Triple Identity (9 page)

A mild-looking, middle-aged man dressed in a ridiculous uniform, too much pomp and circumstance, stood behind the cashier's counter. I told him that I'd come to settle Dov Peled's hotel bill. I sensed he was not about to object.

“By all means, sir, by all means,” he said quickly, and rattled the keyboard to get the printout.

The printer started spewing out a surprising number of pages. The clerk stapled them and handed me the lot.

“Twenty-one thousand, six hundred thirty-two marks and seventy pfennig, please,” he announced coolly.

I put the packet in my briefcase and said casually, “Thank you, I'll forward it to the family's attorney for his review,” and walked away without waiting to see his astonished look.

The bastard probably thought I was about to pay this hefty tab. That's all I needed: give the bean counters in Washington yet another reason to climb all over me.

On my way out I calculated the dollar equivalent. It came to roughly fourteen thousand dollars. I tried to figure out how long he'd had to stay there to amass that charge, given the hotel's top mark rate. Quite a tab for a short stay. It would be interesting to see the details when I reviewed the bill.

Back in my hotel I started working on my loot. On the top left corner of the invoice appeared his name: Herr Dov Peled. No address. Citizenship: Israeli. Date of check-in: September 20,1990. He had taken the Bavarian Suite at a rate of one thousand German marks per day. Payment method: cash. Manager's note: “Herr Peled is a VIP who has patronized our hotel in the past. He insists on his privacy. Do not discuss this guest with anyone inquiring about him.”

The invoice listed charge items for minibar use, restaurants at the hotel, dry cleaning service, and more than one hundred phone calls. I pulled out my laptop, keyed in my user name and password, and went directly into the investigative telephone database. People usually have a pattern of calling. If you analyze it you can discover amazing facts. Identify all the numbers called, then let the software pick up the pattern. It's simple but clever. I had designed the application myself on an existing software platform.

I started with the tedious work of typing in the numbers I'd first highlighted on the invoice. Some of them were local German numbers, but many were international. An hour later I had finished logging them all. I plugged into my room's telephone line and uploaded the data into my office computer in New York. I attached a note to Lan. “Please do a reverse lookup for these numbers.”

It was late, and I was tired. I shut off the laptop and lay down, satisfied that promising results awaited me the next day and that my investigation was progressing nicely. I fell asleep then and there, street clothes and all.

Next morning I went back to the Grand Excelsior, avoiding the reception area. I took the elevator to the third floor. A housekeeper was hard at work on the carpet.

“Excuse me,” I spoke in German over the hum of her vacuum cleaner, “Where is the Bavarian Suite?”

“It's on the seventh floor,” she replied in strongly accented southern German, and went calmly back to work.

I took the elevator to the seventh floor. Another housekeeper's service cart was in the hallway, and the door of the Bavarian Suite was open. I walked in. A young waiter was checking the minibar.

“Excuse me,” I said nonchalantly, “I think I must have left something in the room before I checked out.” He did not respond.

I looked around. The two-room suite was empty of any personal belongings and already made up. The police must have removed Raymond DeLouise's stuff. I opened the closets and went through the walnut chest-of-drawers, but I couldn't find anything unusual. Finally, I knelt beside the bed and looked under it. There I saw a small yellow Post-it. I grabbed it, put it in my pocket, and left the suite. The waiter never even looked at me.

In the elevator I checked the note. There was a handwritten telephone number without an area code and a name written in Hebrew: Hans Guttmacher, and a scribble that looked like 2:
00 P.M
.

I returned to my own hotel room and called the hotel operator.

“Excuse me,” I said apologetically, “I received a message to call a Mr. Guttmacher, but I don't know who he is, and I don't want to offend him by calling him back and asking him all sorts of questions. I may have simply forgotten him, and it's quite embarrassing.”

The operator listened and responded immediately with “No problem, sir, let me have the number. I'll call and see if it is a private residence or an office. Maybe that would help you remember.”

I gave her the number and a few minutes later she rang me back.

