question.
“No,” I replied quickly trying to control the damage, “I'm certainly not an expert on anything. But I have some common sense and principles, and if my instincts or my brain tell me that something is wrong, I ask. I'm sure you've seen my military file. I was never court-martialed for disobedience, and I was involved in many sensitive incursions across the Syrian border that demanded strict adherence to orders. But if you're looking for someone to follow any orders, with no questions asked, then I'm the wrong person. On the other hand, if original thinking and an inquisitive mind are traits that fit the job, then I'm your man.”
The white-haired old man sitting in the center of the panel seemed to like my answer. He smiled.
“Let me hear your views about politics.”
We talked local politics for an hour. I didn't think he wanted to hear my opinion; he simply wanted to be assured that I wasn't a radical on either end of the political spectrum. Then it was over.
“You'll hear from us,” Shani said as he escorted me out.
Weeks went by with no word. Then one afternoon there was a knock on the door of my parents’ home. I answered the door. Michael walked in and, without any prefatory comment, asked me to join him for a meeting elsewhere. I didn't ask any questions and went along to his car. Ten minutes later, we arrived at the Mossad headquarters. I followed Michael through the corridors and was asked to wait in an empty conference room. After what was for me an agonizing interval, Michael entered with Shani, who shook my hand and said with a broad smile, “Congratulations! You're in.”
I was so unprepared that I didn't know whether I should be happy or sorry. Despite the long wait, it all seemed very sudden.
Michael handed me a stack of documents. “This is an oath of confidentiality,” he said, pulling out two stapled pages. “Read it carefully, because it will remain valid all your life, even when you are no longer in the service.”
I looked at the statement. “As a member of the Central Intelligence Institute, I understand that I will have access to confidential and top-secret information which concerns Israel's national security. By signing this statement, I am indicating my understanding of my responsibilities to maintain confidentiality and agree to the following.” There followed a list of penalties for breach, of which prison seemed the lightest.
I signed.
In those few minutes, though I didn't realize it then, I had just begun the most fascinating time of my life.
It was only May, but Tel Aviv was already hot and humid. My acceptance came right on time; graduation from university was only two months away. I broke the news to my parents at the dinner table that evening.
“What about your plans to go to law school and then join my firm?” my father asked, looking at me and then my mother.
“It'll have to wait for a while,” I responded. I don't think they liked the answer but they said nothing to discourage me. I didn't realize then that “a while” meant years.
On my first day on the job I was assigned to the archive. Thousands upon thousands of files, reeking of mildew, welcomed me. “Don't worry,” consoled Michael when he saw my gloomy face, “this is how everyone starts.” It took me two months to get the picture, reading endless files. I saw how many so-called accidents that had befallen terrorists had their roots in those files, in that stale room.
I was assigned to field training six months later, the first of its kind at the Mossad.
I packed a few things and took a bus to the Mossad training camp, twenty miles northeast of Tel Aviv, for what was called an “operations course.” The camp was located in an agricultural area, on an old military base that was surrounded by citrus orchards and small red-roofed houses. It included an airstrip that had been built and used by British forces until 1948, when Jewish resistance made them give up their mandate over Palestine, leading to the establishment of Israel. Several elite forces of the Israeli armed forces had taken over the base. Behind a seven-foot gated metal fence topped by razor wire stood a few one-story buildings. The smell of cow dung hung in the air. There was no sign on the fence.
I showed the guard in the small concrete booth my invitation letter. He asked me for my government-issued photo ID, compared it with my face, and picked up his telephone and said something. With a nod, he hung up and opened the electric gate, which screeched as it slowly rolled on its rails. I walked inside the camp.
Manhattan, New York City, September 1990
The office secretary, Lan, knocked on my door, walked in unceremoniously, and handed me a file folder.
“This just came in,” she said. “It looked like something you'd want to see right away.” I reached across my desk, took the folder, and began to read a cover memo.
OFFICE of INTERNATIONAL ASSET RECOVERY AND MONEY LAUNDERING
Memorandum To: Dan Gordon, Investigative Attorney From: David Stone, Director Date: September 15,1990 Re: U.S. v. Raymond DeLouise I'm assigning you this matter.
The subject Raymond DeLouise, born in Bucharest, Romania.
DOB: July 15,1927.
Whereabouts: Last known address: 44-21 Glendale Boulevard, Los
Angeles, CA 90021. Current address: unknown. The subject absconded from the United States soon after federal regulators discovered a $90 million shortfall at First Federal Bank of Westwood, California, where he was chairman and chief executive officer as well as principal shareholder. The FDIC took over after the bank's collapse and paid back the depositors as required, up to $100,000 per account. The FDIC has referred the matter to this office to attempt retrieval of the missing funds. They found sufficient evidence showing that the shortfall was not an accounting error or an accrued loss but was rather a result of possible defalcation, probably by Raymond DeLouise. Remarkably, there are no suspicious international wire transfers in large amounts or other evidence of the whereabouts of the missing funds. The criminal aspects of this matter were referred to the U.S. Attorney's Office for the Central District of California, which instructed the FBI to investigate. A grand jury is considering indicting him on multiple charges, including bank fraud and money laundering. Since the FBI believes that DeLouise has left the country, INTERPOL will be put on notice if he is indicted. My office has been asked to locate DeLouise and recover the lost money that we suspect was laundered through foreign entities. Neither the FDIC nor the Department of Justice has a clue where Raymond DeLouise might be. I enclose the FDIC report together with its attachments. Please report your findings to this office. David
I went through the twenty-page FDIC report and a brief FBI report. They looked very thorough but lacked a bottom line: If DeLouise or his money were outside the United States, they expected me to find both – and fast.
The government's working assumption was that he'd left the country – they all do. But where did he go? Was he sunbathing in the Bahamas? gambling in Monte Carlo? skiing in St. Moritz? Certainly with ninety million dollars in his pockets he didn't escape to a one-star hotel where, for an additional buck, they give you a mousetrap for your room. This guy probably wanted to keep his money in the dark and himself in the sun. The problem was that there were dozens of these sorts of places around the world. The FBI report indicated that his wife and adult son, who still lived in California, didn't know his whereabouts – or at least they claimed not to know.
I prepared a note to Lan. I'm attaching David Stone's memo with the new file. Please call your contact at the INS and ask for Raymond DeLouise's file. His social security number is in the new file. The subject was born in Romania and lived in the United States; therefore he must have an INS file. Ask your friend if it would be possible to get the file before the end of the millennium. Dan
The last time I'd asked the INS for assistance in retrieving an immigration file, it had taken six months. “It's a black hole out there,” a Justice Department veteran had once told me. “Unless you know someone in the particular office you need, you're nonexistent. They're so overworked and underbudgeted that they look through you as if you were air. Their telephone extension numbers are kept secret even from other government agencies. If you call for telephone directory assistance, you get an 800 number with nothing but long recorded messages. You can punch all the selections, but you'll never talk to a live body.”
Lan walked into my office. “I gave the INS the social security number you gave me for DeLouise, but they say another name came up.”
“Ask them to send a copy of that file anyway, we'll figure it out.”
The guy Lan knew at the INS must have owed her big-time, because I had the file on my desk within two
