Triple Identity (38 page)

“Next, maintain radio contact with your partner only if absolutely necessary and use the codes we rehearsed. I don't want some German ham-radio enthusiast to call the police after hearing suspicious talk. Your radio is on UHF band and therefore it's very difficult to trace. But still, the last thing we want is the German police on the case. If you do hear the code word on the radio alerting that the German police are closing in, just get the hell out of wherever you are. We'll jam their communications in the area for at least twenty minutes. That'll give you plenty of time.”

Eric then went on to review the operational details one last time.

“There we are. Now, just do what you did during the drills and I'll see you later. Team one in safe house number one, team two in safe house number two, and team three in safe house number three. Only the backup unit returns here after all teams report to their safe houses; we'll dismantle all these installations. This place should be empty no later than 8:00
A.M.
tomorrow. Any questions?”

No one spoke.

“Good luck.”

Team one picked up their equipment and went out the door. Five
minutes later team three was on the way. I stopped Shimon and wished him well.

“Thanks,” he said. “Don't worry, we'll pull it off.”

Ten minutes later team two was on its way.

I stood behind Benny at the monitor showing a street map of Munich. A yellow arrow and a red arrow, one for each car, showed their progress. Each car had a small transmitter allowing our direction finder to know its position and direction at any time.

Prudent planning, I thought, not to mix the teams. Each organization would hit a different target. That would reduce the risks of confusion due to language and cultural barriers.

I looked at my watch; they should be on target in about fifteen minutes. The curtains were down so I couldn't see outside, but at this time of the year Munich would already be dark and there would be almost no people outside in this part of town, which was why we could begin operations relatively early in the day.

The radio hummed.

“Team one five minutes to target,” said a young man next to the computer.

We waited silently for the next report.

“Team three, five minutes to target.”

Eric seemed calm. Only his frequent glimpses at his watch revealed any tension. I was holding a bottle of water, sipping every couple of minutes to keep my own nerves under control.

“Team one, on target,” said the computer operator.

“Team three, on target,” said another computer operator.

“Power is off in the entire block.”

“Give team one the go-ahead,” said Eric.

The computer operator spoke into the mike.

There was silence for a few minutes and then the operator reported, “Team one inside target. All is well.”

“Team two inside target, all is well.”

That's it; the floodgates were open. The operation was on and there was nothing we could do but wait.

“Team one reporting that the safe is opened, documents have been removed, and photocopying started.”

I gulped more water. Nerves again.

“Team two has recovered documents, expects to leave premises within ten minutes.”

“Great,” said Benny in a low voice standing next to me. “That's what I want, and that was fast.”

I noticed that the back of my shirt was wet. I looked at Benny; I could detect sweat even on cool Benny's forehead. The temperature outside was near freezing, but the heat in the room was almost palpable from our excitement and the warmth generated by the computers and other equipment.

“Team one reporting that the volume of documents in the vault is enormous; there's no time to photocopy it all.”

Eric looked at Benny. “What do you think?”

“Ask him if there's any cash in the vault.”

Eric nodded to the operator who relayed the question.

The coded answer came in quickly. “Yes, 200,000 to 300,000 German marks.”

Benny thought for a moment, and said, “How many documents have they already photocopied and how many more are left?”

“They say that they copied just one file, but there are more than sixty.”

“Tell them to focus on anything that looks to be connected to the Iranians; we don't need anything about other sleazy money-laundering operations. Can they do that?”

“Yes, they think that for sure there are fifteen files connected to the Iranians.”

“How long would it take to copy those?”

“They still couldn't make it by morning.”

Nothing was said about DeLouise's files. I had initiated the operation and my objectives were being overlooked.

Benny turned to Eric. “Here's what I suggest. Let them continue with the copying until 5
A.M.
That's almost two hours before sunrise, so they could still leave in the dark. Then tell them to remove all the cash in the vault and the files that haven't been copied.”

