two calls to the Mossad headquarters in Israel. The first call was made on September 22 and lasted twenty-nine minutes; the second call was made on September 24 and lasted thirty-six minutes. Since the calls came into the Mossad's general switchboard, I couldn't tell to whom DeLouise had directed his calls or whether both calls were made to the same person. I looked at the other numbers. The California numbers were easy – two calls to his wife, three calls to his son, and two calls to his attorneys. The three Swiss numbers were made to the Credit Suisse private banking branch in Geneva.
He's no different from the others, I muttered to myself, half in contempt. People who take off with large sums of money are typically repetitive in their conduct, and therefore their actions are fairly predictable. The calls to the private banking branch of Credit Suisse indicated that DeLouise was very likely to have had some banking relationship with them. But it was too premature to take any vigorous legal action to find out. I didn't know for sure that he was the bank's client. I also didn't know what name or legal entity he used. If the U.S. government filed papers with Swiss officials attempting to force Credit Suisse to disclose all records pertaining to Raymond DeLouise, the Department of Justice would have to wait six months until the bank responded. Only then would one discover that a target might have used a different name or a company or a trust to hide his assets or might have cleaned out the account and hidden the booty elsewhere. We would have lost not only important time but also the element of surprise. I'd seen cases where unscrupulous bankers tipped their clients off about the U.S. request for bank records or a law-enforcement inquiry, thus enabling them to move their money to a different location.
The Italian call was made to a company in Rome called Broncotrade SPA. I wrote a note to check that one out. The calls to Luxembourg were to Bank Hapoalim, a branch of Israel's largest bank. Then came the local calls. First on the list was a Herbert Oplatka. I dialed the number.
“Oplatka Travel,” said a young woman, “How may I help you?”
“I was left a message to call you.”
“And you are?”
“My name is Peter Wooten and I'm a partner of Mr. Raymond DeLouise. I don't know whether your message was meant for me or for him, because it was left on our voice mail.”
“Let me check,” she said, and put me on hold.
“Nobody here left any message for you or Mr. DeLouise, but it could be someone from the morning shift who called you,” she informed me a moment later.
“Would you please check your computer and see if Mr. DeLouise's reservations are confirmed?”
It was the longest shot in the dark I'd fired in a long time.
“Yes,” she replied after a few seconds.
Bingo! A hit.
She continued. “I see now. His flight tomorrow on Lufthansa from Munich through Frankfurt to Moscow is confirmed. I also see that he hasn't picked up his tickets yet, so that could be the reason for the message. Please ask him to pick them up, or maybe you want us to deliver them to his hotel?”
“I'll ask him to get back to you. Thanks.”
This was my lucky day. I went back to the list and picked up the next number, a Sonja and Ernest Bart. I called the number; an elderly man answered.
“Pension Bart.”
“I'm sorry, please say that again,” I asked.
“Pension Bart,” he repeated.
“Ah yes, thanks,” I said, recognizing the word finally. “May I have your address?”
He gave it to me and I went down to my car and got underway.
I was getting excited now that I was at long last warm, if not hot, on the trail. The pension was in a residential area, surrounded by evergreen trees and apartment buildings with small balconies. Flowers grew in pots on many of the balconies. Everything looked neat and clean.
I walked inside and approached the desk in the hall just beyond the door. Behind it stood an elderly man with white hair and a small mustache. A fireplace crackled across the hall, filling the air with the pleasant smell of burning hardwood. From the kitchen behind the counter floated the smell of home cooking. The ambience was cozy.
I tried to think of the best opening line, but what did I want to know? DeLouise wasn't staying here, he only called. But whom did he call? This guy wasn't about to show me his guest list.
Without thinking it through I took a flyer and asked directly, “Is Mina Bernstein here? My friend from Israel.”
“Israel? Oh, yes, we have Mrs. Mina Bernstein here, and she is from Israel.”
“Exactly,” I said in huge relief, this time genuine. My gamble had paid off. “Is she in?”
“I think so, let me call her room,” and he went to the telephone. He returned a moment later and said, “She'll be right down.”
I moved to the small lobby, enjoyed the fireplace, and waited. A woman of medium height came in – blue eyes and gray streaks in her hair, dressed in a wide flowery skirt and a white blouse.
I got up. “Shalom, I'm Dan Gordon,” I greeted her in Hebrew.
“And I am Mina Bernstein,” said the woman in a subdued voice. “You are looking for me?” she continued in our shared native language.
“Yes, I need to talk to you about a family matter.”
“A family matter? Do you have news about my Ariel?” she asked with a mix of apprehension and hope.
A small sitting room adjoined the lobby. I motioned her along, delaying my answer to her question.
As we sat down Mina looked at me with soft, deep blue eyes. I could tell she'd once been a beautiful woman.
“The reason I am looking for you is that I believe you, and possibly Ariel, could be in danger.”
“Who are you?” she asked in a frightened voice.
“All I can say now is that we share a common background, and I want to help you.”
“Are you from the – Office?”
I nodded. Misleading her was enough; I didn't want to tell her lies more than was absolutely necessary. Yes, I was with the Office, but not the one she assumed. “Office” was the code word used among Mossad employees to describe their workplace. You'd never hear the name Mossad from a true Mossad person. I was dragged into a typical false-flagging scenario now – hiding my true employer – without the ordinary preplanning, without the time to develop a good cover story. The fact was that many successful Mossad recruitment operations of Arab informers were made possible only because the informer, “a source,” was convinced the recruiter was working for NATO or for some European country and not for Israel.
“Tell me, why did you come to Munich?” I asked.
“Ariel called,” she answered.
“What did she tell you?”
“I must say it was a bizarre conversation. She said I must come to Munich immediately, and that I should not tell anyone.”
“Did she give you any reason?”
“She hinted that it had something to do with her father's past, so I must keep it a secret. Ariel said I should stay at this pension. She didn't answer my questions and only asked that I come as quickly as possible. But when I arrived, she wasn't here, although her luggage was in her room.”
So we had a missing persons case in addition to the homicide. If the events thus far could have been described as questionable, they had now been upgraded to strange.
I asked Mina if she was aware of any previous irregular behavior of Ariel's that could explain her disappearance.
“No,” she replied, “she has never given me any cause for concern. Ariel always used good judgment. She's not the kind of person to disappear all of a sudden for no reason.”
“Has Ariel been in contact with her father lately?”
“I don't know for sure. She used to call him now and then, and he also called her at least once every month or so and sent her money. I don't know about recent calls. She's a grown woman and leads her own life. But then, there were hints in our last telephone conversation that she's here in connection with her father. So I don't know what to think.”
