Triple Identity dg-1 Page 2

  “Why was he left in the morgue for so long?” he asked.

  “Well, from what I could understand from the city morgue office, DeLouise wasn't carrying any ID. The German police traced him through a hotel key they found on his body, and they've just notified the hotel of his death. But it took them a while because the key didn't have the hotel name on it. They had to have a detective visit every Munich area hotel to compare keys. The police are waiting for instructions from the Israeli Consulate about DeLouise's relatives and what to do with the body.”

  “You mean the American Consulate,” David corrected.

  “No. The Israeli Consulate. He also had Israeli citizenship, and he registered at the hotel under his Israeli name. That's identity number two.”

  “Are you sure the body in the morgue is indeed our man?”

  “Pretty sure; I went over the inventory list of personal belongings the police found in his room. There were some legal papers concerning his collapsed bank in California and a newspaper clipping describing his sudden disappearance from the United States. I think it's him all right. Besides, he looked just like his photograph only a lot paler. However, final identification will have to be made by the family. You can call the FBI directly because I'm not sure the Munich police realize that they should also notify U.S. authorities through INTERPOL.”

  “Why?”

  “The question is how likely is it that Munich police will check INTERPOL ‘wanted’ info about this guy. They would only be likely to notify U.S. law enforcement through INTERPOL if they'd checked and found that we were looking for a man with that name and ID and this is not the case here.”

  “I see.”

  “You may want to spread the word and score some points for your office,” I suggested.

  David ducked the curve ball.

  “I see you've already talked to the German police. Do you know who else might have been after him?

  “No, I haven't talked to the police directly yet,” I said. “But the office of the morgue showed me the police report that came with the body for autopsy. There was testimony from a bystander who said that he saw DeLouise standing near a newspaper stand when a man dressed in black leather overalls and a black helmet rode up on a motorcycle. He stopped next to the guy, got off his cycle, pulled a gun, shot him once in the head from a distance of approximately four or five feet, and rode away.”

  I let that sink in. “It seems like a professional hit. Not a robbery or anything else,” I added.

  “The German morgue let you see the police report?” he asked in surprise.

  “Well, the technician needed some encouraging. He settled for a green picture of Ben Franklin.”

  David paused, as if to allow himself some deniability at a later stage. Federal employees are not supposed to break foreign countries' rules. I could live with that as long as the government could live with the few minor infractions I had to make, just to make major progress. Maybe I shouldn't have told David, but I trusted him, and more importantly, he trusted me. He knew and I knew that if the shit ever hit the fan, I'd be on my own. That was fine with me.

  “Wasn't the report in German? How could you read it?”

  “I'll tell you more when I get back home.”

  I didn't want to tell him, at least not yet, that I also managed to make a Xerox copy of the report and translated it word by word by combining my average command of German with a good dictionary.

  “Sounds as if you're on the right track,” he finally said. “Let me have your written report as quickly and completely as you can. I'll forward a copy to the Criminal Division, for information only. If I hear anything relevant to your investigation, I'll send you a memo through the consulate.”

  I left the small conference room and stopped at Helga's workstation. Lovejoy hadn't returned yet. I had more urgent things to do, so I thanked her and left the building.

  I suddenly realized how much I missed the sheer excitement of my earlier days at the Mossad. Of course I hadn't thought so then. Those had been three long, challenging years.

  “Those of you who survive this course will be the best of the lot,” Alex had repeatedly said in his American-accented Hebrew. In fact Alex was born in Canada, but to us cadets, anyone with an accent like that must be American.

  They'd recruited me at Tel Aviv University, which I attended after thirty months of active service in the Israeli military, a responsibility all young Israelis must fulfill. I was set to graduate that July of 1966 with a degree in international relations, a degree that offered few job opportunities outside academia or the government. I'd been easy prey.

  “We want to talk to you,” a stocky fellow said when he approached me in the university's hallway. A man in his late forties, he had a receding hairline and hair that had once been blond but was now a poor gray. He used the word we but he was by himself. Who the hell is “we”? I remembered thinking, while looking at him with an amused curiosity.

  “What about?” I finally asked, trying to figure out if he was somehow connected to the girl I'd met a week earlier who'd refused to tell me where she lived because her parents didn't approve of her dating “older men.” I was twenty-two and she was sixteen, and it was the sixties in Tel Aviv, a city that doesn't stop even at hours when Londoners in swinging Carnaby Street are already fast asleep.

  His tone of voice became friendly. “I'm Michael from the prime minister's office, and I'm wondering if we can talk for a few minutes.”

  I followed Michael into the cafeteria on the lower level of a three-story faculty building just completed at the quickly expanding campus in Ramat Aviv, Tel Aviv's northern neighborhood. The place was notorious for its stale coffee and sticky Formica tables, which were never stable. The cafeteria was deserted, but we sat in a far corner anyway. I looked at Michael, waiting for him to start.

