“Just routine security. I want to be sure we have no surprises.” I went inside. The place was empty, but Mr. Bart was behind the counter. I returned to the cab, and she followed me to reception.
“Hello Mr. Bart,” said Ariel. “Remember me? I was a guest here about two weeks ago.”
Bart looked at her and said, “I'm sorry, I don't recognize you. Did you forget something?”
“Not exactly,” said Ariel, “I left an envelope here for safekeeping; it came earlier from my father, Raymond DeLouise.”
Bart was apologetic, “You'll have to excuse me, but I don't remember ever seeing you or receiving any envelope for you. Is your father a guest here?”
I felt the chill of reality creeping all over me. Had Ariel been lying to me?
Ariel looked confused and looked at me in embarrassment. “I don't understand,” she said to me quietly in Hebrew.
“Mr. Bart, will you please check your records and see that I was a guest here two weeks ago. Let's start with that,” Ariel said firmly. Mr. Bart shifted his eyes from Ariel to me and back. There was silence. I got the message. I was in the way. “Let me check something outside,” I said, and walked out. I quietly returned to the space near the entry door and looked inside through a window. I saw Bart giving Ariel a thick envelope.
So Ariel was leading me on, after all, I thought in deep disappointment. But why? Being double-crossed by Ariel was not something I'd wanted to entertain, although the possibility of it lay dormant in my mind. Frustrated, I walked back inside.
Ariel walked toward me, visibly relieved, and handed me the envelope. “Let's go,” she said, sending my mood up like a rocket.
“What happened?” I asked.
“Bart knew me and knew I'd been kidnapped. He wanted to make sure you weren't part of the gang that kidnapped me and that you were coercing me to give you the envelope.”
“Smart move,” I said. “But Bart should have remembered me as a person helping your mother while she was here. I don't understand it.”
“He only said that he didn't know who to trust anymore, and until I assured him that all was well, he'd pretend to be a senile old man.”
“Let's go in again,” I said.
“Don't be mad at him; he was trying to help me,” she said.
“No. I want to thank him.”
“This gentleman was asking about you some time ago,” said Bart with a small smile, pointing at me. “I see that he found you. Or was it you that found him?”
Ariel smiled. “Actually, it was a little bit of both.”
We sat in the lobby as I sifted through the papers. My intuition had been correct; I'd stumbled on a treasure trove – so much information I didn't know where to start. This was DeLouise's entire file on his dealings with Guttmacher and the Iranians. I hoped it contained the lists the Iranians had given DeLouise. If that hope materialized, it would be my first-class ticket into the Iranian transactions, just as Cyrus Armajani had demanded.
“This is too much to digest here,” I said finally, masking my deep satisfaction. “Let's go back to the hotel. I need some study time.”
We went back to the Intercontinental and up to my room. I sat at the desk with my legal pad and computer ready. Ariel sat quietly nearby, looking at me.
The first important document was an agreement between Triple Technologies and Bankhaus Backer amp; Haas. Under the agreement, Triple Technologies assigned a Credit Suisse certificate of deposit in the amount of $2,050,000.00 to Guttmacher's bank. The nice thing about it was a confirmation at the bottom of the document by Credit Suisse that they consented to the assignment. They also confirmed that DeLouise was a director who had sole power to sign for Triple Technologies. That could serve as some proof of the connection between DeLouise and Triple Technologies, in case we decided to try to pierce the corporate veil and show that the company was in fact DeLouise's alter ego. If I could show that DeLouise had commingled his assets with those of Triple Technologies and that there was really no separation between DeLouise and his company, it might convince a Swiss judge to attach the company's assets to satisfy the huge money judgment against DeLouise.
The next document was an agreement between the Italian Broncotrade and Tehran Nuclear Research Center (TNRC), Tehran, Iran. Under the agreement Broncotrade committed to act as the TNRC's liaison for the purchase of machinery, materials, and consulting services from European companies. Broncotrade received a monthly payment of $150,000 for its efforts and was promised a bonus of five million dollars when its mission was successfully completed. The agreement detailed the various services Broncotrade had agreed to provide to the Iranians. There was reference to a list of materials attached as exhibit to the agreement. I searched, but the attachment was missing from the file.
