Henderson didn't answer. I thought I should tell him about DeLouise's flight reservations to Moscow and Baku, Azerbaijan; it could be connected to the meeting there Henderson mentioned earlier. But just as I was about to tell him that a technician entered the room. It was 1:00 P.M. and time to get ready. He asked me to take my shirt off.
The technician attached a transmitter on my lower back with adhesive tape and asked me to put on my shirt.
“How does it feel?”
“Cold.” I put my shirt and tie on.
The technician attached a pin-size microphone behind my jacket's right lapel.
“The pin is both a microphone and a low-output transmitter. It picks up anything said within a fifteen-foot range and transmits it to the transmitter on your back. That one can resend the signal as far as one thousand feet. Even if they discover the transmitter, it doesn't look like a radio transmitter. We designed it to look like a massage vibrator, the same one that is used to alleviate lower back pain. Only an expert could tell it's in fact a transmitter. In the unlikely event that you'd have to explain the device, make up a story about lower back pain. Additionally, the unit acts like a bug detector. It sweeps the area to discover any listening devices or recorders. If one is detected, a warning vibration is sent to your back, and the transmitter automatically operates as a recorder only and, in order not to be detected, emits only minimal, mostly undetectable radio output. The pin microphone looks like a regular pin only slightly bigger. Again it takes an expert to tell. Remember, the battery on the pin microphone is limited to sixty minutes, so we are giving you one other device.”
“And what is that?”
He gave me a ballpoint pen, the kind you can buy for ten dollars a dozen.
“It's a high-power UHF transmitter,” said Eric. “‘Ultra-high frequency’ is used in a range that causes no interference from other equipment, such as aircraft or taxis. The frequency is preset so no tuning is necessary. Even when closely examined nothing unusual can be found, yet the pen conceals a hidden transmitter that will pick up the slightest whisper and transmit to our dedicated UHF receiver up to a distance of fifteen hundred feet away. Of course, it is also a fully functional pen, in case Guttmacher tries to use it.”
With a chuckle, he added, “You can simply ‘forget’ it in Guttmacher's office, anywhere around his desk. The pen has a solar battery, which feeds itself from any source of light, even a lamp, so leave it where it would be exposed to light. That would assure continued transmission long after you leave the room.”
“It's all very nice,” I said, “all these gadgets, but do I get any protection if they find out that I'm a walking spy-electronics store?”
Eric nodded. “We'll be out in the street. Remember, we hear everything, so if you're in trouble we'll come and get you.”
We went downstairs to Lovejoy's car. Behind us were three others, each with three passengers. The delta barrier was lowered and we drove off. I looked back but didn't see any of the other cars.
“They're taking alternate routes. We don't want it to look as if you're coming in a motorcade,” said Ron, reading my mind.
I was dropped off two blocks from the bank, following standard operating procedure. I walked to the bank and went directly to Guttmacher's office. It was 2:00 P.M., right on the button. Although it was not the first time in my job that I have gone into a situation in which a physical threat might be present, I felt that the forthcoming encounter would be different. I was not nervous; I felt tense and focused.
G uttmacher welcomed me, took my coat, and went to his closet to hang it up. I pulled out the pen Eric gave me and casually put it in the pen and pencil holder on Guttmacher's desk. I looked over my shoulder; Guttmacher was busy hanging my coat and didn't notice.
Guttmacher came at me, all smiles, and said, “They're all here.” He opened a set of sliding doors and we entered a connecting conference room. There were three other people waiting: a short European-looking man dressed straight out of a fashion magazine and two darker guys in their forties with very short beards. They did not look like muscle to me but more like businessmen. Both wore business suits and had clever black eyes.
“This is Mr. DiMarco, president of Broncotrade,” Guttmacher introduced him first, “and these are Mr. Cyrus Armajani and Mr. Farbod Kutchemeshgi from the purchasing mission of Iran's Atomic Energy Commission.” We shook hands. As they got up I noticed that they had potbellies. I sat around the table and Guttmacher started.
“I told my Iranian friends and Mr. DiMarco that you are substituting for Mr. DeLouise. How is he?”
“I don't know. Raymond has always been a ladies’ man and used to disappear at times for a few days whenever he met a suitable girl to keep his nights active. This may be one of those times.” I decided to take that avenue in case they knew that DeLouise was in fact dead.
“The problem is,” continued Guttmacher, “that DeLouise was working on some transactions in Moscow when he disappeared.” I sat silently.
“There's another small matter. We gave Mr. DeLouise a two-million-dollar advance. Now he and our money are missing,” said Armajani, in a heavy accent.
So DeLouise stiffed them for two million. Was that why they may have sent him to the morgue? I wondered.
“I'm willing to go along and continue from where DeLouise left off, but frankly, I don't know where that was. Perhaps you could help me,” I ended, turning to Guttmacher. “Let me review with you the stuff DeLouise left to bring me up to speed. I know we could help you in Moscow; our contacts there are extremely good. But I must know what you need and when.”
Roberto DiMarco then said, “We gave DeLouise a list of equipment and supplies we need. And now he's disappeared. As his partner, we're expecting answers from you.”
The two Iranians looked at me impassively waiting. I had to show that I was in the loop or the meeting would end there and then. The only card I had was my knowledge of DeLouise's Moscow plans; I had to share that knowledge with them. Otherwise, why on earth would these guys believe a complete stranger?
“DeLouise had plans to go to Moscow tomorrow, he'd already made airline reservations on Lufthansa. He may have left earlier, I don't know. He didn't leave me any instructions.”
DiMarco stared at me. “Anything else? Have you talked to DeLouise recently?”
“No,” I conceded, “when I arrived I couldn't find him either.” Some truth wouldn't hurt, I thought. “However, if you're really interested in moving this thing forward, you'll have to help me do it. I don't have DeLouise's lists. So one option would be to wait until DeLouise shows up. The other option is to work with me. All I have is my sincere wish to go along with you, so I suggest we stop playing hide-and-seek.”
When no negative reaction came, I took the initiative.
“Mr. Guttmacher, would you please bring copies of the documents you gave DeLouise?”
All eyes turned to Guttmacher.
Guttmacher moved in his chair, his eyes shifting from me to the Iranians to DiMarco and back. Armajani nodded to Guttmacher in approval. Guttmacher got up and went to his office. I heard the sound of metal drawers opening and closing. In a moment he returned to the conference room with a file folder. We watched his movements.
“This is the DeLouise master file,” he said and threw it on the conference room table.
I was the only one who reached for it. The folder was almost two inches thick. I opened it and started to quickly run through its contents. It had several pages of correspondence between DeLouise and Broncotrade, a ten-page document in English on onionskin paper with a letterhead in Arabic script, and photocopies of bank statements and wire transfers.
“That's enough,” said Farbod Kutchemeshgi, after less than a minute. He reached for the file folder. It was the first time he'd opened his mouth or moved.
“For example, take lithium-6 compounds, palladium, and beryllium,” Armajani's voice caught me off guard. “They are on the top of the list. Do you have any answers?”
“No,” I conceded, “at least not yet. I need to go over the list and try to follow DeLouise's lead.” I didn't like the situation or the suspicious way they were looking at me.
“This is it, for now. You are not taking any lists from this office. DeLouise received information from us, took our money, promised progress in Moscow, and disappeared. That will not happen again.” The implied threat in his voice was obvious.
“How long would it take you to find out?” asked Farbod Kutchemeshgi, ignoring what Armajani had just
