Triple Identity (44 page)

“The Moscow idea was not mine.”

I saw where she was heading. “It was Benny's ploy,” I said matter of factly.

Now it was Ariel's turn to be surprised. “How did you find out? I don't believe he told you.”

“No, he hasn't. I suspected you were working for someone in Moscow; your story just didn't make sense to me. So I called Benny from Moscow and asked him if you worked for him.”

“And what did he say?”

“He denied it,” I said. “I can't always tell when Benny is not telling the truth, but I know when he's outright lying.”

Ariel narrowed her eyes again. “You couldn't have figured it out by yourself? Or did you?”

I had to decide quickly whether to look smart or be truthful. I chose the latter.

“Remember when you were attacked and I ran to your room to pack your things?”

Ariel nodded.

“Well, I took a quick look and found your phone book.”

“And?”

“There was a small piece of paper in it with just a five-digit number. I recognized the number; it's the code you need to punch in after you've dialed a Belgian telephone number. Once the correct code is recognized, the call is automatically transferred to Benny's private line at his office in Tel Aviv.”

Ariel was stunned. “So you did figure it out after all!”

“Yes, it was really simple. He'd given me the code for the month. The only logical conclusion was that your contact with Benny had to have been very recent. But since you denied knowing who he was, you were lying to me on that, too.”

Ariel lowered her eyes.

“So you've been working for him all along?”

“No, just for the trip to Moscow. When I ran from the kidnappers in
Munich to the Israeli Consulate and told them how angry I was about my father's murderers, Benny's guys suggested that I get even.”

“How?”

“They wanted me to go to Moscow to get some more samples of materials from my father's contacts.”

“Why? What was the purpose?” I asked, although I already knew the answer.

“I don't know, they just wanted me to meet with them, get another sample, give them some money, and tell them that we'd like to do more business in the future.”

“I guess you met them before I came to Moscow, because you were under my radar as soon I arrived. Besides, who's ‘we’?” I asked.

“Me and my dad,” she said,

“But he's dead,” I responded. “I saw him dead.”

“The Russians didn't know that.”

“Aha,” I said, “so Benny pulled off another brilliant one, keeping the flame burning for future reference.”

Ariel's eyes shone. “Flame?”

“Yes, by sending you to follow up on your father's initial contacts while they were still hot, the Mossad was letting the Russians think that the Iranians were genuinely interested in their merchandise. Now the Mossad could infiltrate their rogue operation, manipulate it, maybe get to the bottom and the top at the same time. So now are we even in the truth department?” I asked.

“Well, not exactly. My father had left his will with Mr. Bart to be delivered to me.” This got my attention yet again.

“You never mentioned it when we talked in Moscow. You mean there was a third envelope?”

“Yes,” she said. “I didn't know about it until I read my father's letter again, the one you retrieved from the safe-deposit box. Do you remember the last sentence in that letter?”

“Not exactly. What did it say?”

“I was to tell Mr. Bart the nickname my father called me when I was just five years old, and that Mr. Bart would laugh.”

“Yes,” I remembered now, “I didn't understand what it all meant.”

“I couldn't either,” said Ariel, “but when I reread it, I decided to see Mr. Bart again. I had the chance ten days ago when Blecher asked me to return from Israel as a potential witness. Otherwise, I'd have gone on my own.”

“Did he laugh?” I asked, realizing, of course, that there was a code in the instruction.

“No. He didn't laugh, but he gave me the third big envelope. The nickname was a code word my father gave him to release the envelope only to me. My father paid him nicely for the service.”

“What was your nickname?”

“Ponchick,”
she said, smiling in embarrassment. “As you know, the word means ‘jelly donut.’”

I laughed too. “And what was in the third envelope?”

“The final truth, the resolution, and the rewards,” she said enigmatically. “My father wrote me in the accompanying letter that his second wife and her son, who is my half-brother, had been taken care of financially through a maze of family trusts he had established while they were still living in California. Therefore, he wrote, his entire estate should be mine. To guarantee that only I would get the money, he prepared notarized assignment instruments, surviving his death, which transferred title of all his assets to my name. He even wrote checks made out to me on all his cash accounts.”

