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Authors: Haggai Carmon
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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 citywas 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
“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 citywas 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
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