“Well,” she said, “I think I can help you. Mr. Guttmacher is the manager of Bankhaus Bäcker & Haas. This is a bank here in Munich.” Sometimes luck is better than smarts, and this time I was lucky. I'd done a research job on this very bank in connection with another case.

She gave me the address, which I wrote down on the pad on my night table. I hung up and removed the three blank pages under the sheet on which I'd written. Another old, hard-to-break habit for preventing others from finding out what you'd written on the top sheet by rubbing the one underneath with a pencil. Although I didn't think I had any rivals in this game, caution was never a bad thing. I picked up Peled's Grand Excelsior Hotel bill, scanned through it quickly, and nodded in satisfaction as I spied Guttmacher's number.

Bankhaus Bäcker & Haas, located in the heart of Munich's business district, occupied a three-story office building. I went directly to a counter and asked the teller to exchange a hundred dollar bill. Without comment, she passed the bill through a machine to check its authenticity. I suppose she was checking to make sure I wasn't offering her a banknote I'd printed earlier in my basement. She must have been satisfied with the result because she quickly and efficiently handed me 156.77 German marks. I looked around. The place looked old-fashioned, with wood paneled walls and a slight smell of stale carpets mixed with a strong cigarette odor. I took two brochures off the counter and left.

Outside, I looked at them. They were routine, describing all sorts of financial services the bank offered. Their logo had the German eagle and the words “Ganz Privat und Sehr Personlich,” which translates as “Totally private and very personal.” I went to a pay phone at the street corner and called the bank.

“Bankhaus Bäcker & Haas,” announced the receptionist in an abrupt voice.

“Good afternoon. I'm an attorney from the United States,” I said in a professional manner. That much was true. “I need to talk to someone at the bank concerning a new investment. I need a banker to assist me.”

“What is the size of the investment? I need to know how to direct your
call, Herr …” she paused, waiting for me to give my name. “Wooten,” I said, “Peter Wooten, and the amount is quite large, in seven figures.”

“Just one moment, please,” she said swiftly. “I'll connect you with our director, Herr Guttmacher.”

Good, I thought, I'm getting the head man immediately. I guess the sum I had mentioned was high enough.

A few more seconds and a man's voice came on the line.

“Guttmacher,” he said. I felt as if he were expecting me to jump to attention and click my heels. “What can I do for you?”

“I'm looking for a bank to assist me in investments my client is considering making,” I said, repeating my story.

He said nothing, so I continued. “Can we meet to discuss your services? I'll be in town for only a few days.”

“I shall be glad to see you,” he said. “How about this afternoon at four, if you have no other plans.” Herr Guttmacher was my only plan for that afternoon, so I quickly agreed.

“Always plan ahead when meeting with potential sources,” I recalled Alex, my instructor at the Mossad Academy, repeating time and time again. “Although they may or may not be your adversaries, they could snap and become hostile at any point. Therefore, your planning should cover all ends. First comes your own security. Identify the potential risks you are taking in making contact, then set the meeting in a place you are the least likely to be hurt and leave tracers behind you. Make sure someone knows where you are going, whom you are meeting, and at what time you are expected back. And finally, set your goals before you make the appointment. Know exactly what you are trying to get from the source, what you are willing to give in return, and the mechanism for the exchange.” He paused dramatically, looking at us as though he were an attorney offering the jury his closing arguments in the most important case of his career. “A mistake could cost you your life, then and there or later. You'll never know what hit you.”

I knew this was only a money chase, not terrorists weaving nets in Europe, recruiting local help and eliminating competition at all costs. I
wasn't concerned about my personal safety. I wasn't carrying a gun. What would the banker do: toss a checkbook at me? I had researched the bank's history from publicly available sources when working on that previous case. So much for planning ahead.

