He's my counterpart there. I'll let him know you're coming.”
I called my long-suffering office in New York from a street pay phone and asked Lan to book me on the afternoon flight to Moscow and make arrangements for me to stay at the Cosmos for five days. I gave her my new numbers at the Munich Sheraton and alerted her that in Munich I'd be Peter Wooten, but in Moscow I'd return to my real name. Then I asked her to connect me with Stone.
“David,” I said, “I'm through here for the moment and off to Moscow tonight.”
“Did Eric authorize that?”
“Well, I didn't exactly ask his permission, but I let him know I was headed out.”
“And what did he have to say?”
“Not much. He asked me to contact his station chief in Moscow.”
“Fine,” said David, “but I don't want more complaints from other agencies that you're too independent.”
“OK, boss,” I said obediently. We both knew the procedure; he gave me instructions and I followed them my way.
“How long will you be in Moscow?”
“Just a few days, looking for the daughter.”
“Good,” said David. “I see you're working for me again.”
“Yes, I guess so. Although I'm not sure whether she had anything to do with the other business,” I said, hoping David would understand I meant the Iranian matter. “Currently she's the only living link between the two.”
David picked it up immediately. “Fine. In the meantime there are developments in California. With DeLouise dead the criminal investigation against him is over, but the civil proceedings can continue. The U.S. District Court out there has just entered a default judgment against DeLouise's estate ordering restitution in the amount of ninety-one million dollars and change. So we're in a position to seek European judicial assistance to enforce this as soon as you discover assets.”
“Good news,” I said. “Can you send over a certified copy? I could use it here to open some doors even before we file in court.”
“It's already on the way.”
“Thanks for reading my mind. Am I cleared for Moscow?”
“Well, I don't have all the approvals yet, but you can go. If there's any heat, I'll take it, given the urgency of your trip; I suspect we'll avoid a major storm. Have a good trip and call me when you get there.”
I went to the consulate of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics in Seidlstrasse to get a visa. Although I was carrying a U.S. passport issued to government employees traveling overseas on official business, I used my personal U.S. passport. With the latest incidents and hijackings involving airlines and Palestinians terrorists, like the TWA 847 from Athens, I didn't want to have to eat my official government passport in the cramped toilet of the aircraft while a guy with a foreign accent announced, “This flight is now going to Beirut. Remain seated, stay calm, and nobody gets hurt.” Besides, there was no way I could have a Soviet visa issued on the same day using an official passport, not when the KGB had to screen each application and make sure that the official visitor is officially supervised. No, I was an attorney going to Moscow on business to meet some people. No, comrade, I am not affiliated with the U.S. government.
There were about twenty people waiting at the consulate, but the line was moving rapidly. Did this mean that they were all being rejected instantaneously? I entered the consulate and filled out the visa application. The application form was in Russian and German, printed on cheap, woodpulp paper that I hadn't seen since the austerity days in Israel in the 1950s. A big red flag with a hammer and sickle was hanging above the desk of a man dressed in a uniform-like suit.
“I need an urgent tourist visa for five days,” I said in English, hoping he understood.
“What is so urgent?” he replied in English.
“I have a business meeting tomorrow in Moscow.”
“A business meeting?” he repeated.
“Yes.”
“Then why do you ask for a tourist visa? You need a business visa.”
“Fine,” I said, “let me have a business visa.”
“Give me the invitation letter, your round-trip ticket, money order, and passport, and come back in one week.”
“I don't have a letter of invitation, and I can't wait a week. This is a sudden and urgent business meeting.”
“Sorry,” he said sternly. “No invitation letter, no visa.”
“Well, I forgot that I do have an invitation; it's right here in my passport,” I said, handing him my passport with two folded hundred-dollar bills inserted between the pages.
He took my passport, flipped through the pages, saw the money, and said “Just a minute,” before he exited to a back office. Ten minutes later he returned with my passport and handed it to me without saying a word. I looked in my passport; a red visa stamp gleamed at me.
I went back to my hotel where Lan's fax message with my flight itinerary to Moscow was waiting. I left the hotel, drove to the airport, and in twenty minutes I was in my seat on the plane. Airline efficiency at work – for once.
Three hours later I was in Sheremetyevo International Airport, nineteen miles north of Moscow. The airport is connected to Moscow by a high-speed expressway, notable not only for its speed but for its pollution. Years after most of the modern world had converted its vehicle fleets to engines using only unleaded gas, the Soviet Union was lagging behind in its persistent use of leaded gas. The results were visible on the cars’ dirty windshields and on the grimy houses by the side of the road. I couldn't find a cab so I took bus #551 to the Rechnoy Vokzal metro station in the center of town. I sat cramped between two old peasant women with live chickens in straw shopping bags who looked at me with curiosity. The chickens seemed to be curious as well. With my Levis jeans and wind- breaker, I must have looked different to them. From there I took a beat-up cab for a twenty-minute ride to the Cosmos Hotel on Prospekt Mira, past the center of Moscow and the All-Russia Exhibition Center. The driver suggested I visit it to get acquainted with Russian culture and to buy souvenirs. It was only a matter of minutes before he volunteered to be my personal tour guide, money changer, and provider of female companionship; he used a more crude word for the last. I declined all three offers.
The Cosmos Hotel was an amazing twenty-six-story building, crescent shaped with sprawling gardens, completed in 1979 to accommodate visitors to the 1980 summer Olympics. I checked in and went with my one bag to the nineteenth floor. The room was small. It had two beds, an armchair, and a desk. The furniture was all dark oak. It was modest but clean.
I opened the curtains and saw a beautiful view of the Botanical Gardens and Lossiny Ostrov, the national nature reserve.
Near the elevator was a floor lady's post. Seated constantly at her table, she sold bottled water and could monitor who was entering or leaving each room and when. I suspected she didn't keep the information to herself.
I went downstairs and spoke to the receptionist. Although the tall blond young lady had a British flag pin on her lapel to indicate her command of English, she had difficulty understanding me, and it wasn't because I spoke American English instead of British English.
“I'm looking for Ariel Peled,” I said. “Is she still staying at the hotel?”
She looked at her file index, pulled out a card, and said, “Yes, she is in room 1123.” That two-sentence exchange took almost five minutes using a combination of English and sign language. I decided not to spend the rest of my adult life trying to ask the receptionist if she knew whether Ariel was in her room. I simply looked at the key box behind the desk. Her room key was not there. I decided to make a direct approach, like most Israelis would.
I used the house phone and called Ariel's room. After two rings a woman's voice answered.
“Is this Ariel?” I asked in Hebrew. If she answered in Hebrew, then she would pass the first identity test.
“Yes,” said the woman in Hebrew, in an amazed tone. Moscow isn't Tel Aviv or New York, so it was obvious she didn't expect to hear Hebrew on the phone. “Who are you?” Her accent was that of a person who had been
