He said nothing and dropped me off a block from the bank as requested. I entered a cafe across the street and went to the pay phone at the back where I searched the Munich yellow pages for a “spy store,” one of those shops that sell gadgets to real and wannabe detectives and spies. That kind of place would have a wide array of electronic surveillance equipment. There were two such stores listed. I wrote down the names and left the cafe.
The first store on the list turned out to be only a short walk away. I noticed that dark clouds had begun to gather, and it had suddenly gotten a lot colder. I didn't have my coat with me and I ended up dashing the last few blocks as rain began to fall.
I browsed around the shop for a bit and finally bought ultraviolet powder and two ultraviolet light bulbs. Ultraviolet long-lasting detection powder is designed for the detection and identification of stolen items. The substance is invisible to the eye, and even when a small amount is applied on any surface its particles attach to the hand or object that touched it. Just dusting it can mark an article. When exposed to ultraviolet light, the item and anyone who touched it are easily identified. This is an excellent tool for small objects such as currency, paper, clothing, and any other surface.
By the time I left the shop, it was pouring and chilly. “Where the hell did I leave my coat?” I grumbled to myself as I hailed a cab to get back to the bank. Then I remembered where I had left it.
During the ride, I opened the powder bottle and sprinkled some on a paper napkin I had taken from the cafe.
At the bank, I went straight to the second floor. Guttmacher's sour-faced secretary was there. “Good afternoon,” I said. “I was here yesterday, and I'm afraid I left my coat in Mr. Guttmacher's office. I gave it to Mr. Guttmacher when we went into the meeting, so it should be somewhere in his office.” My forgetfulness was very helpful now. I decided that I'd unconsciously done it on purpose.
“Mr. Guttmacher is not in, but I can look for it,” she said, and opened the door to his office. I followed her and quickly checked out the room. The radio pen was still in the holder on Guttmacher's desk, as neat and clear of paper as one would expect.
There were no cameras or blinking red lights on the ceiling or walls. “Herr Wooten,” said the secretary, opening a closet, “there are several coats here. Please help yourself.”
I looked in the closet. Three coats were hanging on a rod, including mine.
“That's mine,” I said, and as I took it off the hanger I saw my prize: a steel vault on the back wall of the closet. I wanted to kiss the secretary, or my coat, but neither deserved it. I pulled the paper napkin from my pocket and surreptitiously smeared the vault's lock as I put my hand through my coat sleeve. I made sure Sour Puss didn't see.
“Thanks so much,” I said as I walked out, “You've been a great help.” I waited for a few minutes on the ground-floor hallway near the side exit to the street, until the place cleared out for a moment. I then quickly replaced the bulb in a wall light next to the exit door with the UV bulb. With some luck, if I were standing in the right position outside the bank my powder trick would work. I could spot anyone who touched the vault and used that exit.
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 cafe 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.”