“Fine with me,” said Eric. “I suggest we send Dan to join them; he could help them sort out what files to take. After all, these are the bank's files and he is familiar with that kind of paperwork.” Encoded orders were relayed.

“Go ahead, send Dan, there's plenty of work for anyone coming to help.”

“Dan?” said Eric.

“I'm ready, who'll be driving me?” I was already having
reise fieber
, the German word for hectic excitement in anticipation of travel.

Andy, a young man in jeans, drove me to the bank in a white Ford Taurus. An observer standing on the outside signaled Yuval, who was inside the bank, and the side door was opened for me. Nobody seemed to notice. There was barely any traffic in the street during the blackout and the entire process of my entry took less than two minutes. A bigger problem waited for me inside. It was completely dark; I had no flashlight and nearly fell off the stairs. “Dan?” I heard a whisper in Hebrew. “Come here.”

“Nice idea,” I said, “but I can't see a damn thing.”

“Wait, I'm coming to get you.” Yuval came closer to me holding a flashlight. His face looked odd when the only source of light that illuminated him came from below. He gave me a pair of plastic gloves. “Put them on,” he ordered. He also gave me cloth-covered rubbers to put over my shoes, giving me the look of a surgeon going into the operating room. Finally he gave me a wool cap to put on my head to prevent any hair from falling out and leading to me — if they happened to have my DNA.

“We don't want to leave any prints or marks around,” he said. We climbed the stairs into the executive floor and passed the secretarial workstation into Guttmacher's office. The closet was wide open. A flashlight was mounted on a tripod and Shimon was busy taking photos of files. “Hi,” he raised his head. “Welcome to our studio. Here, look at these files and see which are the best for us. There is so much we could photocopy. To me they all look the same. So pick up what's important.”

I quickly sifted through the pile. There was so much there that I felt lost at first. Then I developed a method. I picked a file and searched for key words inside, such as
Iran
, or
nuclear
, or
chemicals
. I immediately identified six such files and I gave them to Shimon. “Make photocopies
of these,” I said. “But use discretion; we don't need every piece of paper, such as postal receipts or copies of documents when you have the original. The German secretary seems to keep many documents in triplicate, God knows why; don't repeat her mistakes.”

I progressed very slowly, reading each file under the ineffective light of the flashlight. I separated the files into two piles: the first for files containing significant information, the second for files that were unimportant. I was thirsty but didn't want to waste time by looking for water. The pile with interesting stuff grew taller. The amounts involved were significant. It seemed that the Iranians were willing to pay big bucks for the best machinery, parts, compounds, and chemicals. Most of the vendors were German, Austrian, and French, but I also identified Belgian and Swiss companies. The use of offshore companies was substantial. There were addresses of companies in Liechtenstein, Cyprus, Jersey Islands, and the Cayman Islands. Obviously the goods purchased from these companies hadn't been manufactured in these tax havens, which were most likely used to mask the true origin of the goods.

Many of the files had no connection to Iran. A quick look revealed that they documented substantial money movements during a period of two years, clean words for dirty work: money laundering for private individuals who had difficulties sharing their fortunes with others, be it their government's tax authority or their creditors.

Two hours went by, and Shimon with Yuval's help worked relentlessly in photocopying with their two state-of-the-art document cameras. “Did you see the DeLouise files yet?” I finally let my curiosity get the better of me.

“Yes,” said Shimon, “I think I did two already.”

A call came in from the outside. “Report progress.”

“We have more files than we could photocopy by the deadline,” reported Yuval.

The official word came from Benny in a coded message. “Continue with the copying until 5
A.M
., which is almost two hours before sunrise, so you can still leave in the dark. Then remove all the cash in the vault and the files that haven't been copied.” I thought it was a smart move. When the break-in was discovered the bank would realize that, apart
from the money, the burglars also took a few files to sell, to capitalize on them later.