“Good for you,” I said, fearing that now I'd find myself fighting Ariel over the money her father left her. What else could go wrong? “Are you a rich woman now?” I asked bitterly, seeing where the conversation was going.

“What would you like me to be?” she asked teasingly.

I didn't like this conversation, and I wasn't about to continue with it.

“Look, Ariel,” I said. “Please, you're tormenting me. I admit I made mistakes. I apologized once, I'm apologizing again, but please don't rub my nose in them. Since you are your father's sole heir, I guess you understand that the U.S. government has a civil judgment against your father that can be satisfied from his estate. You're up for a long battle with them over that.”

“No,” she smiled, “there will be no battle.”

“What do you mean? The judgment is valid and can be enforced
against your father's assets, even if they are outside the United States and have already been transferred to you.”

“Oh, I know that,” said Ariel, “but still, there'll be no battle over the money.”

From my lowest point, which was my exact location at that moment, I didn't see what she meant.

“How much is the judgment for? Do you know?” she asked.

“Yes, I have a copy somewhere.”

“Let me help you. The amount is $91,211,435.09, according to the clerk of the United States Court for the Central District of California.”

“You mean you called there to find out?”

“Yes,” she said, “I needed to know.”

“Why?”

“How else could I write this check?” she asked, and pulled out a check and gave it to me.

It was a Credit Suisse bank check made out to “United States Treasury” in the amount of $91,211,435.09.

I couldn't help it, my hand shook a bit as I held the check.

“Take it to your boss. This is at least some reward for everything you did for me. I know I could have battled the government for years in courts to reduce this amount, but I decided against it. Judgment is satisfied in full.”

“Why” I asked, “are you giving up all these millions if you think you could keep some of it?”

“Because there's plenty more where it came from. After making this payment to the government, I'm still left with more than sixty-five million dollars in cash and securities and a lot of real estate throughout Europe and Japan. That's a lot of money for a single woman who's lived until now on an annual salary of eighteen thousand dollars and occasional gifts from her dad. Life is too short to spend it on litigation over more money. I have enough. And that money, or the majority of it, belongs to the U.S. government. I don't believe my father stole it, but the bottom line is that his bank collapsed and the government had to make good on its promise to the depositors to guarantee their deposits. So under either theory, the government has some right to receive back what it paid to the depositors.”

I folded the check and put it in my pocket. I wasn't in the mood to tell her that her legal theory was suspect, if her father was indeed innocent.

“I'll deliver the check to the U.S. Treasury through the consulate.” I realized that although I'd be a hero in Washington, I would never see Ariel again. Wealth and anger in a woman are a lethal combination in any relationship.

I managed politeness, as unhappy as I was. “Thank you, Ariel. It's very considerate of you to let me deliver the check and get the credit.”

“You deserve it, Dan. After all, you saved my life.”

This whole hallway conversation was ridiculously formal and artificial. I'd gone through it, but I hated every moment of it.

I put out my hand, and Ariel shook it in return. I left without another word. My eyes were damp. I tried to pretend that it was because of the cold Munich wind, or dust. But it wasn't cold inside the room, and there was no dust. I'd lied to myself. Again.

I went to the American Consulate, walked directly into Ron's office, and handed him the check. “Please send this in the diplomatic pouch to Washington, for transmission to the Treasury. Ariel Peled gave me the money. The case is closed. The estate of Raymond DeLouise has satisfied the judgment in full.”

“She did
what
?”

I told him about the conversation I'd just had.

“You must have done something to that woman,” Ron said, shaking his head in disbelief.

I didn't comment, trying not to think what she'd done to me.

Ron made a copy of the check, wrote on the copy “Received from Dan Gordon for delivery to the U.S. Treasury,” dated and signed it, and gave it to me.

“Congratulations,” he said. I didn't feel like celebrating.

I called Stone and reported the collection I had just made. He was elated, and after congratulating me he said, “I don't hear any joy there, Dan.”