I was surprised that DeLouise had gotten his hand on this contract. He wasn't supposed to be in the loop concerning the relationship between Broncotrade and the Iranians. I guessed that DeLouise had “borrowed” a copy from Guttmacher's file, as part of his effort to build a dossier on the Iranians.
The file also contained confirmations of money transfers, through Guttmacher's bank, between Broncotrade and three accounts in other European banks. These were identified only by numbers, with no names of holders. These could be numbered accounts of individuals wanting to hide their identities.
Ariel approached and handed me a cup of hot tea and a small chocolate cookie. I found her presence very distracting. I didn't want her to see me looking through the material in the file and taking notes. After all, I was after her father's money. Not that I thought that Ariel would attempt to take the stolen money and run; she didn't seem impatient to get the money at all. If she was, she'd have been picking up from Guttmacher the envelope her father had mentioned in his first letter. Still, I wasn't professionally comfortable with Ariel leaning over my shoulder. Personally, it was another story.
Clearly it was time to call Stone and Henderson to tell them what I had. Hot stuff and plenty of it. But I couldn't do that with Ariel listening. I closed the file and turned to her. She had moved to the loveseat in the corner and was flipping through a magazine. I loved the silences between us. She didn't seem to need to fill them with useless talk. I liked that quality in a woman; she was comfortable with herself and me.
“I'm hungry,” said Ariel. “How about dinner?”
“I'd love to, but not just yet. I need to make some phone calls first.”
“OK,” said Ariel, “I'll go to my room to freshen up and meet you back here in an hour.”
“Good,” I said, “but remember – no phone calls, not one. We've got to be careful until we find out who's after you.”
“I'll be a good girl,” promised Ariel. I didn't know if she was being facetious, sardonic, or yielding.
I went to the lobby and locked the file in the hotel safe. For the umpteenth time I used a pay phone in the street to call Stone in Washington.
“Dan, where are you? Still in Moscow?” came David's friendly voice.
“No, David. I'm back in Munich. I made real progress. Things look promising, in both areas – Eric's and ours. But first I need to study some documents I've just received. I simply called to report that I'm back in Munich at the Intercontinental. I'll call you soon with another report.”
And before David could comment, I added, “I have Ariel with me.”
“Good,” said David, “is she cooperating?”
“So far, so good,” I said, “but she still doesn't know who I really am, and that bothers me.”
“It never bothered you before,” said David.
“It's different this time. I hope to be able to explain – to you, to her, and to myself.”
Next I called Eric. He wasn't available. I left a message. I'd done my part. I retrieved the file from the safe, went back to my room, and continued going through its contents. Then I saw it – a handwritten note: “Cyrus Armajani, Schwanthalerstrasse 122, Munich. Tel (089) 555-6765.” That must be Armajani's private residence and phone number. There were many more documents that I was curious to read, but Ariel called and asked me to meet her downstairs for dinner. I took the file with me and back it went into the hotel safe.
We went casually into the hotel restaurant, almost as though we were going out on a date for the sixth or seventh time. We didn't talk about work, or about anything meaningful. Ariel spoke with her body. She liked to touch me with her hands. She touched my arm occasionally, my cheek, or my hand. This was her way of saying things and I needed to learn her language. I didn't want to miss a sentence, or even a single word.
After dinner we took a short walk. The streets were fairly empty and it was cold. This was no way to relax, with me having to constantly be on the alert, so back we went to the hotel.
“You must be tired,” I said. “We've had a long day.”
“Not really,” she countered, with, I thought, an invitation in her voice. But I couldn't ask her to my room again. Self-control was the order of the day, but it wasn't easy. I had to separate my work from all else.
“I'll see you in the morning,” I said.
“And I need to arrange a meeting with Guttmacher,” she reminded me matter-of-factly.
“Not just yet. Please. This is important and I've got to check some things out before you call him. Trust me.”