“Accounting, Lisa speaking,” said a woman cordially.
“I would like to know how a freelance photographer named Albert C. Ward III cashed a check paid to him by your magazine in 1981.”
“And you are?”
“Dan Gordon, U.S. Department of Justice.”
“I’m sorry. You’ll have to subpoena these records. I hope you understand,” she said. “We must protect the privacy of our vendors.”
“No problem,” I said. “I’ll get you a subpoena.”
Two days later I sent her a subpoena, and a week later I had my response. Albert C. Ward III was paid $315 with a check. A copy of the check’s front and back was attached. I looked at the back of the check. The check was deposited into account number AZ334465 at the First African Bank, Sandton Square, Johannesburg, South Africa.
The next step was to get my hands on that bank’s records. But a U.S. subpoena would do no good in South Africa; I’d need a South African court order for that. Just the thought of going through the necessary bureaucratic maze made me dizzy. But first, I had to check if the account was still active. I called our accounting department and asked them to issue a check in the amount of $75 made out to Albert C. Ward III, drawn on “Department B’s” bank account. That was our code name for the bank account of a limited liability company we had incorporated in Wyoming, whose shareholders or directors couldn’t be traced.
In an accompanying letter printed on our dummy corporation’s letterhead and addressed to the bank, I wrote, “Please deposit the attached royalty payment check into account AZ334465 of Mr. Albert C. Ward III. We’ve syndicated onetime reprint rights for Mr. Ward’s photographs, which we acquired years ago, to a U.S.-based publishing company for use in a wildlife calendar. Our letter to Mr. Ward was returned by mail. We discovered this bank account through the details on the check we initially paid Mr. Ward. We trust this payment shall be promptly deposited into Mr. Ward’s account.” I scribbled a signature, put the check in an envelope, put a stamp on it instead of using our office postage machine, and sent it to the bank in South Africa.
Ten days later, I checked with accounting. Our check had just cleared. Accounting obtained a copy of both sides of our check. The stamp on the back of the check read, “Deposit to account,” and a handwritten number was added: AZ334465.
I called the First African Bank branch manager in South Africa. “I’m the photography editor of Wild Nature and Adventure magazine, based in Denver, Colorado,” I said. “A while ago we purchased several photographs from your customer, Mr. Albert C. Ward III, but we lost contact with him. We now have an important job assignment for him. Would you kindly let me have his address, or even better ask him to get in touch with us?”
Maybe banking secrecy laws didn’t travel all the way to South Africa, I hoped.
“Let me look,” he said. “We don’t seem to have a current address either. I see that our statements were returned by the postal service.”
“I have Comfort Student Hostel, Sandton Square, P.O. Box 97848, Johannesburg, South Africa,” I said, trying to inject more credibility into my cover story.
“That’s the address we also have,” said the manager. “Well, it’s a hostel. Obviously people don’t stay there too long.”
“Maybe you can help me in another way,” I said, stretching his courtesy. “Maybe you can see if he continued to use his account by drawing checks or making deposits. We really love his work, and the job offer I’m about to make is very lucrative. I know he’d appreciate any help you could offer.”
“Glad to help,” said the manager. After a moment he said, “We have recent activity in the form of a check in a small amount that came from the U.S.” That was our check.
“Anything other than that?”
“Well, nothing, in the account, but we did receive an inquiry from the Peninsula Bank branch in Islamabad, Pakistan, asking to authenticate Mr. Ward’s signature.”
He gave me the branch’s address.
Although the lead was promising, I wasn’t elated. It was almost twenty years old, and searching a nation of over 160 million for a tourist who had last visited it two decades ago was hardly a plausible proposal. Still, I had to try.
I knew how to hunt, but this prey’s footsteps in Pakistan were long washed away by time. There had to be a way. I was hungry for the kill, but where could I start? I couldn’t fail again. Usually the last place you look for something is where it was the whole time. I called my boss and took a deep breath. “David, on a strong hunch and a thin lead, I’m taking my investigation to Pakistan.”
