of the Interior.”
“Then it must be a custom-made repro,” he said. “Do you want me to use Tibor?”
Now that was a name I hadn't heard in a long time. Tibor was a document artist at the Mossad. A Holocaust refugee from Hungary, he'd escaped to Israel, where the Mossad soon spotted his talents. Tibor could fake any document with such perfection that even the original creator would not be able to tell the difference. “Official”