I knew what Benny was plotting. We'd done it before. After the removed files had been copied Benny would anonymously engage underworld figures, who'd have no knowledge of what had gone on, to contact Guttmacher and offer to sell him these files. That move could help convince the Iranians that the break-in was perpetrated by thieves and not by a foreign-intelligence service. If Benny wanted to expose the Iranian clandestine nuclear-purchasing mission, his men would then tip off the police about the forthcoming transaction. All involved would be arrested and publicly exposed.

We barely exchanged any words. I finished going over the pile. “I'm done,” I reported. “What do I do? Wait for Yuval and Shimon until they finish, or return?”

“Sending a car for you,” came the response. It was a good move, reducing the number of people leaving the bank, thereby reducing the chance of being spotted. I was no longer needed at the bank, because only Yuval and Shimon had cameras.

“See you later,” I said, and started on my way down, escorted by Yuval carrying his flashlight. I got to the side door and tried to open it. It was locked. I put my ear to the door to hear if any noise was coming from the outside before I made another attempt. It was quiet. I tried the door again; there was no question it was locked, not jammed. I looked at Yuval, “You try.”

He did, but still we could not open the door. We quickly went upstairs to alert Shimon. “Where are the keys?” I asked. “The damn door is locked.”

Shimon raised his head in surprise. “The keys work only from the outside, and on the inside there is a latch that you have to turn.”

“I did just that but the door wouldn't open.”

Shimon went downstairs with us and tried the door. “You're right, it's locked, not jammed. I can break it, but I need to know if there is anyone on the outside who might hear me.”

Yuval radioed the sentinel, who was positioned in a rented office across the street.

“The coast is clear,” came the answer.

Shimon ran upstairs and brought a small toolbox.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“I need to pick this lock, the mechanism seems to be stuck,” he said. “In a normal deadbolt lock, a movable bolt or latch is embedded in the door so it can be extended out the side. This bolt is lined up with a notch in the frame. When you turn the lock, the bolt extends into the notch in the frame so the door can't move. There are pins inside that are pushed correctly if you have the right key.” He took a long pick that curved up at the end out of the toolbox. After several attempts, the door was still locked. Precious photocopying time was being lost.

“Yuval,” said Shimon, “why don't you go back upstairs and continue copying while I try to unlock this door.” Yuval took his flashlight and climbed the stairs. I was standing next to Shimon. We took from his toolbox a tension wrench and a thin flathead screwdriver. We tried several more tries, to no avail.

“OK,” said Shimon, “I can break the door, but we risk being discovered and we'd need to leave as soon as I break it because we can't leave the bank broken open and continue to work upstairs. It'd be only a question of time before the police get our asses. We need to go to plan B.”

“Which is?”

“The one I thought of before we stole the keys: through the roof. We go out through a window on the third floor, or directly climb the roof if there is a way, and lower ourselves to a tree in the backyard of the bank.”

I wasn't thrilled with the idea. I never saw myself performing as a trapeze artist in a circus.

“Do the three of us need to do that?”

“No,” said Shimon with a smile, sensing my reluctance. “I'll do it and then try to open the door from the outside. Once in the street I can see if danger is looming.”

“Let's try it then,” I said.

We went upstairs, alerted Yuval on the change of plans, radioed central about the problem, and climbed the stairs to the third floor. The entire floor was used for file storage and was rather cramped.

Shimon lighted the ceiling with his flashlight. “Here, there are wooden
stairs to the roof,” he said, “I can go through there. That will save me from climbing from the third-floor window. Wait here, I'll be right back.” He went downstairs and returned with a rope and tied it around his waist. “When I give you the word, tie the end of the rope to this column,” he pointed to a concrete pillar in the middle of the floor. “Once I'm on the ground, I'll pull the rope three times to signal you to pull back the rope. Then go downstairs to the door and wait for me there. Here, keep that for me,” he said, and handed me the rubbers from his shoes, his gloves, and his cap. “I wouldn't like to explain if I'm stopped wearing these,” he said with a smile.