“Yes, yes,” said Guttmacher absently, looking like he was collecting his thoughts. Then he said, “You never told me that you were connected with Herr DeLouise.”
Bingo.
My cards were better than his, but since I had no immediate answer, I ignored his question. “We're from the same group of investors. He was the first to come to Europe with some of our capital. I need to continue from the point he left off. Let's work on it,” I suggested.
Guttmacher was no fool. “Excuse me,” he said trying to take over the conversation, “but I need to be convinced that you are his partner. He never mentioned your name.”
“In our operation, we work independently, but the money comes from the same source. You can relax, Herr Guttmacher. I can give you details about certain activities that only you and DeLouise know. This should show you that he shared secrets with me.”
“And what details are those?” asked Guttmacher.
“DeLouise gave you an envelope for Ariel Peled.”
Guttmacher was weighing the information.
“Where is Herr DeLouise now?” he demanded.
“I don't know. DeLouise may have taken off with some young German woman for a beach vacation in North Africa for all I care. But business is business, and we must continue. You and I know the rules.” I hoped I sounded conspiratorial enough.
Guttmacher didn't seem to be convinced. “Please understand,” he said, almost begging, “I believe you, but German law requires that I get some written proof.”
The schmuck! Now he cared about the law.
“Fine,” I relented, “what do you need?”
Guttmacher looked gratified to have regained some control. “I need something to show, like a power of attorney from DeLouise or the lists we gave him for the materials and equipment.”
Something to show? To whom? Materials? Equipment? What was he talking about? Was there a transaction going on? I couldn't ask, of course.
“I have a power of attorney he gave me in New York a year ago. It was notarized, would that do?”
“Notarized? Yes, yes, I think so.”
“OK, I'll have it faxed to you right away.” Another quick task for Tibor in Tel Aviv.
“Thank you, Mr. Wooten. That will solve the problem, I'm certain.”
This guy looked to me like he was pissing in his pants – Guttmacher's body reactions were weird. He was beside himself. But why? He must have feared something he thought I knew, or he viewed me as a threat to his interests. There had to be a reason for his fear. If I found it, perhaps I could use it as leverage to get Guttmacher to spill some information about his dealings with DeLouise.
I returned to the consulate and set up shop in a small conference room next to Lovejoy's office. Three hours later I had a fax with the power of attorney. The cover letter said that the “original” was being mailed next day to my hotel. I sent the paper on to Guttmacher and called him moments later. “Yes, yes,” he double-talked again, “it's OK. So, I can tell you that the meeting is scheduled for this afternoon. I'm glad you are substituting for Herr DeLouise, whom I couldn't find. These gentlemen don't like to wait.”
“Yes, tell me about the meeting,” I said. “Who is attending?”
“Cyrus Armajani and Farbod Kutchemeshgi as well as Roberto DiMarco from Broncotrade.”
“Anyone else?”
“Just you and me.”
Broncotrade. I'd heard that name earlier. Where had I heard it? And those other names. Who were those guys?
“At what time?”
“My office. Two o'clock.”
I wracked my tired memory. Then it came to me: Broncotrade's telephone number had appeared on DeLouise's hotel bill.
I burst into Ron's office without so much as a knock. “Ron,” I said, as he raised his head from his desk in surprise, “have you heard the names Cyrus Armajani, Farbod Kutchemeshgi, and Roberto DiMarco from Broncotrade?”
Not surprisingly, he came back immediately.
“Broncotrade is an Italian trading company suspected of supplying embargoed materials to the Iranians. DiMarco is president of the firm. The other names don't ring a bell, but I can check with the Company upstairs.” He meant the CIA.
“Please ask them. I need to know.”
“I'm not sure they'd tell me without knowing why I need the information.”
“Turf wars again?”
“No,” he said, “plain vanilla procedures.”
“I'm about to participate in a meeting, as DeLouise's substitute, with a German banker and these guys. I have no idea why the meeting was scheduled, but I couldn't ask because I was supposed to be in the loop, being DeLouise's business partner. The German banker who arranged the meeting apparently doesn't know that DeLouise is dead – or, if he does, he's a good actor. If he or any of the other participants of the meeting know about the DeLouise murder and had something to do with it, then I'm walking into a trap.”
“Why?” asked Ron. “You could still be the partner who doesn't know about the murder.”
“Because if these are the guys who murdered DeLouise, they could conclude that I'm as dangerous to them as DeLouise was. They don't know what DeLouise may have told me. If DiMarco's connection to Iran indicates that the other two men are Iranians, then I'm sure you know that human lives are cheap for these guys, and if they have any doubts, they eliminate you without prior or further notice. I'd like to live; I still have unfulfilled plans.”
“Let me run upstairs and see what they have on these names.”
I waited in Ron's office. Ten minutes later he returned with another man.
“This is Eric Henderson, Chief of Station, CIA,” said Ron, introducing a balding tall man in his forties who wore rimless eyeglasses over shifty blue eyes. “He's interested in hearing more about your meeting.”
Hell, I thought, I came here to get information, not to share any.
“What do you want to know?” I asked, slightly annoyed.
“Everything you know about the participants in the meeting and its purpose.”
I started from Genesis and went right through to Deuteronomy, the whole story of my mission up to this point. When I finished I looked at his face, waiting for a muscle to move. No go.
Eric kept up the sphinx act for a moment and then said, “I'm not sure it's a good idea to let you go to the meeting by yourself. Cyrus and Farbod are Iranian agents on a purchasing mission for nuclear materials and missile technology. DiMarco is one of their fronts for the actual purchase and shipment arrangements. Now that Iraq has invaded Kuwait, and the U.S. and its allies are sending threats in the Iraqis’ direction, the Iranians in general and their intelligence services in particular are on high alert. This whole thing is a matter of national security. I ask that, until otherwise instructed, you do not attend the meeting. I need to call Langley.”
He got up and left the room without another word. I was puzzled and fuming.
I looked at Ron. “Do I take my instructions from this guy who can't make a move without calling headquarters? Does he always stick his ‘No's’ into other people's business?” I punned.
Ron didn't answer. Maybe he didn't get it either.
I picked up the phone and called my man in Washington, D. Stone. He wasn't in yet, so I left an urgent message to call me back at Lovejoy's office at the Munich Consulate. I was angry and frustrated. I thought I was running my own show, and now this guy Henderson was trying to take over.
Thirty minutes later the phone rang. Henderson walked back into the room as I lifted the receiver.
“Dan,” said David Stone in his soft voice, and then continued without waiting for my response, “they say it's a matter of national security. I want you to cooperate.”
“David,” I said trying to keep my composure, “this guy is rocking my boat. I'm making good progress. He's talking principles but acting on interests.”
“I can understand your frustration,” said David. “As always, you continue to take your instructions from me
