The Chameleon Conspiracy

by Haggai Carmon

  “Yeah, I read about it in the paper. I was long out of the Mossad. But that’s ancient history. What does it have to do with what you’re talking about now?”

  “He wants to avoid debacles like that. That means changing things around—and that’s where it hurts.”

  “Does anything personally impact you?”

  “It affects everybody. But it’s all under the surface, because no one knows what’s going to happen. There’s an atmosphere of suspicion—who’ll be promoted and who’ll be passed over, whose department will be downsized. That’s unhealthy in any organization, and particularly for us. Complete confidence and trust among the employees are an absolute must, because human lives are at stake. For us, internal rifts could be devastating.”

  “What’s happened so far?”

  “Several heads of divisions and units, and at least as many department heads resigned, and many line personnel.”

  “And you oppose it?”

  “I think it’s OK to make the changes and make Mossad more operational. But cutting our bud get or ignoring our activities isn’t helping that goal.”

  “I hope you’re not planning to resign as well,” I said. I knew Mossad was Benny’s heart and soul.

  “I haven’t made any plans yet, but…I heard Dagan was saying that our unit doing political research is redundant. He thinks through the narrow prism of operational needs, and concluded that our foreign-relations wing isn’t vital in supporting operations, and the political-research unit’s role is secondary at best. He wants to downgrade us to a division and limit our intelligence-gathering activities.”

  “I’m sure he knows about your reputation and the benefits you bring from your close relationship with other intelligence organizations. Anyway, he must have his reasons.”

  “I hope so,” said Benny. “You have to hope reality and good sense will prevail.” A glimmer of his usual optimism was returning. “All he has to do is to go to the next prime-ministerial meeting on Israel’s national security, and have to listen to Aman’s military intelligence without having his own estimate, based on his own intelligence gathering. He’ll be tacitly yielding to Aman seniority.” Benny smiled. “In these meetings, Mossad, Aman, and SHABACH, the internal security service, present their opinions. Believe me, after the first session as a passive listener, he’ll change his mind. There are no shortcuts here.”

  “To be the devil’s advocate,” I said, “even given the fact that your wing is the very best in what you’re doing, what’s wrong with increasing operational capabilities?”

  “Dan, the intelligence-gathering world from human sources isn’t limited to James Bond–like operations. You know that as well as I do. There is all the tedious work of identifying sources and recruiting them, with or without their knowledge. True, break-ins and eliminating rivals are vital elements of ‘operations,’ but only relatively small ones. We’re less interested in Jordan and Egypt since the peace agreements. We’ve got enemies far from our borders, hosted by governments that ask no questions. To confront all that, you really need carefully planned operations.”

  “But Benny, don’t you think you’d be better off using local intelligence services? Let’s take for example friendly nations like Thailand or India, which are engaged in a daily battle against terrorists surreptitiously using their territories. You can send five case officers there, or even ten. They don’t speak the local languages and have no local authority. So not only do they have to identify terrorists plotting against Israel, but at the same time they need to protect their backs from the wrath of the local governments that don’t particularly like agents of foreign countries infringing on their sovereignty and playing cops and robbers on their land. Wouldn’t it be simpler to cooperate with the domestic intelligence services and send just one or two case officers for liaison, and to inspect and taste the fruit that they’re picking off their own trees and offering us?”

  “Dan, that’s my quibble with Dagan. The marketplace for terrorist-related intelligence is becoming crowded. Now we compete for the same information with the big guys. Why do you think I looked to the U.S. to join forces in Giverny? In order to survive in the newly created marketplace we need goods to trade with. Either we develop them independently or hook up with the bigger folks to broaden our capabilities.”

  Now the coin had dropped into the slot. I realized that there was another reason why Benny was seeking pointed cooperation in combating terror financing between his wing at Mossad and the CIA. A successful cooperation could give Benny a winning card in his efforts to keep his wing’s central role, not to mention his own job.

  “Dan, we must continue to regard as important the gathering of intelligence from sources you can identify, verify, and communicate with. That means operational capability. But maintaining our close contacts with foreign intelligence services is just as important, because of the volume. No operation brings us as much as a good contact with a foreign intelligence service.

