Triple Identity (45 page)

T
his novel was written because one night jet lag won. In a small hotel in a remote country, after rolling from side to side for two hours, I finally gave up trying for slumber, went to the small desk, and turned on my laptop. The words that poured out had been lodged in my mind for some time. Obviously, in my years working for the U.S. Department of Justice I could not share the spine-tingling aspects of my work with anyone but my supervisors, and some adventures not even with them. Sadly, these events, which are sometimes more intriguing and thrilling than the best fiction I have ever read, are buried in reports submitted throughout the years. The story of Dan Gordon and his battle against the invisibles is my idea of the next-best thing. Many of my friends and family members read the first drafts and encouraged me to continue, particularly Dr. Jacob Dagan and Prof. Yehuda Shoenfeld. I would like also to thank Bob and Gloria Blumenthal; Alexandra Margalit, for helping me with the minute details of Munich that had escaped me; and Ed Watts. Sarah McKee proved to be not only an astute lawyer but an excellent reviewer who helped me describe the red-taped insides of the Justice Department, from which, as an outside consultant, I'd largely been spared. Many thanks to David Epstein, once my supervisor and mentor, now a very dear friend, who knew with immense wisdom and experience when to let me rush forward and when to shorten my leash. He called me a pit bull — I never knew if he meant it as a compliment, because a pit bull finally lets go. A friend from the Mossad who wishes to remain anonymous helped me put things into perspective. Marc Jaffe helped me turn a manuscript into a novel, and Nicola Smith was my patient but relentless editor. Alan Lelchuk and Chip Fleischer are old and new friends who made this book a reality.

My in-laws have always been concerned with my safety, my sister
shares that fear, and my wife, daughters, and sons are my best and worst critics. My daughters spent many hours reading drafts and making corrections, and I know how difficult it was for them to be introduced to the far and dark side of my work. My wife also endured the nonfictional tension of my long absences. Many of the hours I spent writing this book were taken away from my family, and my gratitude for their sacrifice is eternal.

T
errorism has no borders, no authority, no laws, no territory, and no moral considerations. Nothing stands in its perpetrators’ ways. Terrorists regard disastrous and devastating consequences as achievements, not failures. They turn their own military weaknesses into strategic might. What good are tanks, missiles, submarines, or nuclear weapons when a determined handful gets access to substances that can kill millions? Many leaders and scientists believe that it is only a matter of time before bioterrorism strikes, causing thousands of casualties.

Bioterrorism uses pathogens, bacterial and viral agents, or biologically derived toxins against people, livestock, or crops. Through the spread of these agents, terrorists seek to inflict massive fatalities. Unlike nuclear weapons, bioterror weapons are relatively easy to make, and unlike chemical weapons, only small amounts of biomaterials are sufficient to wreak havoc.

Is the world ready? I have had the privilege of preparing Israel for the task: As Israel's deputy minister of defense, I took the initiative to make bioterrorism issues a priority in Israel's strategic defense. My communications with other governments led to the realization that many were ill prepared for the prospect of bioterrorism. It is essential for the governments of the free world to develop, test, and implement public policies and operating procedures regarding bioterrorism. The scientific community also needs to be vigilant on this key matter by actively engaging in research to develop countermeasures.

Haggai Carmon has crafted a fictional but all too real tale. It takes place in the clandestine world of bioterrorism, where sinister plots are intertwined with money-laundering schemes. In the book, cooperation between the Mossad and the CIA is all that stands in the way of bioterrorism. By combining keen knowledge of the real-world situation, gained
through his personal experience, with a vivid imagination, Haggai Carmon manages to draw the reader's attention to the real risks our modern society faces. This book provides a public service by raising awareness of terror financing and bioterror. What is remarkable is that it does so while telling a damn good story I couldn't stop reading.

—
EFRAIM SNEH, M.D
.

T
he prisoner in the red jumpsuit was visibly nervous. He couldn't hide the subtle tremor in his left hand, which gripped a cigarette. He was very thin. Stammheim, the maximum-security prison in Stuttgart, Germany, where Andreas Baader and Ulrike Meinhof had been found dead in their cells in the 1970s, didn't exactly serve gourmet food. Even so, Igor Razov was too thin, as if consumed from the inside. His mustache had nicotine stains, as did his uneven teeth.

“Good morning,” I said, entering the visitor's cell and setting down my briefcase, which contained only a yellow pad. The less you carry into the prison, the faster the security check goes. I decided to be as polite as I could, to distinguish myself from this man's interrogators. “I'm Dan Gordon from the U.S. Department of Justice. I'm here with the consent of your lawyer, Dr. Bermann.” I looked at his lawyer, then at the court-approved interpreter, a heavyset, thirty-something woman who sat quietly in a corner opposite the German prison guard. Dr. Bermann nodded. No wonder he'd approved; I'd paid him five hundred dollars for the honor and promised an additional thousand if his client would give me the information I needed. It was Bermann's only way to get some real money for representing Razov, having helped him avoid extradition from Germany to Belarus, his homeland. There, Razov would have had to face the hangman, following a conviction in absentia for murder. I'd paid, and now the floor was mine.