“No. There's no joy. I'm a little unhappy at how this matter came to an end.”

“Dan,” said David, “do you hear what you're saying? I don't recall many
cases when we've had such complete success. You're the one who's going to get the credit for it, but you sound as if you lost the whole case.”

“I know. Stupid, isn't it?”

“It's the woman,” said David, without putting a question mark at the end of his sentence. He knew.

“Yes,” I admitted.

“Come home,” said David, “and spend more time with your kids.”

“I guess that's what I'll do,” I said. “I'm sending the check through the legat.” That was it. Short, and not so sweet for me.

I went out to the street and decided to walk to my hotel. I had earned the right to be a worry-free tourist. Both my assignments were over, and yet I still felt a weight on my shoulders.

As I walked I began to notice something odd out of the corner of my eye. Each time I passed a store window I could see a black BMW just slightly behind me, driving slowly. The hair stood up on the back of my neck. Here we go again. Someone was clearly following me. I continued walking as my mind clicked through the possibilities. Who would be following me now? DeLouise was dead. The Colombians, the Iranians, and Guttmacher were all in prison in one place or another. Was a reserve force sent out? Was it the check? I'd already given it to Ron.

I had two choices — to dry clean it by entering a narrow street against traffic where the BMW couldn't enter or to turn back and confront the driver.

I suddenly felt as if I'd had enough of all this. I was not in the mood for games. I stopped, turned around, and walked directly to the car. The windows were tinted so I couldn't see who was inside. As I got closer, the car stopped and the passenger door opened. I stepped up carefully, ready for anything — gun, fist, or foot.

“Please get in,” I heard Ariel's voice from behind the wheel.

My jaw dropped as well as my defenses. She was the last person on earth I'd expected to follow me, and yet the first I could have hoped to see on my lonely walk. But I wasn't ready for more berating, not even from Ariel.

I hesitated. “Come on. I promise I won't bite,” Ariel said.

Why was I holding back? Who was I kidding? I got in and Ariel drove off. “I just rented this car yesterday and I still haven't figured out all the buttons.”

I said nothing.

Ariel drove onto the autobahn. I was still quiet. She didn't speak either. I remembered how nice it had been when we were together without the need to talk. Though there were some questions on my mind, I began to relax, and smiled at how easily that wonderful feeling came back between us.

Ten minutes later Ariel took the first exit on the outskirts of Munich and, after driving for several minutes through a beautiful neighborhood, entered the courtyard of a villa. I had no idea where we were.

She parked the car and got out. I didn't follow, maybe in something of a daze. Ariel walked around to my door and opened it. “Come,” she said softly.

I followed her as she entered the house. The place was gorgeous. The foyer was huge with a high ceiling, crystal chandelier, and soft Persian carpets. Some very good oil paintings hung on the walls; gleaming mahogany and glass cabinets displayed pre-Columbian artifacts and antique English silver hollowware.

“What is this place? Why did you bring me here?”

Ariel came closer to me. I smelled her light perfume, the one I had missed so much.

“Don't make me beg,” she said.

I was surprised, “Beg for what?”

“For you to notice me,” she said.

“Notice you?” I asked in utter disbelief. “Ariel, I can't get you out of my mind. You haven't left me since the day we met.”

Ariel held my arm. “Come, let's go into the living room.” I followed her.

A fire blazed in the fireplace; Rubinstein's recording of Rachmaninoff's Piano Concerto No. 2 played softly in the background.

“What is this place?”

“It's mine,” said Ariel. “It's one of the assets my father left me. Until
recently, the ambassador of a South American country used it as his residence. I wanted you to be the first to see it, before I helped the staff find other jobs and put it up for sale.”

Was she flashing her riches at me? That didn't fit the Ariel I thought I knew.

“Why me?”

“Because.”

“Because what?”

Ariel didn't answer. She went to a table and poured red wine from a carafe into two crystal goblets. She handed me one and raised hers. “This is to the future, for the good things that are about to happen.”