there's no international criminal-law mechanism for compelling a person to return to the States just for questioning. Although DeLouise was dead, rendering this issue irrelevant, I still wanted to know if Germany had commenced with an investigation following a request through INTERPOL. In that case their findings could become handy for my investigation. I made a mental note to ask David to find out.
Finally, the Mossad: If they were in on this, as I suspected, I had no idea what their objectives might be. To get Ariel? To help Mina? To get something DeLouise gave Ariel? Did they want the same thing the Latinos wanted? What documents could DeLouise have held that could cause such havoc?
I went out to the street again to call Benny at the Mossad. It was cold and drizzling. I was going to catch pneumonia just so I could maintain confidentiality. There had to be a better way.
There was no answer on Benny's direct line. I left a message on his voice mail asking him to call my New York number. I called his home. No answer there. I called Blecher at the Munich police headquarters but a detective told me that he was gone for the day.
I went up to my room, activated the touch-tone-identifier software on my laptop, and replayed the audiotape recording of the call the Latinos made from the pay phone. The identifier quickly interpreted the touch tone beeps into numbers: 2-3-5-9-9-0-9. This was probably a local number, since no area code was punched. I called the police station again, asking them to trace Blecher for me. Where were all these guys when I needed them? Nobody called me back and I fell asleep.
The next morning I woke up in a belligerent mood. A delay in my efforts here meant more guilt for being away from my children and increased pressure from David to produce results. After spending most of the morning writing my report, I took a cab to Mielke Bank. I was determined to get access to the safe-deposit box. If Mina was with the Mossad guys, she might tell them about the box. They would ask her to open it, and I would be chopped liver.
At the bank I asked to talk to the legal counsel. He wasn't available. I asked to talk to his assistant. A slim young man with short blond hair and rimless glasses showed up.
“How may I help you?”
“My name is Dan Gordon,” I said and handed him the Tibor-made power of attorney. “I'm here about the safe-deposit box rented by Ariel Peled, and…”
“I already know the details, Herr Gordon,” he interrupted me mid-sentence, “but I'm afraid there is nothing to be done without Ms. Peled's signature.”
“Look,” I said aggressively, “I am an attorney from the United States. I have a power of attorney from an owner of a safe-deposit box, signed in Israel before the German Consul. A few days ago the bank refused to honor it, telling me that it must be signed on a bank-issued form. Then the owner of the box came to Munich and signed your damn form here at the bank, in front of the assistant manager. Hours later I was told that since there were two owners of the box, I needed authorization from both owners.” I paused and added venomously, “Nobody bothered to tell us that earlier.”
“That's precisely what the rules say,” said the lawyer, looking a bit startled at my belligerence. “Well, I don't think so,” I said, my anger brewing. “Look at the signature card of the bank, which was generated when the box was rented.” He looked at it. “Now tell me, can each owner open the box without the presence of the other?”
He looked at the form again and said faintly, “Yes.”
“Now,” I continued, like a teacher in a school for the intellectually challenged at the end of a long day, “as I am sure you know, a power of attorney is a delegation of power by the principal appointing another person or entity to act on the principal's behalf, having the same powers as the principal has or those he has delegated, right?”
He was starting to get the picture.
“So, if Mina Bernstein could open the box independently of Ariel Peled, and empty it, she could also give me that same power. And, sir, your games,” I spat, finally letting my rage burst, some real and some inflated, “are causing my client severe financial damage, which I intend to recover from the bank and from anyone involved in this delaying tactic!”
I was following the advice Alex had given us. “Always aim your veiled threats against the person standing in your way in an otherwise indifferent bureaucracy; make it personal. The bigger the organization, and the smaller the hurdle you are trying to pass, the more chances the person will yield. He or she wouldn't want to be blamed for creating a legal mess. Who'll defend them if they are personally named in a complaint or a lawsuit?” This time, no veil disguised the threat. It was unequivocal and direct.
“Wait here,” said the assistant. He seemed pleased to walk away.
I must have sounded convincing because he didn't give me an argument. I sank into the soft leather couch next to the legal counsel's office and looked around. Moments later he returned and said, “OK, I checked the power of attorney Mina Bernstein signed, and it seems to be in order. I'll take you to the vault.”
“Thank you,” I said, “but I don't have a key. Yesterday the assistant manager prepared the keys but I never received them.” Then as a second thought I added, “Do you know if Mrs. Bernstein received her set of keys before she left?”
“No,” he said, “I have the envelope with her keys.” That was a relief, since it meant that Mina hadn't opened the box.
“I'll take the keys and give them to her,” I said, holding out an open hand.
He hesitated.
“Remember, I have full power of attorney,” I reminded him.
He relented and gave me the envelope. “At this time we are honoring only the power of attorney Mrs. Bernstein signed here. Here is the one signed in Israel. Please ask Ms. Peled to come in and sign our own form.”
He returned the power of attorney Tibor had prepared.
Frankly, I couldn't have cared less why he was yielding, as long as I could get access to the box. I followed him to the lower floor, went through a chrome-plated, metal-barred door, then a ten-inch-thick steel door, and finally into the safe-deposit box area. I opened the key envelope, took one key and read the number – 114. The box was in an upper row. I inserted my key and my guide inserted his master key into the slot. The box opened.
“I'll wait here until you're finished,” he said, moving into the adjacent room to allow me privacy.
I composed myself, resolving to be businesslike. But excitement overtook me. Here was the information I'd been looking for, and it might give me new insight into Dov Peled. The safe-deposit box door opened and inside was a white envelope. I took the envelope, put it in the inner pocket of my jacket, locked the box, took the key, and left the room. I looked at my wristwatch; it was 1:15 P.M.
The main door of the bank was closed and I was directed to a side door. As I stepped out, I noticed a shadow to one side. I felt a hard, sharp blow on my head. Then blackness.
The first thing I heard when I came to was the sound of an elevator door opening and footsteps. Then I felt the thick, sweet taste of blood in my mouth. My blood. I was half sitting on the floor, breathing heavily. I was dizzy, disoriented. My head was a ball of pain. I felt wetness. Darkness, more pain. There were voices around me, speaking in German. Where was I? The darkness began to clear and I saw the blurred figure of someone trying to help me get up.
“Mein Gott,”I heard a man's voice say, coming through the pain. “He is bleeding.”
I lifted my left hand and touched my face. It was sticky and warm. There was blood coming from my nose and forehead. I raised myself slightly and leaned against the wall.
My head began to clear. I realized I'd been hit – hard. I reached into the inner pocket of my jacket. The envelope was still there. That was all that mattered, but I knew I'd better move out of there fast.
“Please help me get up,” I asked the person standing next to me. I didn't even know whether it was a man or a woman.
“No,” he said. It was a man after all. “You must to wait for the ambulance.” I couldn't allow that. Whoever had attacked me might come back. I had to leave. I got up, despite my dizziness. I was as nauseated as if I were on a bobbing boat on the open sea without any air. Air! Yes! That's what I needed most.
“Thank you,” I said in the man's general direction and walked slowly outside, my knees weak, my vision foggy The crisp October wind blowing in my face had had never felt better. My vision was slowly coming into focus, but my head hurt even more as the shock wore off. I looked down. My shirt and jacket were spattered with
