The Chameleon Conspiracy dg-3

by Haggai Harmon

  Apparently, the hotel employee at the desk wasn’t a geography maven, because he didn’t even blink at my passport. I had already made up a “legend,” a cover for why I don’t speak Dutch, or why I was so much lighter than my supposed countrymen, not looking like the citizens of Dutch Guiana-now Suriname-who have much darker skin than mine. If asked, I could simply say that my father was a doctor, an eye specialist in tropical ailments, and I was born in Dutch Guiana when he was sent by the UN to help fight eye disease. Nationality? I don’t really have one. At the age of four we moved to Switzerland. I studied in South Africa and Canada. My father was born in Germany to a Swedish father and a Czech mother; my mother was born in Hungary. Her father was Romanian and her mother Greek. My parents escaped their countries just when World War II started. That legend usually does it and has always satisfied people’s curiosity.

  I also knew that being born in Dutch Guiana didn’t by it-self confer citizenship. You needed one parent or grandparent with citizenship through whom you could claim it. If pressed, I’d have come up with a Dutch grandparent for the purpose. But I’d never needed to. In my wallet I also carried a Dutch Guiana driver’s license and a genuine Visa credit card issued to Peter Helmut van Laufer by one of those offshore banks that don’t ask too many questions about your true identity or the source of the money you’re caching away, as long as you don’t ask them why they charge an annual fee of $750 for the card. I also had another camouflage passport of another non ex is tent country carrying my real name, as well as my genuine official U.S. government and tourist passports, just in case a suspicious banker called the local police.

  If that happened, I could say, Oops, sorry, wrong passport. It’s my old name, legally changed. Here’s my other passport. I’d choose whether to flash my other camouflage passport, or, if push came to shove, and only as a last resort, my U.S. tourist passport, hoping I’d be allowed one phone call to the U.S. consul. The amount of explanation I’d have to offer the consul would probably exceed the amount of money suggested by a local policeman as contribution to shore up his personal finances and smooth things up. Never would I show my official passport. That could guarantee a free ride to jail in any country that regarded intelligence as the exclusive prerogative of that country’s government. Violators go to jail, and the guaranteed result would be the size of the scandal, not whether it had actually erupted.

  The hotel’s lobby was half empty. I leafed through the local Yellow Pages and called Peninsula Bank, using my mobile phone.

  “I’m the business manager of Wild Nature and Adventure magazine, based in South Africa,” I said. “We plan to establish a small office in Islamabad. I’d like to open an account with your bank.”

  “Of course, sir. Please come to our branch. We’ll be happy to assist you.”

  I took a cab and landed at the manager’s desk in thirty minutes.

  “I’m very pleased to meet you,” said the manager, a heavy-set, middle-aged man with jumbo ears and piercing black eyes. He wore a three-piece wool suit with a chained gold watch tucked in the vest’s pocket. Hell, I thought, this isn’t London circa 1930, it’s Islamabad in 2004, and it’s hot in here.

  He shook my hand. “My name is Rashid Khan.” I looked at him thinking that for him, the happy hour is a nap.

  I gave him my business card-Peter Helmut van Laufer, with an address in Amsterdam.

  “This is our temporary European office, which we are closing next week. There isn’t too much wildlife in Europe anymore,” I said with a smile. “So, for the time being let me give you my number in Islamabad: 051 991 6687.” He wrote it down on my business card. “We intend to open in Pakistan our regional office for Asia. Until I have Pakistani incorporation papers for our local company, perhaps I should open a temporary personal account.”

  “No need to wait, sir,” said Rashid. “I can open an account for the magazine immediately. When you receive the certificate of incorporation, please send me a copy.”

  An hour later I had a bank account for Wild Nature and Adventure Magazine. I deposited $500 in cash.

  It was time to chat. “I need a recommendation for a lawyer who can help us with our local Pakistani needs. Do you happen to know any lawyer who handles business and intellectual-property matters, and whom you can recommend?”

  His eyes lit up. “Certainly, sir, you should call Ahmed Khan,” he said, and pulled a business card out of a drawer. “He’s very good,” he said, and began praising the attorney’s services.

  The recommendation was too enthusiastic, I thought.

  “Thank you, that’s very helpful. By the way, we once employed a photographer in Islamabad, but have lost contact with him. How do you think I can trace him here? I may have a job for him.”

  “Ask Ahmed Khan. He’ll arrange everything for you.” “Thanks,” I said. As I got up to leave I added, “If you happen to hear the photographer’s name, or, even better, meet him, give him my number.”

  “What is his name?”

  “Albert C. Ward III.”

  “The name rings a bell,” said Rashid. “Maybe he’s a customer.”

  “Think so?” I said innocently. “Well, if so, I’m sure he’d be grateful if you gave me his address or phone number.”

  A few clicks and gazes into his computer monitor later, he said, “We did have him as a customer, but although the account is still open, there has been no activity for many years. We locked his credit balance in an interest-bearing account.”

  “Was it a big amount?” I tried my luck.

