The Chameleon Conspiracy

by Haggai Carmon

  “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 minutes,” 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.”

  “I know that. But they’ve been known as Nada Management since 2001.”

  “I’m sure I heard my man say Al Taqwa Management, but remember, it came from a single source, uncorroborated, and I didn’t see any documents. Why? Do you know them?”

  “They’re backing terror organizations. If you missed reading the intelligence reports about their role, you may have read about them in newspapers.”

  Now I remembered where I’d heard the name.

  “I need to get the Agency involved,” he said, meaning the CIA. “The information you get here can be important.”

  I had been there before. When my findings had touched on matters of national security and I’d brought it to the attention of the CIA, they’d taken control over my case immediately, making my own job assignment secondary. I didn’t mind, except it was time-consuming, and interfered with my own case. However, my job performance at the Department of Justice is measured by results; any distraction means fewer or delayed favorable results. Due to the ultrasecret nature of my time-consuming involvement with the CIA, it isn’t reflected in my personnel file, which is brought up for periodic evaluation at the Department of Justice, so I risked looking like I was under-performing. But I had no choice. The result is that I appear to be performing less effectively than others in my department. Obviously, David Stone knew about my occasional side activities, and authorized them. A cautious man, David knew we both played for the same team, and therefore he was covering for me. But he was about to retire, so what was next? I’d have to explain to the new director. His name had already been announced—Robert Holliday, who had served as David’s deputy for the past six months.

  Half an hour later, a man in his early fifties came into Ned’s office. He was of medium build, balding, with a goatee and piercing, ice blue eyes. “Hi, I’m Phil Boyd. Tell me what you have.”

  I repeated my story and Boyd took notes. “Are you planning to do anything with that information?” he asked.

  “Well, I need to
find Ward and the $300 million and change it looks like he stole. Seems like he had a string of aliases and stole from government-insured banks and private investors. Am I stepping on something?”

  “Maybe. Nada Management, or Al Taqwa, is on the watch list of every intelligence service in the West.”

  “Why?”

  “Terror financing. These guys were catering mostly to Muslim clients, and were known for their hawala exchange system. Small amounts, from $500 to $1,000, are transferred to other hawala in different locations.”

  “I know the custom,” I said. “You meet one of their representatives in Europe, give him $500, and another person in the Middle East will deliver the money to the designated recipient. It’s just like Western Union.”

  “Yes,” he agreed. “But with one huge exception. Western Union isn’t involved in money laundering for terror.”

  I knew what he meant. A few hundred dollars, multiplied by thousands, added up to significant amounts, without any written evidence. The Western world was unaware of the hidden potential in the hawala system. Rooted in deep religious convictions, the system provides services based on personal relationships and trust. Usually there’s no collateral, and Western-style accounting is a luxury often done without. Not all the money transferred finances terror. Far from it. The original intention of the founders of the custom was to collect money for legitimate Islamic religious and charitable purposes.

  “And Nada?”

  “How would you label an organization that takes money from Muslims in Europe, gives no receipt, creates no paper trail of its transactions—which are based on trust and the use of telephone messages—and sends money into the hands of terror organizations? Some of it might go into the hands of innocent people, but we have ample reason to believe that these transactions funnel millions of dollars to terrorist organizations to finance terror.”

  “I need to talk to my director at the Justice Department,” I said. “Can I use a secure phone?”

  Ned pointed to the room next door. “There, you can use that phone. Just dial the number as if you were in the U.S.”

  David picked up the phone. “Hi, Dan. How is Pakistan treating you?”

  “Everything’s fine. I’m at the embassy calling you on a secure phone.” I reported my findings and asked permission to go to Lugano, to see what I could find about Nada Management’s connection to my case.

  “The operation was shut down a year or two ago,” said David. Apparently he was more informed than I was. “What can you find there?”

  “David, I went to Pakistan on a twenty-year-old lead and developed promising information, so maybe working on an organization that was recently closed won’t be that difficult. Anyway, I want to stop by in Israel for a few days. Switzerland is just in the neighborhood.”

  “If you call countries two thousand miles apart ‘in the neighborhood,’ ” said David amusedly. “Let me run it by some people first. Call me later.”

  Abdullah drove me back to my hotel. As I was looking aimlessly through the car windows, a motorcycle passed us on my right and the rider glanced through my window. I couldn’t see his face through his helmet. A minute later, another motorcycle passed us on our left, and the rider also looked directly into our car.

  “Turn the car back,” I ordered Abdullah.

  “What happened?”

  “I forgot some papers at the embassy,” I said, raising my voice just a tad. “Just turn back.”

  Abdullah turned the car around and headed back to the embassy compound. I saw the two motorcycles again. This was no coincidence; they didn’t even make an effort to hide. It looked as though they were even trying to be visible.

  I couldn’t take any chances. I remembered well the story of Daniel Pearl, a Wall Street Journal reporter, who was murdered execution style after he was abducted in Karachi.

  As we approached the main-compound wall, where I could already see the employee parking area at the corner of University Avenue, a truck blocked our way. I saw the driver just sitting there, with no attempt to turn or park.

  “It’s a trap,” I yelled at Abdullah. “Turn around and go to the main gate!”

