Triple Identity (23 page)

I crossed the street and waited, leaning against a wall, pretending to read a newspaper. Two hours went by but no luck. Also, the newspaper
was in German, of which I understood little, in print anyway. I was about to give up; I like cold climates but not when I'm dressed for spring and exposed to the relentless European autumn weather. But then suddenly the bank's exit glowed. A woman walked out the door with shiny hands. I took my camera and snapped her picture, then crossed the street just in time to see her catch a bus. I couldn't get a clear view of her but I was sure that it was not Sour Puss. I looked for a cab to follow her. The rain closed out that plan. The bus was long gone by the time I found a cab.

I went back to my hotel. As soon as I walked into my room I caught the unmistakable odor of cigarettes. Anyone who'd ever smoked and quit, like I had, would recognize that stale and bitter smell. Someone had been in my room and whoever it was had been smoking. People don't recognize that they leave odors behind. The smell had been on their clothes and now it was in the air. I checked the bathroom and the closets. All empty. I bolted the door and checked my room safe. The hair was missing. I froze. Then I opened the safe. My magazine was still there. I closed the safe. I took the credit-card-size bug detector Eric gave me and attached it to my telephone. The readings were negative. I couldn't trust the test as conclusive, though. Telephone PBX systems in offices and hotels sometimes send false-negative signals to bug detectors. I went with the bug detector around the room; near the television, the paintings on the walls, the drapes, the lamps, and the desk. Nothing.

I then checked my luggage; it was obvious someone had been through my things. Whoever it was was apparently more interested in my luggage itself than in its contents, because I saw that the rims of my luggage were slightly opened. I checked it with the bug detector. Nothing.

Although I still had a few hours before the 8:00
P.M.
meeting at the safe house, I thought I should leave my room immediately. Obviously I was being watched, and I couldn't use the phone until I was sure it was safe. I dusted the safe and my luggage with the UV powder and left the room.

I
went outside to check the surroundings. I thought I saw the same Middle Eastern–looking man I'd seen earlier. I went into a café across the street and used the house phone to call Eric.

“It's Dan. I'm across from my hotel. My room was searched and the room safe was opened. There are other developments.”

“Do you want to move?” asked Eric.

“No. I don't think that would be a good idea. Disappearing from the hotel would only let these guys know we're on to them. It would be wiser to continue playing the unsuspecting lawyer.”

“OK,” said Eric, “but I'll have to move the meeting tonight. The safe house we used earlier may have been compromised.”

“What's the new location?”

“Jeff will be driving a different cab — it will be a beige Mercedes and will pass by the same location at 7:45
P.M.
He'll take you to the meeting.”

“I'll be there,” I said. I hung up, then dialed another number at random and hung up once more. Just to keep any follower off the track.

I glimpsed at my watch; it was 2:20
P.M.
I had a few hours to kill. I hailed a cab and went to the Oplatka Travel Agency. Even if the Iranians were following me, it could easily be explained as my effort to find DeLouise for them.

When we got there I asked the driver to park and wait in a nearby lot; a twenty-mark bill did the trick. There were five workstations in the street-level store with clients talking to the agents at four of them. I went to the only available desk, operated by a woman of indeterminate age; she could be a young-looking fifty-year-old or an old-looking thirty-five-year-old. I was never good at determining a woman's age. She raised her head and flashed a pretty smile.

“Good afternoon. I called this office earlier concerning flight reservations for Mr. Raymond DeLouise for Moscow?”

“Just a minute,” she said and clicked on her computer.

“Yes, I see the reservation,” she said.

“Has the ticket been issued?” I asked.

“No. It was never picked up, so we canceled. It also says here that a Mr. Wooten called concerning your flight and promised to get back to us on the delivery of the ticket. Apparently he didn't,” she said, turning back to me. She must have thought I was DeLouise.

“I apologize,” I said, hoping to sound embarrassed. “I'm Mr. Wooten. Raymond DeLouise is my partner. He couldn't make the flight; he is in the hospital even now as we speak.” Alex's words were in my mind. “Be humble, show human emotions, give your subject some information to convince her that it's OK to give you the information. Make it sound like it's only a technicality that you don't have the correct account number or the information you are seeking. Don't sound conniving or sleazy. The door will be slammed in your face.”

“I'm sorry to hear that,” she said. “Is he all right?”

“Not quite,” I said, remembering how pale and motionless he had been, stretched out on that slab in the city morgue.

“What can I do for you?” she asked.

“Well, since Mr. DeLouise is not in a condition to speak, I wonder if you could help me. I need some information.”

“Sure,” she said, waiting for me to continue.

“Did he pay for the ticket?”

“Yes, he used his American Express credit card, but we credited his account after the cancellation of the ticket.” Seeing me holding my pen and a pad, she gave me the credit card number. I wrote it down.

“Did you also make a copy of his card?” I asked. “May I see it? We have several subaccounts of this card and I want to see to which one the credit note was sent to.”

She went to the file cabinet and gave me the copy. “You may have this, I suppose, since we canceled the transaction.”

“Thank you,” I said, putting the copy in my pocket.

“Come to think of it,” I said nonchalantly, “Did Mr. DeLouise make reservations for any connecting flights from Moscow? I may have to cancel them too.”

“Yes,” she said looking at her monitor, “I see here that after a three-day stay in Moscow he was booked on an Aeroflot flight to Baku, Azerbaijan, and from there back to Leningrad. We canceled these tickets as well.”

“How about hotel reservations — did he make any? I'd like to avoid a late cancellation fee if at all possible.”

“Yes, but only in Moscow, at the Cosmos Hotel. You'll have to send them a fax to see if they charged you any cancellation fee.”