“I'm sure your lawyer has already told you, but to avoid any misunderstanding I must reiterate that I am not in a position to make any promises concerning your extradition to Belarus or the death penalty you're facing
there if you are indeed extradited. The United States is not a party to the legal proceeding against you; your case is entirely in the hands of the German and Belarus courts and governments.”

I spoke in English. Bermann had assured me earlier that Igor had learned rudimentary English in Minsk, and had then improved it while living in New York these past few years. Bermann and Igor communicated in English, because Igor didn't speak German and Bermann didn't speak Russian or Belarusian. Bermann had brought in the interpreter, Oksana, as insurance, in case of a failure of communication.

As I spoke, I realized that this statement sounded very formal, full of legal jargon, and was too complex and long. But I had to say it. I had to make sure that both he and — more particularly — his lawyer understood the rules of our meeting. The last thing I needed to hear later was that his lawyer had argued for special consideration because Razov had talked to me. The Belarus government would file a complaint, and I'd find myself having to explain. Again.

“Do you understand that?”

Igor was motionless. He didn't even look at me. I knew he understood by the gaunt, haunted look he cast at the opposite wall. I was betting that his desperate situation would help me crack my case — one of the several international fraud and money-laundering cases I was investigating for the Department of Justice. Igor had to have answers for me because I could no longer ask his two comrades. I'd arrived in Minsk, Igor's hometown in the republic of Belarus, too late to talk to them. They had already been executed. But Igor still had a pulse. At least there was that.

Caveats aside, I had to give Igor a glimmer of hope, something to cling to. Otherwise this interview would be like trying to get a parrot in a pet shop to speak on command. “Helping me would make your life easier, more comfortable,” I went on. “It would mean money to buy things at the prison's commissary. I could also ask the warden to let you watch television longer than the other inmates. It could mean a lot of other things that would ease your stay here, but you must help me first.”

Igor said nothing. His head stayed down.

The German prison guard shifted in his chair, bored. It crossed my
mind that his presence was inhibiting Igor, so I asked him to wait outside. The guard gave me a disapproving look and said, “I'm here to protect you, but I can leave if you want.”

“Yes,” I said immediately. “Please wait outside, I'll be fine.”

Igor, handcuffed and frail, didn't pose much of a threat. I was twice his size, and besides, my favorite class during my training at the Israeli Mossad Academy had been martial arts. Sure, a few decades had passed since then and there hadn't been much use for those particular talents in my current position at the DoJ, but I wasn't too worried.

I asked Igor another question. Still no response.

“Dr. Bermann, would you please come outside with me for a moment?”

We stepped outside the cell, leaving Igor and the interpreter behind.

“I thought you said he spoke English,” I said, wondering if my earlier speech had been wasted on Razov.

“He does, he does,” Bermann assured me, although I suspected he wasn't that sure.

“Unless he gives me some answers,” I said, “our deal is off. I hope you realize that.”

“Yes. I don't understand Igor. He promised me he'd cooperate with you. Let's try again.”

We went back to the cell, and I continued.

“Are you familiar with Boris Zhukov?

“Have you been working for him?

“You left Minsk and moved to New York in 1994. Why did you return to Minsk? Was it only to whack Petrov, or was it also something to do with Zhukov's money?

“How is Zhukov connected to the wire transfers you were making?”

Not a word.

“We know about your ties to Zhukov, but just knowing him doesn't mean you did anything wrong. I'm not here for your criminal case. I'm interested only in the money side of your relationship with Zhukov. Do you understand that?”

I kept going for another ten minutes. Igor was silent as a grave on a winter's night.

Seeing his thousand dollars slipping away, Dr. Berman made a last effort. “Igor, you promised me you would help Herr Gordon. Nobody is going to find out that you said anything. That's impossible, right?” He turned to me for confirmation.

“Absolutely,” I agreed quickly. “I guarantee that everything you say stays in this room. All I need from you is guidance concerning the source of some money transfers that we think are connected to Zhukov.”

Igor didn't even look at me. Bermann continued feebly, but to me the effort seemed futile. Bermann inspired no more confidence than a nurse trying to convince a crying boy that the doctor approaching with a syringe big enough to inoculate horses isn't going to hurt him.

I had read Igor's FBI file before coming. I realized that he knew better than to cooperate. He feared his colleagues in the Belarusian mob, on both sides of the ocean, more than anything; certainly more than the wrath of his own lawyer, a pompous scalawag lucky enough to be appointed by the court in this open-and-shut case. What could Bermann do to him if he refused to talk — stop bringing him week-old Russian newspapers? Complain to the prison warden? Write a letter to the editor of the prison's bulletin?

But Misha, Boris, and Yuri — to name just a few of the guys still on the loose — could find a thousand ways to make him wish he'd never been born, to make him pray that his thirty-seven years on this planet would end quickly. He knew that, because he was one of them; he was the one who'd pulled the trigger that led to this mess. Who would have thought that eliminating the president of a trading company in Minsk could cause so much commotion?