“How thin is the lead?”
“Like sliced salami, but it’s the only thing I have. Nonetheless, maybe I can develop it further from there.”
“You know the routine,” said David, intuitively trusting my instincts, even after I’d told him how paper-thin my lead was. “Travel authorizations. The U.S. Embassy in Pakistan and the Pakistani government have to give you the go ahead.”
Under the federal “Chief of Mission” statute, federal government employees could operate in a foreign country only with the U.S. ambassador’s consent. Therefore, the U.S. Embassy could assign an embassy control officer to be present during all my activities. Normally an embassy chaperone for my contacts with locals irritated me to no end—sources could be as silent as a house-trained husband in the presence of a foreign diplomat—but the deterioration of security in Pakistan made me less resistant.
“OK, let’s do the routine.”
David tried to hide his surprise.
“What’s the matter?” he asked. “You usually grumble when I raise the bureaucracy involved in foreign travel.”
“I’ve learned to live with it,” I said. It was kind of awkward. David was right. I usually complained about that bureaucracy when trips to sunny locations and paradise islands were concerned, probably because it unnecessarily delayed my departure, but now I was compliant when a trip to Pakistan was concerned? Maybe I was happy to go to resort areas without any delay, but going to Pakistan nowadays isn’t exactly a fun trip, particularly if you’re an American. Usually it doesn’t take much to make me professionally happy: catch an absconding con man with his multimillion-dollar loot in a sunny resort; find a cooperative bank manager in an offshore location who will spill on his clients for less than $1,000; or get a call from my boss telling me he got praises for my work, not just complaints I was cutting corners. But as always in life, miracles happen to others. I get reality.
Five days later, formalities were completed and Esther gave me the airline tickets. “Be careful out there,” she said in her motherly voice. Esther was a very pleasant African-American woman in her early fifties with gray streaks in her black hair, which gave her a dignified appearance that perfectly matched her personality. I was constantly telling her she should go to law school, with her methodical and sharp mind.
“Don’t buy any food from street vendors,” she continued, knowing my penchant for food adventures. “We don’t want you back here on a stretcher.” I remembered the time I’d eaten nearly-raw hamburger in a remote town in Southeast Asia that gave me a five-foot-long tapeworm that took months to get rid of.
I looked at the ticket folder. I was leaving the following morning on American Airlines flight 132 to London Heathrow Airport, continuing on British Airways flight 6429 to Islamabad, arriving the day after at six a.m. I inserted into the folder my vaccination card showing I had received hepatitis A and typhoid vaccinations. Esther handed me a printed form. “That’s the current travel advisory issued by the State Department,” she said. I glanced at the memo.
The Department of State continues to warn U.S. citizens to defer nonessential travel to Pakistan due to ongoing concerns about the possibility of terrorist activity directed against American citizens and interests there.
The U.S. Embassy in Islamabad and the U.S. consulates in Karachi, Lahore, and Peshawar continue to operate at reduced staffing levels. Family members of official Americans assigned t
o all four posts in Pakistan were ordered to leave the country in March 2002, and have not been allowed to return. Al-Qaeda and Taliban elements continue to operate inside Pakistan, particularly along the porous border region. Their presence, coupled with that of indigenous sectarian and militant groups in Pakistan, requires that all Americans in or traveling through Pakistan take appropriate security measures.
Esther grinned. “Still wanna go?”
“Even more so,” I said. I made quick arrangements for Snap, called my two children at their colleges just to let them know I’d be overseas for a while (they were quite used to it by now), and took a cab to JFK Airport.
CHAPTER NINE
I arrived in Islamabad together with the first rays of the rising sun. The streets were already bustling with cars, buses, taxicabs, and bicycle riders. The sidewalks were crammed with pedestrians, most of them dressed in the Pakistani traditional garb, men in salwar kameez and women in burkas.
