I washed and dressed quickly and went downstairs. I fueled my system with a little of the famous Israeli breakfast – freshly cut salad, soft cheese and olives, and fresh-squeezed orange juice – and headed for the garage and my car. Haifa was just sixty miles north of Tel Aviv on the coast, and I figured I could be there within an hour or so. As it turned out, other drivers had similar plans, and they were ahead of me. The trip stretched to almost two hours. But the great views of the sea were some compensation. The color of the water changed from emerald green to azure blue as the waves broke on the beach. Seagulls shrieked; a few fishermen were trying their luck in the shallow waters. The breeze carried a strong smell of salt water and seaweed. It all looked so serene. But it was deceptive; I knew that the undertow just offshore was strong and dangerous.
I finally entered Haifa and drove through the busy port area to a residential area of tree-lined streets winding along the hills overlooking the harbor. I found Mina's house without any difficulty. It looked exactly as Ralph had described it: a two-story stone building, circa 1920, with an iron gate and a path leading to the entrance. I went through the unlocked gate. There were three old vines and a couple of orange trees in the small yard. This house had seen better days. Neglect and disrepair were visible, but so were traces of its former glory. There were four broken letterboxes at the door, each with several names crossed out. The landlord must have had a firm short-lease policy. Unusual. On one of the mailboxes I saw the name Bernstein-Peled. I went up shabby stairs to the first floor. I found the name I was looking for on the door on the left.
I rang the bell. There was no response, and I could detect no noise inside. I waited a few more minutes. It was apparent that either nobody was home or somebody didn't want visitors. I looked at my watch. 1:25 P.M. I hoped Mina Bernstein was at work and would be back soon. I decided to sit in my car and wait it out.
A few people, mostly children, came in but not one looked like a Mina Bernstein. I knew she had to be in her sixties, but no woman of that age entered the building. Finally, after three hours, I went back into the house, up the stairs, and rang the bell. Still no answer. I turned to the door opposite and knocked lightly. A woman in her late thirties in a dressing gown, hair tied up in a haphazard knot, opened the door.
“Yes?” she asked.
“Excuse me,” I said in Hebrew, “I'm looking for Mrs. Bernstein. Would you know when she is expected back? I was to meet her here about this time,” I lied with a smile.
She sized me up. In the background I heard a child crying, and the smell of cooked cabbage seeped from the kitchen. She didn't seem to have much time to spend talking to me.
“All I know is that she left a few days ago. She told me she was going overseas. She didn't tell me where she was going or for how long. That's all I know.” The last sentence was said in a subdued tone. I realized the woman probably thought I was a cop; her attitude was becoming defensive. I needed more information before she asked to see a badge. Let her think I was a cop.
“What about her mail?”
“I collect it,” she replied and pointed to a small table with a stack of mail on it. I went over to the table and shuffled through the envelopes. Mostly junk, some bills. I pulled out the phone bill and slid it into my pocket. The neighbor said nothing.
“Do you know where she works?”
“She was a teacher, but I think she retired last year.”
As I turned away she hesitated and added, “You could also ask her daughter.”
I stopped. “Her daughter?”
“Yes,” she said, “Ariel.”
“Ah,” I said. “Do you know where I can find her?
“She's a chemistry teacher at Ramot High School. You could try there. I don't know where she lives.”
“Thanks,” I said, and walked outside. I looked at my watch; it was 4:12 P.M. No point in going by the school at that late hour.
In my car I opened Mina's telephone bill. It listed service and other charges for two months through September 30,1990. There were no details concerning any local calls – just a flat fee. But there was one line that attracted my attention. It was a collect call made to Mina Bernstein from Munich, Germany, on September 26, 1990, from number 004989227645. The duration of the call was 5 minutes 11 seconds.
I drove back to Tel Aviv and called my office in New York from a pay phone just outside my hotel. “Please do a reverse search on this little item,” I asked Lan, and gave her the Munich telephone number. Not much, but it was a start. I hung up and called Ralph.
“I thought it would be easy,” I said.
“Well, did you find her?”
“No, I found her apartment, but she's been gone a week or so. The neighbor said she went overseas, but I want to make sure it wasn't the neighbor's assumption. How about checking to see if she actually left Israel.”
