It was the year 2000, during the Second Intifada. I was sitting in my office in Rechavia, where the echoes of explosions on King George Street and Gaza Street, followed by the sirens of speeding ambulances, had become the constant soundtrack of that terrible period.
One day, a man walked into the office and introduced himself as the representative of a wealthy American businessman. His story seemed plausible at the time: following the collapse of the Dot.Com bubble on the American stock market, the owner was facing cash-flow difficulties and wanted to sell a property quickly to send money back to the United States. The market was almost completely frozen, and hardly anyone was buying or selling property in Jerusalem. He immediately had my attention.
The man explained that the owner had a lawyer in Tel Aviv who held a notarized power of attorney and the seller’s American passport, and was handling the sale on his behalf. We took a short walk to one of Rechavia’s finest and most sought-after streets, close to my office. He pointed to an abandoned, locked-up private house and said, “This is the property. The seller wants a quick deal, with the money coming in as quickly as possible.”
The asking price was attractive, slightly below the already depressed market prices of the time. He asked me to fax the brokerage paperwork – the height of technology back then – to the lawyer in Tel Aviv, who would sign it and confirm the details. I exchanged a few words with the lawyer over the telephone. Speaking with a slight Russian accent, he confirmed that he represented the gentleman named on the Land Registry extract, held the necessary documents, and wanted a serious buyer found immediately.
At a time when property transactions in Jerusalem were as rare as water in the desert, the commission from this deal could have covered many months of my office expenses. I threw myself into the task. I called several clients with proven financial means, and within just two days, two serious offers were sitting on my desk, backed by letters of intent and deposit cheques.
I passed the offers on to the lawyer in Tel Aviv. After reviewing them, he said, “Absolute preference will be given to whoever makes a particularly large initial payment at the signing.”
Although the second offer was lower overall, it included a substantial initial payment of 40% upon signing. To my surprise, the seller’s lawyer agreed to give up more than 5% of the property’s price. He even agreed to accept a personal cheque rather than a bank cheque, provided it was handed over immediately at the signing. Draft contracts were exchanged, everything moved at extraordinary speed, and the signing was scheduled for Wednesday afternoon.
Everything seemed perfect, almost like a dream – especially in such a difficult market.
But the night before the signing, I could not sleep.
Something in my gut would not settle. The willingness to give up such a substantial amount so easily in exchange for a cheque at the signing, and the lawyer’s insistence that I was not permitted to contact the seller directly because he was a busy businessman – something did not feel right. On the one hand, as a young agent, I could almost taste the commission I so desperately needed during those troubled days. On the other, I knew my conscience would not let me sleep without making sure the seller understood how the negotiations had developed and what terms had been agreed.
It was 1:00 a.m. The Land Registry extract showed the seller’s name, R.D., and his American passport number. I opened the Yellow Pages and the thick telephone directory we used in those days, and began cross-referencing names. To my surprise, I found his full name listed at the Plaza Hotel in Jerusalem, where wealthy Jews from abroad lived in the residential wing. I called, but there was no answer. Then I called the hotel reception. The receptionist initially refused to give me any information, but after some pleading, she confirmed, “We know the gentleman, but he hasn’t visited Israel for many months.”
A dead end. It was already 1:30 a.m. I continued leafing through the telephone directory until I found a family in Bnei Brak with the same unusual surname. With trembling hands and feeling deeply uncomfortable, I dialled the number. A sleepy, angry man answered: “Do you think it’s reasonable to wake me up in the middle of the night?!”
I apologised sincerely and said, “I’m terribly sorry, but tomorrow afternoon, a private house in Rechavia belonging to Mr R.D. is due to be sold. I urgently need to reach him to make sure he knows the details of the transaction before it is signed.” His tone changed immediately. He took my home telephone number and promised to try to contact his relative abroad.
Less than five minutes later, the ringing telephone pierced the silence in my home. A deep American voice was on the line. It was R.D. himself. I briefly explained the rapid negotiations, the house in Rechavia, and the signing scheduled for the following afternoon.
A heavy silence hung on the line for several seconds. Then he said, “I’m not selling any property. I have no intention of selling it, and I don’t have any lawyer in Tel Aviv.”
My worst suspicions were confirmed: this was a sophisticated, carefully timed fraud. R.D. asked me to wait. A few minutes later, the telephone rang again, this time with a lawyer from Haifa who handled R.D.’s affairs in Israel. We went through the details, and he told me, “First thing in the morning, I’m taking the earliest flight from Haifa to Atarot Airport, then a taxi straight to your office.”
By 8:00 a.m., the lawyer was already there. We went to the police station to file an urgent complaint. I suggested that a police officer and undercover detectives join us at the signing so they could catch the fraudsters red-handed, with the cheque in their possession. The officer looked at us with the indifference of a clerk who had seen it all: “The fraud unit is at the Russian Compound. Come back on Sunday.”
We realised this was not going to turn into a Hollywood action film, and time was running out. We hurried to the Land Registry office in the city centre, where we managed to register an urgent cautionary note in favour of the owner’s son-in-law, effectively blocking any transaction involving the property.
Immediately afterwards, I called the unsuspecting buyer’s lawyer and told him, “Don’t prepare the contract. This is a fraud, and a cautionary note has been registered against the property.” Then I called the supposed seller’s “lawyer” and innocently asked whether everything was ready for the signing. He confidently replied that it was and promised to call me back within a few minutes. When I called again half an hour later, the line had already been disconnected.
It remains disconnected to this day.
The signing was cancelled. The innocent buyer was understandably frustrated at first, but when he realised he had been saved from losing a fortune without receiving any property, he thanked me wholeheartedly. The substantial commission that was supposed to rescue my month vanished, but the relief and the knowledge that I had saved two people from disaster were worth everything.
Months passed, and the incident became a distant memory amid Jerusalem’s tense daily routine.
Six months later, the telephone rang. That familiar American voice was on the line again: “Oren, I’m at my apartment in the Plaza Hotel. Come over for a drink.” Five minutes later, we were sitting together. We each had a can of Dr Pepper – a nostalgic reminder of my days in New York. He asked me to recount every detail of that night of detective work, thanked me warmly, and we said goodbye.
Another year passed. The office door opened, and R.D. walked in with a broad smile. “Do you remember me?” he asked.
“Of course,” I smiled. “Although I do deal with multimillion-dollar scams every other day…”
He laughed, sat down, and began asking about the market and investment opportunities in Jerusalem.
That meeting marked the beginning of a friendship and professional partnership that has now lasted 26 years. R.D. became one of my closest clients. Over the years, he referred his business partners, family members, and dearest friends to me, all of whom became true friends of mine as well.
A few months ago, an occupancy certificate – Form 4 was issued for a new luxury building constructed on that very same plot: the land the fraudsters had tried to sell for a pittance more than a quarter of a century earlier. I had the privilege of being involved in the building’s planning from day one, as well as marketing its apartments. It was a moving and wonderful moment of coming full circle.
Last week, during Sukkot, I sat in R.’s sukkah in Jerusalem. He told me how much he enjoyed reading “The Story of a Deal,” which I publish ahead of each Rosh Chodesh, and said with a smile, “It’s time you wrote about our deal too.”
So I did.
Because, at the end of the day, nothing in the world can replace intuition, truth, and personal integrity.
“A good name is better than precious oil.”