  “I’m sorry, sir, I can’t tell you that. But what I can say is that under our bank’s rules we move inactive accounts to a long-term interest-bearing savings account only if the balance exceeds $500.”

  “Oh,” I said. “So you believe he’s no longer in Islamabad?” “I’ve no idea, sir.”

  “OK. Just in case, can I have his address?”

  “It will do you no good. Our mail to that address was returned.”

  There was no point in pressuring him for the address. It would only have aroused suspicion. Why would I be interested in searching for a person who no longer lived in Islamabad and hadn’t for many years, just to offer him a job? Far more bothersome was the fact that Ward had left an amount of money in excess of $500 in his bank account, and never returned to claim it. He was a young man with limited resources. For him it was a substantial amount, so why had he abandoned it? I suggested all sorts of theories, some improbable, and some gruesome. But I let them rest until I could breathe some life into them.

  I returned to my hotel, ignoring peddlers who tried to interest me in everything from souvenirs to dried food. I had dinner at the hotel’s Thai restaurant, the Royal Elephant. I made sure to ask the waiter for mild food. Although I like spicy food, the Thai and Indian version of spicy is way out of my league. If you ask for spicy, they give you their version of spicy food, which burns you on the inside for days. I once ventured to ask for spicy food in India. Three days later, the doctor finally let me crawl out of bed.

  I called Ahmed Khan. It was past seven p.m., but I hoped he was still working. His phone answered after two rings. When he heard my name, he became very interested, or rather eager. “Yes, Rashid told me about you. I’ll be glad to be of service.”

  I invited him to have a drink with me at the hotel.

  “No alcohol, sir, I’m sorry. I’d be delighted to have tea, though.”

  An hour later, a fat man dressed in a beige suit that was about six months late for dry cleaning walked to my table at the lobby lounge. “Hello, sir, I’m Ahmed Khan.” He looked to be about forty-five and was even heavier up close.

  “I’m pleased to meet you,” I said. For about an hour I told him about the magazine, asking questions I thought would be expected of a business manager coming to a new country to set up operations. His answers were somewhat vague, and were mostly characterized by the sentence, “Don’t worry, I can arrange it, I’ve got contacts.” One would wonder why “contacts” were n
ecessary for simple things such as incorporating a company, renting an office, or leasing a car. The impression I received of Ahmed was that he was more a “fixer” than a lawyer. I had no evidence, but I had the distinct feeling I could steal horses with him, if the price were right. I realized of course that such a quality could go in the opposite direction as well. I had to make sure to play this right.

  He then brought up the matter of Albert Ward. “I understand you’re looking for him?” he asked.

  “Yes, he was a very good photographer, and I’ve got an interesting assignment for him-that is, if I find him.”

  “I’ve got contacts,” he said. “Would you be willing to pay for the information?”

  “Well,” I said, “what do you have in mind?”

  “It may cost up to $1,000,” he said, surveying my face for a reaction.

  “That’s too much,” I said. “We don’t need him that badly.” He wasn’t about to let go, and I knew it. The bean counters in Washington would be all over me if I spent that much money on a tip that might be dry and covered with sixty generations of spider webs.

  “What were you thinking, then?” he said.

  “No more than $250,” I said.

  “Maybe $400?”

  “No. $250. If the information is accurate and I find him, I’m willing to pay $100 more as a bonus.”

  The following morning I woke up by the ring of my mobile phone. “Good morning, Mr. Van Laufer. This is Ahmed Khan.”

  “Good morning,” I said, rubbing my eyes and looking at my watch. It was almost nine. I had overslept.

  “I’ve got information about Albert Ward. Can I meet you in my office?”

  “Could you come to my hotel? I need to be here to meet some people.” In fact I had no such plans, but I didn’t trust Ahmed, and the idea of going into town just to meet him didn’t seem right.

  “Sure,” he said. “I can meet you at twelve thirty.”

  “Good,” I said. “Meet me at the Dynasty Restaurant at the hotel.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Ahmed Khan met me at twelve fifteen as I was crossing the lobby to buy a newspaper. We sat at a table in the corner. I looked at him, waiting for the news.

  “Albert Ward left money in his bank account at the Peninsula Bank,” he said. I was motionless.

  “How much?”

  “Around $2,000.”

  “So?”

  “He never came back for it.”

  “I see,” I said. Ahmed Khan was selling me recycled information he had probably received from Rashid.

  “The last transaction he did at the bank was to buy Iranian rials; he used $200 to purchase them.”

  “So he went to Iran? Then I guess I’ll have to give up on him.” I was acting indifferent, but in fact this information made my heart go ballistic.

  Ahmed wasn’t deterred. “I think I know where he went.”

  That certainly aroused even more interest, but I wasn’t about to show it, or the price would go up immediately.

  “Where?”

  “To Tehran.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I’ve got sources.”

  I wasn’t about to cross-examine him over that. He’d have to give me something better for my $250, and he knew that.

  “Do you have an address in Tehran?”

  “Yes.”