“And,” I added, in an exaggerated dramatic tone, “Mina has a daughter, Ariel, who teaches chemistry at Ramot High School in Haifa. I don't have a last name. It could be Peled, but she could be married and using her husband's name. Check her out, will you?”
“No problem,” answered Ralph. “I'll get back to you.”
Israel maintains a very efficient computerized system at the Ministry of the Interior, controlling all exits and entries across its borders. The information, available to the police and other law enforcement and intelligence agencies, was retrievable pretty much any time. At that late hour the ministry's offices were closed, but Ralph, with his connections, could do it over the phone in no time.
The phone rang in my room. It was Ralph. I looked at my watch – it had been twenty minutes since I'd called him.
“Writing this down?” he said.
“Go ahead.”
“Mina Bernstein left Israel on El Al flight LY 353 to Munich on September 28 and has not returned. There is no record of her leaving Israel during the preceding seven years.”
“Thanks,” I said, “I owe you.”
“Unfortunately, not that much,” he chuckled.
“Have anything on Mina's daughter, Ariel?”
“Still working on it. I'll get back to you,” he said and hung up.
This was getting more and more intriguing. Two days after receiving a collect call from Munich, a woman who was not in the habit of going abroad had suddenly decided to travel to Germany, which was not exactly a tourist attraction for Israelis. Something important must have caused Mina to make that trip. I didn't know when she had separated from Peled, but it must have been many years ago. DeLouise's son by his second wife in the United States was at least twenty-four years old.
From where I sat, Mina was just a road sign, not a destination. Did DeLouise keep in touch with her during all these years? On the other hand, why would her visit to Munich be connected with DeLouise at all? I had no answers, only questions.
With nothing more to follow up on, I sat at my desk in my hotel room, pushed the papers aside, and glanced at my watch again. It was 6:45 P.M.
I called Gila, an old friend of mine. She and I enjoyed each other's company for the time we were together, but there were never any strings attached. We didn't talk much. It was… comfortable.
The next morning I awoke to the sound of the rain pounding on the sliding door. I opened the heavy curtains and looked outside. The sea was black except for the foam-capped waves that broke on the shore. The city was under a heavy rainstorm. No one in the streets, only cars with headlights on and windshield wipers working at full speed. The streets would soon be like canals, minus the Venetian charm.
It was time to talk to Benny again. I called his office.
“Benny,” I said, “we need to talk. Care for lunch on Uncle Sam at my hotel?” It was either my place or his, and in the pouring rain, I'd rather it be mine.
Benny never said no to good food as long as it was kosher, and all hotel restaurants in Israel keep kosher, for the most part to satisfy the observant Jews among the tourists.
Benny showed up precisely at 12:30, as agreed. We went downstairs to the hotel's restaurant and sat at a corner table, both with our backs to the wall. Realizing that, we exchanged a maven's smile.
Abie, one of our Mossad Academy instructors years ago, had taught us operational tactics. “When you enter a public place, what is the first thing you do?” he had asked with his Yemenite accent, his wide-open mouth showing us perfect white teeth. He obviously enjoyed asking the question. No one answered, so he continued, “You look for the way out! Always be ready to leave, under favorable or unfavorable circumstances. You came in from one end, so that could be your exit, but look for other ways out as soon as you go in. Then you look at the people around you. See if you can identify something unusual. Never stare or let them know you are looking. Make it seem as if you are looking through them and not at them. See how many exits the place has, and which one is best to use in case of emergency. When you check out the place, look for the unusual, something out of the ordinary that could mean trouble. That, in fact, very rarely happens, but when it does, you'd better be ready. The second piece of advice is always to sit with your back to the wall so nobody can surprise you from behind. Be ready to turn the table over and be on the move.”
We ordered lunch. Benny looked at me pensively.
“What's on your mind?”
“Benny,” I opened, realizing that I needed to select my words carefully, “was Peled ever in contact with the Mossad after he left? I mean recently.”
Benny gave me a long look. “I'll have to get back to you on that,” he said. Already I didn't like the sound of it. For the first time ever, I felt that Benny was holding out on me. But if he wanted to be evasive, why was he helping me? And if he was helping me by giving me copies of documents from DeLouise's file, why was there no information about DeLouise's last two years in the Mossad? Why the contradiction? I needed to find out why Benny was being vague. There was a pause.
“Any progress since you've been here?” Benny asked.