“Mr. Gordon?” asked an overweight Pakistani man in his early forties wearing a khaki safari suit.
“And you are?”
“My name is Abdullah, sir. I’m a U.S. embassy driver. I’ve instructions to drive you.”
“Where to?” I hadn’t been expecting him.
“To your hotel first, sir. Your meeting at the embassy is not until noon.”
“Can I see your embassy ID please?” You could never be too cautious, particularly considering where I was.
“Of course, sir,” he said matter of factly, and showed me his embassy photo ID. I followed him to an unmarked embassy car, and we drove in silence to the Marriott Hotel on Aga Khan Road.
“I can get to the embassy by myself later on,” I told him. “I need to get some rest first. I had a very long flight.”
“I understand, sir, but my instructions are to drive you,” said the driver. He explained that the RSO—regional security officer— had requested that no U.S. government officials use the city’s transportation. “You know, sir, personal safety isn’t what it used to be,” he added with a sigh, wiping his forehead with a handkerchief. Although it was barely eight o’clock, the temperature was already 95°F, and the humidity high.
“Fine,” I said. “I’ll meet you at the hotel lobby at eleven thirty.”
I freshened up and waited for Abdullah, who was twenty minutes late. “I’m sorry, sir,” he said. “Bad traffic.”
I entered the car. “Where are we going?”
“The American Embassy is on Ramna Street, in the diplomatic enclave of Islamabad.”
After passing the security checks and passing through the lowered Delta barrier, I entered the embassy compound, which would be more accurately described as a fortress. But once inside, I felt as if I were in a country club. Beautiful gardens, an Olympic swimming pool, tennis courts, a restaurant, and a small baseball field. The embassy main building seemed to be rather empty. I saw only a few embassy staff. “The RSO is expecting you,” said Abdullah. “He’s on the third floor. I’m restricted from that floor.”
“Ned Applebee,” said the RSO, a well-built blond man in his early thirties, as he nearly crushed my fingers with his handshake. We sat in his small office. “Welcome to Islamabad. Sorry I can’t offer you anything to drink. All nonessential staff has been sent home, and I haven’t figured out how to restock that goddamned coffee machine. All we’ve got is soda. Anyway, the legal attaché wants to see you as well. He’ll be joining us in a few minutes.”
“That’s all right, “I said. “Any diet soda will do.” I followed Ned to the hallway and took two cans from the vending machine.
“Let’s move to the bubble,” suggested Ned Applebee. We walked over to a sealed and secure room, a must in any embassy where there are always ears on the other side of the wall. Such rooms are soundproof and windowless, with just a desk and chairs, where no electronic equipment such as computers or cell phones is allowed. They are mostly used for top-secret conversations, in the hope that no eavesdropping will be possible.
“I’m here on assignment looking for a U.S. citizen, Albert C. Ward III, whom we suspect of major bank fraud. His footsteps led me here. He could be using aliases.”
“I saw the State Department’s cable,” said Applebee. “Did you ask for the Pakistani government’s help?”
“Not at this time,” I said. “It’s too early. First I need to make sure I know who the players are.”
He looked at me, surprised, but said nothing. There was no point in going into details, though luckily it didn’t seem to bother him. “My first stop needs to be Peninsula Bank. Any contacts there?”
“Not officially,” he said cryptically.
“And unofficially?”
“You could make new friends here easily,” he said with a smile. “People like to be friends with rich Americans.”
I gave him a quizzical look, but he just smiled and added nothing.
“Like all other Third World countries?” I pressed, trying to catch his drift.
“Only in some aspects,” he said. “Just be careful. Anything else I could do for you before we start discussing my business?”
“No, thanks. Maybe I’ll need more help as I develop my leads. What do you have in mind?”
“Security instructions,” he said. “I don’t have to remind you what’s going on here, though I will. The place is crawling with Al-Qaeda and Taliban, no matter what the Pakistanis say or do. Out of all America’s embassies, probably only Iraq and Afghanistan are more dangerous.”