  “Current?”

  He hesitated. “I don’t know, it could be. Please remember, Mr. Van Laufer, that he went to Tehran twenty years ago. He may have moved since.”

  “So what good is it for me to have a twenty-year-old address? I need him now.”

  “I can make some phone calls,” he said. “OK, please go ahead. I’ll be around.”

  Ahmed called me in the afternoon. “I have developments,” he said. “But I’ll have to pay my source $300, and that will leave nothing for me.”

  “What’s the information?”

  “I’ll know more if you agree to pay the $300, and the $250 for me.”

  “OK,” I said in feigned surrender. “Fine. Ward is really a great photographer.”

  “I’ll come to night for the money,” he said.

  “Well, you’ll have to bring the information as well. It’s not my personal money, it’s the magazine’s, and I must account for it.”

  At six thirty Ahmed appeared, unannounced. He was excited. “I think something strange has happened,” he said.

  “What?”

  “Albert Ward arrived in Tehran on an invitation of Professor Manfred Krieger, who headed a German archaeological team for its excavation work in Tal-e Malyan. There were rumors of buried golden treasures of the Parthians and the Sasanians.” He went on and on. A class in history is usually interesting, but not at that moment. However, it was no time to demonstrate my impatience.

  “How long did he work for them?”

  “They signed him up for three months and paid his first month’s salary of $500 in advance.”

  “Why would they do that?”

  “I don’t know,” he said candidly, and it was the first time I believed a sentence he said. “This was shortly after the Islamic Revolution, and as an American he was probably afraid to go there, or at least to go and not be paid. So maybe this is how they made him come.”

  Again, it seemed to me that Ahmed’s information had come from the same source: Peninsula Bank, and Rashid, its manager. I smelled a rat.

  He brought his head closer to me, as if telling me a secret. “I think he was lured to Tehran for an entirely different reason.”

  “Oh?”

  “The money he received from the German archaeologists didn’t come from Germany.”

  “So? Why is it important?” I said casually. “They could have paid him from their account in Tehran.”

  “They could have. But the money came from Lugano, Switzerland.”

  “This is too much detective work,” I said waving my hand in dismissal. “I’m just trying to help my magazine. Maybe I should let this thing go.”

  “As you wish,” he said, clearly disappointed. “But if I were you, I’d look deeper into it. There might be a story behind it, although not for a magazine about wildlife, but for a news magazine. You could investigate it and end up with an interesting story.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that after Ward left Islamabad, there were three attempts by the transferring bank in Switzerland to reverse the money transfer and get the money back, claiming that the transfer was made by mistake.”

  “Did the bank in Islamabad ever return the money?”

  “No. Since it was already in Ward’s account, there was no way of doing it without Ward’s consent or a court order. And neither was obtained.”

  “I see,” I said, trying to figure out how these bits of information fit into any of my theories. When I didn’t respond, Ahmed tried to ignite further interest in me. “Do you know who the bank that made the transfer was?”

  “No. How would I know?”

  “Al Taqwa Management, a Lugano-based financial institution.”

  “Who are they?” I asked, although the name rang a bell.

  “All I know is that they have ties to terrorist organizations.” “Oh,” I said. “I should stay away from this matter then.” Ahmed gave me a long look. “OK, then can I have my money?”

  I gave him $300. “Please sign a receipt,”

  He quickly wrote down a receipt on a blank piece of paper. “I’m giving you only $300 because you didn’t give me a current address, but still it’s more than the $250 I promised you.”

  Obviously he didn’t like that, but I threw in an incentive. “If you find him, I’ll still be thankful. Anyway, we should talk about the main reason I came here, the incorporation of a company to publish our magazine. I’ll call you this week.”

  Time to go back to the embassy. This matter was getting into areas outside my original assignment. I called Ned Applebee.

  “Abdullah will come to your hotel to bring you over in thirty minu
tes,” promised Ned.

  Abdullah was as good as Ned’s word. I was in Applebee’s office in less than an hour.

  “Any success?” he asked, though somehow he didn’t sound too interested.

  “The person I’m looking for left Pakistan twenty years ago with more than $500-probably around $2,000-deposited in his bank account, and never returned. Before leaving he bought $200 in Iranian currency. A source told me he was allegedly invited to Iran by a German archaeological team, which paid him $500 in advance for one month of photography work, and he vanished. Several years later, a bank attempted to reverse the transfer, saying that it had discovered during an audit that a predecessor bank made the transfer as a result of fraud and wanted the money back. The Pakistani bank refused.”

  “Interesting,” he said, looking out his window. He couldn’t have been less interested.

  “I’m told that the institution that wanted the money back is located in Lugano, Switzerland.”

  “The fact that it’s in Switzerland doesn’t by itself guarantee integrity. Crooks are everywhere.”

  “I agree, but these guys are big-time.”

  “Who?”

  “Al Taqwa.”

  Applebee sat up in his chair. At last I had his attention. “Nada Management? Are you sure?”

  “No, I said Al Taqwa.”