  There was no need for my advice: Abdullah was already doing just that. With screeching tires, he backed up our car. I saw the two motorcycles again at our side, one cyclist holding a gun. I bent down on my seat to avoid an expected barrage of bullets. But none came. One motorcyclist tried to block our car from backing away, while the other, holding the gun, motioned to Abdullah to stop the car. “They’re trying to kidnap us,” I shouted. “Don’t stop.”

  Abdullah stepped on the accelerator with might. The car jumped back, hitting the motorcycle riding behind us and throwing the rider up in the air. Abdullah managed to turn the car, and within ten seconds we were at the compound gate. The Delta barrier was lowered suddenly and we entered. I wiped drops of sweat off my forehead. “That was close,” I said. “Thanks for the good work.”

  Abdullah nodded. “That’s my job.”

  Applebee came running toward us. “What happened?”

  “I think there was an attempt to kidnap us. How did you know we were returning?”

  “There’s a panic button in the car with a direction finder,” said Applebee. “Abdullah must have pressed it. We saw that your car was actually around the corner.”

  We went inside to his office. I gave Applebee a full account of the events. He called someone in the building and sent him to check the scene.

  “What do I do next?”

  “Do you want to stay in Islamabad?”

  “No. I’m done here, but I need to wait for instructions from Washington.”

  “Anyway, you’ll have to stick around for a day or two until we complete the investigation and work with the local police on that.” I went to the vending machine to get a soda and calm down. I sat on the couch in Applebee’s office, trying to collect my thoughts.

  The phone rang. Applebee listened, said, “OK, thanks,” and hung up.

  “Our Diplomatic Security Ser vice agents on the scene reported that the motorcyclist disappeared together with his motorcycle. They just found pieces from a broken red tail light, and skid marks on the road. Nothing else. Did Abdullah hit him?”

  “I’m sure of that,” I said. “I saw him flying up in the air. Maybe he wasn’t hurt badly, or he was picked up by a backup team.”

  “We’re in touch with the Reporting Centre of the Pakistan Police Ser vice. They’ll investigate.”

  “Who are they?”

  “Their criminal and political intelligence service. Who were you in contact with in Islamabad?”

  “Just two men: a bank manager, Rashid Khan, and an attorney he recommended, Ahmed Khan.”

  “Same last name?”

  “Yes. I suspect they’re related, maybe even brothers. The lawyer was recommended by the banker, and he sold me information that most likely came from the bank.”

  “We’ll get you a place to stay here,” said Applebee. “I don’t think it’d be wise for you to return to your hotel.”

  “I guess not,” I said. “Could you send someone to my hotel to pick up my stuff and bring it over?”

  I regretted it immediately. If anyone came to the hotel to pick up Dan Gordon’s belongings, the hotel would tell him that I checked out few days ago. I couldn’t tell Applebee that I’d checked in again under a different name. He’d have my neck for violating his security instructions. But it was too late. I needed to mitigate the potential damage.

  “Who are you sending?”

  “Probably Abdullah,” he said.

  “OK, I’ll give him my room key.” I went outside and approached Abdullah, who was sitting in his car, next to the entrance.

  “I’ve been told to move into the compound,” I said, handing him my room key. “Please go directly to my hotel room without stopping at the desk, and collect my things. I’ll call the hotel to tell them my assistant is coming over with the room key to remove my belongings, and I’ll settle th
e hotel bill over the phone.”

  Abdullah left, and as I turned to go upstairs, Applebee met me outside. “Let me show you to your new residence. We’ve got plenty of empty houses here. Since 2001, we’ve been singles only. Our staff goes home for family visits. There’s the American Club in the compound, where you can meet other staff members, watch American TV, and have a beer.”

  “Thanks,” I said, and followed him to a building nearby. He opened the door on the ground floor. “Here, you should find everything you need. Call me if you have any questions.”

  I sat on the sofa bed, glared at the walls and the small wall unit with family photos of smiling children, and thought of mine. I tried calling them using my mobile phone, and on the third attempt I reached Tom, my son, and Karen, my daughter, who was just about to go out the door. I didn’t tell them about my narrow escape just an hour earlier, and we focused on family matters. Tom was just returning to his college, and Karen was about to graduate, but both of them had that vision of the world being at their feet that only the young can claim. Neither held back their enthusiasm, telling me of their plans and what was new in their lives. It always made me feel proud to see that they were growing into strong adults. Of course, we couldn’t speak as freely as we would have liked to. Trained by experience as they are, they didn’t even ask me where I was or when I would be returning.

  “I’m going to be back home soon,” I said. It was more wishful thinking than based on reality.

  I decided to go to the club to socialize and get my mind off of things for a minute. There were four other men drinking beer and watching an American TV network. After an hour I was tired of watching stupid sitcoms with dubbed laughter even when they weren’t remotely funny. I’ve often thought that when a sitcom producer’s IQ reaches 50, he should sell. There was plenty about America I didn’t miss. I returned to my new makeshift home.

  Leaning my head on the soft, green pillow of the couch, I pondered my next move. Ward had left the United States in 1980 or 1981, gone to Hong Kong and South Africa, and finally left a trace in Pakistan. From Pakistan, he may have continued to Iran. Was it possible that just about the same time he returned to the U.S. without leaving a record with the Immigration and Naturalization Ser vice, he’d made himself look years older, perpetrated bank fraud, and vanished again? That simply didn’t make sense. The hunch that his identity had been stolen needed no further support, but it was still just an assumption, and I needed proof. Before falling asleep, I decided to discuss this matter with Don Suarez, the legat at the embassy.