This Petrov had refused to pay his dues to Boris Zhukov. So under orders from Zhukov, a thug named Misha had told Igor to go to Stuttgart to await instructions. Misha was a huge person who inspired fear in everyone; his burly resemblance to a raging bear gave his gang the nickname
Mishka
, or “bear” in Russian. The Mishkas were a notorious crime group that had operated in the chaotic streets of Minsk before branching out to New York. Misha took orders from nobody but Zhukov.

Less than a month later, word arrived: Go to Minsk and waste Petrov.
So Igor did. He'd always obeyed orders, first in the Soviet army fighting in the final years of its war in Afghanistan, then as part of the Mishkas. Igor was proud to be considered a member. Indeed, his achievements in Minsk had drawn the attention of Zhukov, who needed more muscle in New York. A quick fictitious marriage to an American woman was arranged; she got a thousand dollars, and Igor got a green card and moved to America. Three years later, Igor had become Zhukov's confidant, and was occasionally sent to foreign countries to carry out “sensitive” jobs. Including this one.

What Igor and friends did not know was that Petrov was married to the daughter of a police chief, who apparently didn't like seeing his daughter widowed. Special orders were immediately sent: Get them! A week later someone ratted to the police that Igor had escaped to Germany. The three other gang members were still at large. An international arrest warrant was issued through
INTERPOL.
From there it was easy. The German police made inquiries through informers within the local Russian community. Igor was identified and arrested while sitting in a local bar.

As for me, I had traveled from New York in the dead of winter to a German maximum-security prison. I'd had to endure the terrible noise of slammed metal doors and the ominous spectacle of German prison guards clad in long winter coats and leather boots. I'd had to sidestep the vicious-looking German shepherds on short leashes. I'd had to endure sitting in a small room with a guy who reeked of cigarettes — and other odors beyond description. And what did I get in return? Nothing. Igor wouldn't even talk. How inconsiderate could he be?

There wasn't much I could do. Despite all Bermann's pleading, Igor remained silent. He had had his say once, and now it was time to be quiet. Igor wasn't thinking about being reincarnated in this world as a better person. He had far lesser dreams.

When it was clear the situation was hopeless, I left. The security checks exiting the facility were as stringent as those I'd had to clear entering. Given their clientele, and the kind of lowlifes in their business, the German prison system wasn't taking any chances. They simply wanted to
make sure that the Dan Gordon leaving at 11:52
A.M.
was the same Dan Gordon who'd entered the prison at 11:04
A.M.
— not an inmate assuming my identity to reach the better food, better company, and freedom in the outside world.

Even empty-handed, I was relieved to be out of that place.

It was raining — freezing rain atop the snow already on the ground — and the streets were muddy. Snow might be romantic when you're curled up near a fireplace with a lover, a blanket, or both. Less so when you're in a foreign city with no taxis in sight.

I entered a coffee shop in Aspergerstrasse just outside the prison and ordered hot chocolate. I warmed my hands against the mug. It instantly brought back memories of my childhood in Tel Aviv, when my mother used to make me cocoa in my favorite mug while telling me how she'd escaped the Nazi Holocaust by emigrating from Belarus to Israel seven years before the war broke out. She made it out before every gate was shut to the Jews. My uncles and aunts stayed behind and perished. My uncle Shaya was a student in Stuttgart at the time and thought nothing would happen to him. More than half a century later, I was in the same city where an uncle I had never met was murdered just because he was Jewish.

Snapping out of my reverie, I tried to figure out how to break the news about Igor's silence to my boss, David Stone, the director of the Office of International Asset Recovery and Money Laundering in Washington, DC.

“It's a waste of time trying to make him talk,” I'd said to David last week when he'd authorized my trip. “I know these guys. They'd rather die. Any death by execution you'd threaten them with would still be a summer holiday in comparison with the death by slow torture their friends offer.”

David had nodded. “Still, we shouldn't let this opportunity slip away.”

Igor probably knew that Germany wouldn't extradite him to Belarus until it was sure he wouldn't be executed like his buddies. The extradition treaty between Germany and Belarus provided that anybody extradited to Belarus from Germany must be spared capital punishment because of Germany's opposition to it.

“After Igor is finally extradited to serve a life term in Belarus,” David had continued, “he won't even open his mouth to yawn. Our only chance to verify our lead is while he's still in Germany, isolated from fellow gang members and informers. Just the fact that Igor has agreed to meet you could be a good sign — it means he's already taken a huge risk. That might indicate that he'd be willing to take even more chances and give us some info.”

“There could be another explanation,” I said. “First, I spoke only with his lawyer, Bermann. The smell of money could have clouded his judgment, making him forget to check with Igor; Bermann's consent seemed a little too fast. Second, even if Igor
had
agreed to talk to me, it could still mean that he needed the meeting to signal his friends outside prison that he was sending me back empty-handed. That would serve as proof that he wasn't betraying them.”

“I understand,” David replied. “Zhukov is in the United States, and unless we have probable cause, we can't arrest him. He will most likely refuse a voluntary interview. He's done that before. But Igor is outside U.S. jurisdiction, so if the German prison authority and his lawyer agree to the interview, what do we have to lose?”