Bankhaus Bäcker & Haas was founded in 1932, after the great inflation of the 1920s and early 1930s had destroyed Germany's economy. Two German bankers who operated out of Zurich decided it was a good time to open a branch of their bank in Germany, where most of the banks had not survived the hyperinflation and had folded. Although the bank offered commercial banking services, the heart of its business was private banking. Bäcker & Haas catered to high-net-worth individuals who needed an astute banker to manage assets and hedge against market trends. Above all, such people needed discretion. With a few conspicuous exceptions, rich people don't like to be flashy with their wealth and attract tax collectors, charity solicitations, and sudden new relatives.

I had also come across rumors, all unsubstantiated, that money launderers favored the bank because its managers looked the other way, ignoring suspicious movements in accounts that would have triggered the attention of more reputable bankers. After the original owners died, the heirs sold the Swiss main office to a group of Saudi investors but kept the Munich bank.

For starters, I planned an initial interview with Guttmacher in order to study him and his attitude toward borderline financial transactions. I had to see whether he would be a good candidate to lure into my den. I wanted to know how DeLouise had used the bank, and I wanted to glean that information from Guttmacher.

“Hastiness is of the devil,” Mussa, our Arab customs and manners teacher, used to tell us at the Mossad Academy. “Patience! Arab nomads used to say ‘I waited forty years for my revenge, and when it finally came, I said to myself, perhaps I was too hasty’ Have patience, my friends. Never approach a potential source and expose your time constraints. Always behave as if this thing is not that important, that you have all the time in the world.” He had been referring to Arab sources, but I later discovered the universal application of this wisdom.

I arrived at Guttmacher's office at the designated time and gave his secretary my business card. It's part of the “legend” I usually prepare before going out of the country on assignment. The business card read “Peter Wooten, Attorney-at-Law,” and gave an address in New York. The information on the card wasn't completely inaccurate. The name was phony and the address was that of a front office used by the Justice Department in decoy operations, but the profession was genuine. The business card was the only physical window dressing I had. The remainder of the legend was in my mind.

The office was located at the southern corner of the second floor. A long corridor with cherrywood paneling led to his spacious chambers. The wide planking on the floor was covered with a handsome Oriental rug. Landscape paintings hung on the walls. It was obvious that the bank made every effort to make this office reflect stability and old-time respectability.

I was shown to Guttmacher's inner office. He was a man in his late fifties with a full head of iron-gray hair. I noticed that he had green eyes, although he avoided looking at me when we shook hands. Guttmacher was wearing a conservative suit with a red vest. I sat down on a brown leather couch, surprisingly well-worn for such grand surroundings.

“Thank you for agreeing to see me on such short notice,” I opened.

“It is never a problem,” he said, a broad smile revealing a gold tooth. My first impression was that Guttmacher has trained himself not to reveal himself in any way. I thought I knew why. “What can I do for you?”

“I represent a group of investors from the United States led by one individual. They want to diversify their investments and need a discreet German banker who can assist them in their search for solid opportunities as well as maintain absolute confidentiality.” I paused, looking him in the eye. I had emphasized the word discreet.

“Any particular area of investment?” asked Guttmacher.

“In the United States, my clients made their money in fuel delivery and concrete plants, but they're not limiting themselves to these areas. They might consider other profitable ventures, as long as the investments are safe and discreet. The initial investment is approximately thirty-five to forty
million dollars, but if your bank turns out to be what they're looking for, that amount could grow substantially.” I paused, drawing out the silence.

“Let me put it this way,” I continued, reasserting a modest pose. “Although my clients assure me that their money is legal, there could be some tax problems in the U.S. and, therefore, they must insist on complete confidentiality.”

I hoped I wasn't laying it on too heavily, watching Guttmacher trying to control his excitement. But his body language said it all. He worked very hard at controlling his fidgets; he coughed and swallowed a bit nervously and moved to the edge of his chair. I had expected Guttmacher to sit impassively, to not betray any expression. But he didn't. Apparently his greed had overcome his caution.

“I need to know more about your clients,” he said. “We have established procedures that require we understand our clients’ specific needs.”

“I can't reveal their identity yet; I need to get their permission first. Once you provide me with a plan, I'm sure there will be no problem in identifying the clients.”