  He was brief. In a barely audible voice he said, “We at the prime minister's office have reviewed your background and believe that you may be suitable for the screening process which, if successful, will lead to your being invited to join us.” There were too many preconditions to this statement, I thought; it sounded like a preamble to a contract. I had to lean forward to hear the rest. He smelled of tobacco and Aqua Velva, the popular aftershave lotion one could buy at the army canteen.

  I looked at his face, then at the small and wobbly table between us and said, as if I didn't know what he was talking about, “The prime minister's office? I'm still in school. Why would the prime minister's office be interested in a guy like me?” I played dumb, of course. I knew very well that the “prime minister's office” was the code name for the Central Institute for Intelligence, Israel's equivalent of the CIA. (In Hebrew, the word mossad roughly translates into “institute.”)

  “You're going to graduate in a few months,” Michael said, “and your major is international relations. Your language skills and other traits as well as your Special Forces military background make you appealing to us. I can't tell you anything more at this time, but if you're interested, call me.”

  “What do you know about my background?” I asked in surprise.

  “Everything there is to know,” he said.

  I didn't like the answer. I wanted to hear what he meant. I wanted to know how deep their inquiry went. The deeper the research, the more serious their offer.

  “Tell me what you know about my parents,” I suggested.

  Michael gave me a long look and finally said, “Your father, Harry, came to Palestine from Eastern Europe in the 1920s. In Russia he was active in Zionist movements and emigrated to Palestine as a pioneer motivated by ideology. Here he first worked as a laborer in citrus groves and paving roads until he saved up enough money to go to London to study law. After graduating he returned to Tel Aviv and joined two other lawyers and established one of Tel Aviv's first law firms. Your mother is a librarian at the law school. Your only sister is six years older than you, married with two children. She is a homemaker and her husband a medical doctor. Do I need to cont
inue?”

  “Yes. That information is hardly a secret. Anything specific?”

  “Last year you were arrested after you knocked down two guys in the Carmel fruit market.”

  I smiled. “I was released immediately. Those guys snatched the purse of an elderly lady right next to me.”

  “But was there a need to send them to the hospital?” he said, smiling.

  “I had no choice. They used an old trick, shouting that I was the thief and they were trying to help the woman.”

  “Then a month ago you answered an ad in the newspaper seeking volunteers to go to Africa to teach English for one year.”

  “So it was you!”

  He smiled. “Need I continue?”

  “No. That's enough.” They'd done their homework.

  I realized with surprise that Michael had also read my university file. I didn't know whether to be proud that someone had bothered or ashamed that my so-so academic achievements were revealed. What did he mean by my “other traits”? I hoped that my ability to charm the faculty secretaries and the female lecturers to obtain academic and other more personal favors was still undiscovered. It didn't occur to me then that that quality – or drawback, depending on whom you're asking – was an important factor in the selection process. But I immediately thought of a James Bond movie I'd seen a week earlier. Fast cars and easy women. I liked that. “Please tell me more,” I asked.

  “I can't tell you anything further at this time, but if you're interested, call me at this number.” He gave me a piece of paper with a Tel Aviv phone number scribbled on it.

  I called Michael two days later. I didn't want to look too eager. The phone rang once and a woman answered. “Yes?” No hello, no announcement, no identification. Just an impersonal “yes.” I asked for Michael. The phone went silent. No “hold on” or “please wait” – just silence. I thought it was stupid. With these responses they had assumed a face of mystery: “We are secretive. But you're not supposed to know.”

  Another female voice came on. “Michael is not available, but I can handle this for him. What is your answer?”

  “Yes,” I said in a choked, excited voice. “It's yes,” I said again, clearing my throat, “I'd like to be considered.” She took my name and number, told me I would be contacted, and hung up. I slowly lowered the receiver into its cradle. The conversation had left me puzzled. They couldn't be that obvious, could they? Where was the glory? I'd expected them to be more subtle, not like a regional office of the DMV.

  Days went by – the tense waiting for a phone call slowly being replaced by a creeping feeling that they weren't interested in me after all. I became less and less enthusiastic about the whole thing. I found myself thinking that I didn't really care any more if the Mossad recruited me. I began to make plans to go to law school.

  Then the brief letter came in a small, plain, government-like yellow envelope. No letterhead, just a typewritten message telling me that I should report the following week for evaluation at a psychologist's home in northern Tel Aviv.

  The doctor was a fat woman in her forties with two chins going on three. Her face had seen better days. Or maybe not. The downward curve of her upper lip made her look as if she perpetually smelled something unpleasant. Maybe she'd decided that as long as other people had problems psychologists wouldn't have any. I walked into her office and sat down across the desk from the good lady. There were tacky landscape oil paintings of swans and rainbows on the wall and another wall full of professional books, many of which looked as if they hadn't been removed from the shelves in years.

  Without any ado she put me on the spot in an obvious effort to make me feel uncomfortable and shake my contemptuous half-smile. She started with embarrassing personal questions about my family and my sexual habits: the works. Did she really need to know how I masturbated or was it her personal kinky curiosity? Then she showed me ink spots on paper and asked me to explain what I saw. For some reason it didn't seem to be a genuine psychological screening, like the ones I had been through during my military service. I began to think that this was their way of evaluating my conduct under pressure and embarrassment.