“You're very helpful,” I said. “Our business is in such chaos ever since Mr. DeLouise was taken to the hospital. I have one final question. There is a young lady associated with our company who was working with Mr. DeLouise on their project; I don't know whether she also made the reservations through this office.”

“Do you have her name?”

“Yes. It's Ariel Peled.” I had my fingers crossed.

She clicked the computer's keyboard and said, “Yes. Ms. Peled booked the same flight number to Frankfurt connecting to Moscow, but it was not on Mr. DeLouise's scheduled flight date.”

“Really?” I said, sounding surprised. “I thought they were traveling together.”

“No, she booked it to leave just four days ago.”

“Bingo!” I shouted in my head.

“Of course,” I nodded, “I see. I should get in touch with her and tell her that Mr. DeLouise won't be coming to Moscow. She must be looking for him. Did she also reserve a room at the Cosmos?”

“Yes.”

“When did Ms. Peled make the reservations?”

“Oh, it was a night before her departure. I see that the ticket was picked up here.”

I thanked the agent and left.

This was my lucky day. I had a lead on Ariel. I went over the dates in my head. Had she been kidnapped at all? Maybe she'd been kidnapped
and released. Maybe she'd escaped. Why did Ariel go to Moscow? Was she still there? Was the person traveling under Ariel's name in fact DeLouise's daughter or was it someone else assuming her identity? I didn't have a clue. At least not yet. As I walked down the street, I reviewed my findings.

First, I knew that there was a vault in Guttmacher's office. I suspected that the Iranian file — and there was probably more than just one file — might be in the vault, and I suspected that Guttmacher's office did not have an independent alarm system or monitoring cameras, but I had nothing to corroborate either assumption. I needed to find out the identity of the woman who'd left the bank with the UV powder marks on her hands; she might get us access to the vault's keys. Second, a smoker had paid a visit to my room and had gone through my things and might have planted something in my luggage. Third, from my visit to the travel agency I'd learned that DeLouise had never made the flight to Moscow. Well, I'd already known that. Also, Ariel may have taken the flight to Moscow and stayed at the Cosmos Hotel. She could still be in Moscow. Finally, as a small prize, I had a photocopy of DeLouise's American Express card. I pulled out the photocopy of the card. It was a Platinum Corporate American Express card issued to Triple Technologies and Investments, Ltd. The name of the cardholder was R. De Louise. The first four digits of the card showed that it was issued by an American Express center in Europe, but to derail a computer search he'd made it De Louise, in the French style.

I stopped at a stationery store near the travel agency and faxed the copy of the credit card to Lan, asking her to have the U.S. Attorney's Office issue a subpoena to American Express for the records of the card. Since there were pending proceedings in California against DeLouise, the government could exercise its subpoena power and force American Express to disclose all the transactions made with the card. Hopefully it would also lead me to Triple Technologies and Investments Ltd. and to the nature of its relationship with DeLouise; it could be his company but it could also be a company owned by a friend who let him use the company's name.

I went back to the parking lot and the waiting taxi. “Take me to the Sheraton Hotel. And go the long way. I'd like to be late for a meeting.” I wanted to be sure I wasn't being followed. Driving through residential areas would make it easier for me to detect unwanted company.

I called Ron Lovejoy from the hotel lobby and told him about the search of my hotel room. “Did you report it to Eric?” Ron asked.

“Well, I called him earlier so he moved our meeting to another location. I don't even know where it is.” I told Ron briefly that I might have traced Ariel's footsteps to Moscow. “Either she was kidnapped and escaped or was released, or the whole thing was a hoax. I don't even know by whom and for what purpose. We should also be prepared for a more sophisticated twist.”

“What do you mean?”

“Someone could be traveling under Ariel's name. How do we know that this person is in fact Ariel Peled?” That was a conversation stopper, and I hung up.

Next, I called David Stone in Washington from another pay phone using a prepaid phone card. “David, I hope that this side matter won't delay my real job.”

“It's a question of priorities,” said David. “What you are doing now seems more urgent than your original assignment. That can wait for a few days.”

“OK. I plan to go to Moscow immediately. I don't want to wait until we're done with the other business.”

“Why?” asked David.

“The young lady's tracks lead to the Soviet Union. I don't know if she actually made the trip or whether her visit is connected to my matter or something else. I don't even know for sure if it's who we think it is. Either way, I want to find her. She's the main lead now in my scavenger hunt. Her father trusted her and left her written instructions. I'm sure finding her is vital to my investigation and I want to reach her before she makes any other moves.” Without waiting for an answer I said, “I'll call you later.”

“Not so fast,” said David. “If you think it's a nuisance getting embassy
and host-country clearance from Israel or Germany, try the Soviet Union! I could never get it this fast, especially not these days. So you'll have to wait or think of something else.”

Well, I would have to come up with another plan. I had to use this narrow window of opportunity; I couldn't wait for the bureaucrats to move their asses. Moscow! I hadn't been there for a while. The spillover from the former Eastern Bloc countries and the fall of the Berlin Wall was shaking up the Communists, and chaos was spreading through the whole country. Moscow would not be the ideal place to visit just now. But being in the information-gathering game and not the travel business, I went wherever the goods were sold, not just where the friendly sun was shining.

Jeff came driving by in his cab at 7:45
P.M.
sharp. I hailed him and got in without a word. Twenty minutes later we arrived at an apartment building, large but undistinguished except for a circular driveway and four entrances. Just the place for a safe house.

Jeff let me off and directed me to the nearest entrance. “Apartment 7F. I'll park the cab and meet you there.”

I got in the elevator at the end of the lobby and went to the eighth floor, walked down one flight, and knocked. Eric opened the door.