“Do they really try?”
“You mean the Pakistani government? Depends on whom you ask. They’re very helpful, but only to an extent. They have tremendous pressures from all sides, particularly from within. We’re not too popular here, so I suggest you exercise maximum caution and take prudent measures. That means a strong security posture, being aware of your surroundings, avoiding crowds and demonstrations, keeping a low profile. I’d also suggest changing around the times and routes you tend to travel. And lastly, call me immediately if you feel like you’re in danger.”
“I’ve fought wars,” I said in a defensive tone.
“This is worse. In war you know who your enemy is and its general location. Here you don’t know anything. They’d love to kidnap rather than kill you. You’re worth much more if you’re still breathing than as a motionless corpse.”
My stomach moved.
“Are you planning a trip north?”
“I’ll go anywhere I can find Ward.”
“Well, if he’s in the northwest provinces, then forget it. I suggest you don’t go. We urge all American citizens to avoid travel to the tribal areas of Pakistan’s Northwest Frontier Province. Anyway, the Pakistani government requires all persons, other than Pakistani and Afghani citizens, to obtain permission from the Home and Tribal Affairs Department before visiting these tribal areas. These regions lie outside the normal jurisdiction of the Pakistani government.”
“I haven’t got any plans now, but what does that mean?”
you’re prey,” he said drily. “Even within its borders the Pakistani government can’t guarantee your safety, but in these northern regions, you’ll be walking into sure trouble. Just forget it.”
I nodded, hoping Ward had taken the same advice. “Next—no public transportation, no befriending of strangers who seek your company. The best thing that could happen to you is to have your money stolen.” He paused, letting me figure out what the worst-case scenario would be.
There was a knock on the door, and a slight, darker man with a neatly clipped mustache walked in. “Hi, I’m Don Suarez,” he said. “I’m the legat.” I recognized the term. Legal attachés stationed in the U.S. embassies are in fact FBI special agents.
“I was just briefing Dan on the security requirements here,” said Applebee.
“Pretty exciting, isn’t it?” said Suarez wryly, sitting down next to me.
“I’ve been to worse places,” I said.
“Just make sure you’re not kidnapped,” sa
id Suarez, as if it were up to me.
“Anything happen lately?” I asked.
“All the time. But it gets the attention of the media only when foreigners are the victims. Stories about local fat cats that are herded at gunpoint until their family coughs up the money are a nonevent for the world media.”
“Have there been any serious incidents against U.S. personnel lately?”
“Sure, there were several attempts against us,” said Suarez calmly. “There was a church bombing that killed five, including an American woman from the embassy and her daughter, and a car bomb at the Karachi consulate that also killed fourteen Pakistanis. In Karachi, police arrested a Yemeni national, Waleed bin Attash, and five other alleged Al-Qaeda members, with three hundred pounds of explosives. The police told us he planned to bomb the consulate. Every morning we check our cars for bombs. In 2001, we found explosive devices attached by magnets to two cars of our diplomats.”
“OK,” I said.
He continued. “As for transportation, Abdullah has my instructions to drive you anywhere. We’ve had a ton of unmarked cars, ever since the evacuation of families and nonessential staff.”
“Can I trust him?”
“He has been a loyal employee for almost ten years, but be careful even with him. You never know. One final thing,” Don said. “We’ve got plenty of vacant apartments within the compound. We can host you here if you like.”
“Thanks, but I may need to distance myself from the embassy, if I can,” I said. “But I might change my mind later.”
We exited the bubble and returned to Ned’s office. Suarez handed me a mobile phone. “Here, use this. It’s just another item left behind by departing embassy staff.”
“Is the number traceable to the embassy?”
“No. You top it up with a card. It has no registration. I think it still has about three hours of local talk time. We’ll call you only on that line, not at your hotel. Same goes with your calls to the embassy: don’t use your room’s phone to call us.”
The Chameleon Conspiracy Page 7