  Three hours later I was back on the street relieved it was over. I thought of the psychologist as the kind of person you don't want to remember but nevertheless can't forget. The medical checkup came next; a variety of other aptitude and psychometric tests and interviews followed. The process went on for months.

  The initial novelty surrounding my recruiting process and the interviews was fading fast. I was being stripped psychologically and intellectually bare. Facing up to that without any sense of accompanying challenge or reward became increasingly difficult.

  After two weeks with no contact, a telephone message left at my parents’ home, where I was still living, instructed me to appear for a personal interview. I looked at the address. It was on a side street in the southern end of Hakirya, a government center in eastern Tel Aviv. Strangely, most of the government and military offices occupied turn-of-the-century farm buildings built by German missionaries. Sarona, they called the neighborhood then. The buildings each had one or two floors with a red shingle roof covered by hyssop, with citrus trees in the backyards. In the 1950s, when I was six or seven years old, my dad sometimes took me for long walks into the same neighborhood to see the citrus trees in blossom. In later years, when it became a government center, the charm evaporated.

  I went to the interview on schedule. A high limestone wall covered with ivy surrounded the inconspicuous building, but that wasn't unusual. Other government buildings in the area looked the same. I rang the bell on a wrought-iron gate. Again, a woman's voice, this time from a hidden speaker: “Yes?”

  “I'm Dan Gordon. I'm here for an interview.”

  She said nothing, but a minute later the gate opened and a bald, short man in his early fifties asked me to follow him. We went through several narrow, mazelike corridors, then through a back door to an inner backyard with three lemon trees, then through another door into yet another building. I followed him into a small office.

  There he turned to me and said, “I'm Mr. Shani. Please wait.” I sat down as he left the room.

  I looked around, but there was nothing to see. The only window faced the backyard and the three lemon trees. Although we must have passed offices, the view from the corridor had been blocked. I didn't see people, or desks, or anything other than the darkness of the corridor itself. Aside from my own chair, there were only a simple wooden desk and three more chairs in the room. A photo of Levi Eshkol, Israel's then-prime minister, hung on the wall. The door opened and three people, Mr. Shani among them, walked in. I stood.

  “Sit down.” The speaker was a tall man in his early sixties with white hair and a tanned face. I sat. The third person was a woman dressed like my high school biology teacher, in a business suit with shoulder pads that probably hadn't been fashionable since before I was born and a cut that killed any sign of femininity. If you have never met my biology teacher, then think of a female commissar in an early Soviet film.

  Shani began. “Good morning, Dan. You're here today to allow us to get a firsthand impression. Thus far we've seen only the reports.”

  He saw the question in my eyes. “They're all positive,” he added in response. “Tell us why you want to join us.” He said “us,” not “the Mossad.” In fact, nobody used that word throughout the entire screening process. I wondered why.

  Obviously, a simple answer would have been to retort, “ I was approached by you, remember?” but it wasn't the place or the time to play cute. “I like the international nature of the work,” I said. “I have a curious mind. I never take things at their face value. My military service has helped me realize that I have other character traits that I'm sure stand out loud and clear from my file and from the various tests I've undertaken. I may not be proud of some of them, but they're part of me.”

  The man with the white hair nodded as he went through some papers he brought into the room with
him.

  “Dan,” the woman said, “tell us what your worst personal quality is.”

  “I have no patience for idiots,” I said immediately.

  “Is that all?” she insisted.

  “No. I also tend to prefer working independently rather than in a team, and I find it difficult to follow stupid instructions without questioning them first, at least in my mind.”

  “So you're the judge of what is and what is not a stupid instruction?” There was a negative tone to the question.

  “No,” I replied quickly trying to control the damage, “I'm certainly not an expert on anything. But I have some common sense and principles, and if my instincts or my brain tell me that something is wrong, I ask. I'm sure you've seen my military file. I was never court-martialed for disobedience, and I was involved in many sensitive incursions across the Syrian border that demanded strict adherence to orders. But if you're looking for someone to follow any orders, with no questions asked, then I'm the wrong person. On the other hand, if original thinking and an inquisitive mind are traits that fit the job, then I'm your man.”

  The white-haired old man sitting in the center of the panel seemed to like my answer. He smiled.

  “Let me hear your views about politics.”

  We talked local politics for an hour. I didn't think he wanted to hear my opinion; he simply wanted to be assured that I wasn't a radical on either end of the political spectrum. Then it was over.

  “You'll hear from us,” Shani said as he escorted me out.

  Weeks went by with no word. Then one afternoon there was a knock on the door of my parents’ home. I answered the door. Michael walked in and, without any prefatory comment, asked me to join him for a meeting elsewhere. I didn't ask any questions and went along to his car. Ten minutes later, we arrived at the Mossad headquarters. I followed Michael through the corridors and was asked to wait in an empty conference room. After what was for me an agonizing interval, Michael entered with Shani, who shook my hand and said with a broad smile, “Congratulations! You're in.”