Following a quick cup of tea, I went outside the hotel and found a garden bench where I could sit and watch the hotel's main entrance. The late October sun was shining, but there was a real chill in the Moscow air. I was wearing only a light coat, and as the minutes passed I became colder and colder. Finally, I saw Ariel in a pants suit, long coat, and sunglasses leaving the hotel. She hailed a cab. I dashed to the next one and said in English, like they did in the old Hollywood movies, “Follow that cab!”
The driver sized me up in the rearview mirror.
“Girlfriend?” he replied in English.
“Yes,” I said, “and don't lose her.”
After cruising through a few busy streets, still in the center of the city, the cab stopped and Ariel got out. I paid my cabbie with an extra-large tip and said, “Stick with me. There's more of the same for the whole day.”
“Sure, boss,” said the cabbie. “I like these games.”
I watched Ariel approach a small wooden ticket booth. With a ticket and a brochure in her hand, I saw her join a group of tourists. I kept my distance. The guide, a woman in her early fifties, began her spiel in a loud tour-guide voice, then led the group off to visit Moscow's highlight attractions. I stayed discreetly to the side.
“Good morning. This tour of the center takes you to Moscow's three main central squares – Sverdlov, Revolution Marx Prospect, and Red Square – and concludes at the KGB headquarters at Dzerzhinsky Square.
“This area is called Sverdlov Square because of the three theaters dominating the northern side. Hard to imagine that decades ago it was just a stinking bog of the Neglinka River, also used as a garbage dump by rich people living in the city center.”
The group continued walking to the right from the western exit of Ploshchad Revolutsii metro station around the square, looking up at the high walls.
“These walls were built by Prince Vassily III in the sixteenth century to protect Kitai Gorod, the main trading area of the city.”
Ariel seemed disinterested in the tour guide's explanations. She kept looking around. That made my job more difficult, but I had to be there because I felt that something was about to happen. Ariel wasn't being a tourist. The tour guide continued her monotone narrative.
“In the center of a minisquare on the right you will pass an interesting pile of stone blocks. This was the site of the statue of Yakov Sverdlov, a comrade of Lenin and the so-called first head of Communist Russia.”
I moved closer to the group.
“On the side of the square facing you is Metropol Hotel, one of Moscow's finest examples of art nouveau architecture, which at the time of its building filled conservative citizens with horror. It was built by William Walcott, an English architect also known for his imaginary sketches of ancient classical buildings.” The guide pointed her finger up and said, “Look up to see the two large mosaics created by Mikhail Vrubel; they were inspired by Edmond Rostand's play La Princesse Lointaine. Meanwhile, look at the second floor; above it you can see an inscription of a proverb by Friedrich Nietzsche: ‘It's the same old story, when you build a house; you notice that you've learned something.’” Cameras clicked, but I was too focused on Ariel.
“I'm not going to tell you about Metropol restaurants, you'll have to find this information on your own,” the guide continued.
I didn't pay much attention to the tour details. I was troubled by Ariel's presence. Why had she taken the tour when she'd told me that she had a meeting? Was it her subtle way of avoiding me, or was there a place on the tour where she would meet her contact? What was she doing in Moscow? Who is she working for, if anybody? If her father was seeming to be working for the Iranians, is she into that as well? Was I asking myself all these questions to defray the possibility that she simply was not interested in my company? The group continued on and I lingered three hundred feet behind, my cabbie in the distance.
When the tour guide headed everyone toward the Maly Theatre, across Okhotny Ryad near the Metropol Hotel, a new face joined the group from the rear – an unshaven man in his thirties dressed in a long black leather coat. He didn't look like a tourist to me and apparently not to Ariel either. He looked as if he came from one of the “Stans,” the Asian Soviet republics: Azerbaijan, Kazakhstan, or Uzbekistan. I saw Ariel and the newcomer make eye contact.
The tour guide continued. “This theater was designed in 1824 by Osip Bove, who was in charge of Moscow's rebuilding after the fire of 1812. Currently Maly's repertoire concentrates on historical plays in traditional dramatic style and on Russian classics.”
Ariel, the newcomer, and I were no longer even mildly interested in the tour. The pair exchanged a few words and the man then left the group. Ariel turned her back to him and drifted from the group as well. My training again came to my aid or she would have spotted me. I immediately turned around to the opposite direction, stopped a passerby to ask a stupid question (only to be seen talking to someone), and turned slowly sideways so as not to lose my eye contact with Ariel. She tried to hail a cab, initially without success, then one pulled over for her. I quickly walked to my waiting driver and we got underway. I had to restrain him from getting too close to the other cab. He liked the sport too much.
It was clear I had to find out quickly if Ariel was with us or with the opposition, a process called IFF: “identifying friend or foe.” I didn't like what I'd just seen. Why was Ariel taking this risk? Was she working for the CIA or for the Mossad? Was either one helping her hide her father's money in return for services rendered?
I decided to break off the chase and went back to my hotel. I needed to talk to Benny, but how? I couldn't use the hotel phone, with the KGB a likely listener. I couldn't go to the Israeli Embassy or to the American Embassy for much the same reason. It was possible that I had an invisible tail. I had had at least one in Munich, so I could expect to have another here. I was confident that the Iranians had not followed me to the Munich airport. They'd had no idea where my new hotel in Munich was and therefore couldn't have trailed me. So Moscow was a relatively Iranian-free atmosphere. Although it was possible that I was under the watch of the KGB, I believed that they did that to most foreign tourists as a measure of counterintelligence rather than as an attempt to recruit and develop new sources of information. I wasn't concerned about being either observed or subjected to recruitment attempts. But I didn't want to create an unnecessary risk when none was needed. I couldn't be sure that in addition to the Iranians and the KGB there wasn't someone else interested in what I was up to. I hadn't even begun to investigate the Colombians and their motives, and clearly they were players. If Ariel was being watched, then I could be spotted watching her and become a target as well.
I weighed my options. One was a short conversation with Benny that could answer my questions or clarify my doubts, or expose me to the Soviets as someone who was more than just a lawyer. Another was to go to the American Embassy; it was plausible for me as a tourist to do that and certainly less risky than venturing into the Israeli Embassy. I chose the former and went to the American Embassy on 19-23 Tchaikovsky Street. Surprisingly, it was easier to enter the Moscow compound than the one in Munich; perhaps American security officers thought that the Soviet perimeter security was better. I considered contacting Eric's counterpart in Moscow. But if he was anything like Eric, I didn't want to spoil this sunny day with its brisk wind and beautiful Moscow sky. So instead I showed the Marine on duty my government ID and asked to use the phone. “Secure?” he asked.
“Yes, if possible.”
“You'll need to clear it first with the RSO, the regional security officer.”
He directed me to the first floor. Minutes later I was talking to my children. Tommy asked me to come home. Karen was more understanding of my work requirements, which made me feel even guiltier. Then I called Eric. No, he had no idea whether Ariel worked for the Mossad; Benny hadn't said anything. And she didn't work for Eric either. Why was I wasting my time on her? It took a strong will not to slam the phone down. Waste time over the beautiful, rosy Ariel? To me it was beginning to sound like a better idea than chasing the secrets of the Iranians.
I called Benny in Tel Aviv.
“Having fun in Moscow?” Benny asked jovially.
“I haven't had time yet. Isn't there something else you forgot to tell me?”
“Such as what?”
“About Ariel, for example.”
“What about her?”
“Is she on your payroll?”
“No. Whatever gave you that idea? Is she there?”