  “But your foreign-liaison activities buy secondhand or recycled intelligence that’s always neutered to disguise its source. Foreign services trade or sell you stuff without a ‘certificate of origin or authenticity.’ You don’t know the value of it. Foreign intelligence services aren’t going to tell you how they obtained the information and from whom. It could be sanitized to protect sources—or worse, it could be disinformation. Anyway, the traded information is not of operational nature, but in the form of disseminated intelligence reports identified as such.

  “That’s one of the reasons Dagan wants raw intelligence harvested by our agents, not purchased in the marketplace,” said Benny. “Therefore, we treat the information we receive through barter accordingly. Most of the time we use it as a lead, and nothing else. We never make a recommendation, or worse, plan an operation, based solely on that type of information. You know what happens in the end. Such an operation will take twice the time, will cost twice than what your plan said it would and, in the best-case scenario, will yield half of what we need. But,” he concluded with a sigh, “these are my troubles, not yours. You said you wanted something?”

  “Yes, your help with Iran. Can you run the name Bahman Hossein Rashtian and see what you can find in your database?”

  “Is that all?” Benny knew me too well.

  “Nope.”

  “Is the next request off the record?”

  “Off the record, for now.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m just checking things, and haven’t got clearance for the idea yet. I’m developing a conviction that to crack this case we need to employ human intelligence, and I’ve got some ideas on that.”

  “And you say that you haven’t asked the Agency about it yet?”

  “Not yet, but I will very soon. They’ll never answer anything without a gazillion procedures. Anyway, you heard during our conference a hint that they had lost their permanent station in Iran.”

  “How will human intelligence in that particular case help?” asked Benny. “And where?”

  “I had some talks with the NSA. Even with all their gadgets and sophistication, their help is potentially limited. Remember what Alex, our Mossad Academy instructor, said about recruiting human sources. ‘Basically there are three ways to recruit an “asset”—a human source. Do it when your source is outside your target country, and you have a very limited selection to choose from, or you can travel to the lion’s den and pick your prey. The third category are people who travel out for brief periods, to conferences, for example. They are often desirable targets.’ In our case, the people with access to the information we want don’t travel. We have to go to them. It’s the logical thing to do. Computer surveillance and hacking are good, but nothing can substitute for personal presence.”

  Benny didn’t answer at once. He just looked at me pensively, and said, “I think so too, hence my presentation at the conference. I think you should be ready to answer questions regarding the intelligence rationale of doing it. Show a raw plan, the risks, the pro
babilities, and the potential hunting field to recruit sources. Let’s say that we have our respective agencies’ consent to go ahead. Then what? Even after careful planning and logistics, we must have a head start while we are still here.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning that the first task will be to identify potential local sources before commencing with recruiting efforts. That takes time. But sending an agent cold turkey to Iran without preparatory groundwork will not only take much more time, it’s significantly riskier.”

  “Granted,” I said. “So we’ve identified potential targets of recruitment. Now we need to move in. Debriefing exiled Iranians in Europe is good, but your selection is limited, and you never know who you’re talking to and what the guy’s doing in Europe to begin with. Could be dangerous. Maybe he’s after you to bilk you, or worse, to entrap you.”

  “Dan, bear in mind that with the kind of Iranian police supervision on every citizen and certainly on visiting foreigners, it’s going to be difficult to return in one piece, even if we succeed in the intelligence-gathering effort. Unless there’s a risk-free, maverick plan that will yield immediate results, I think we should concentrate on sources outside Iran.”

  “I agree,” I said. “But doing nothing will get no results as well. I’m raising the issue so we can brainstorm the option and start looking for potential direction and resources. That’s what I mean when I say penetration is unavoidable. Obviously, we need to jump through many hoops to get initial approvals and then do substantial preparatory work.”

  “Still, it’s a suicide mission,” said Benny. “If we’re pressed for time.”

  I knew Benny wasn’t hyping things, but I thought of the half-full glass. “The fact that twenty years have passed could, in an odd way, make it easier in some security aspects. The time passed makes it less risky.”

  “Dan, these people suspect even their own shadows. I hear that the diet in the Iranian prisons isn’t something you would ask for a second serving of, even if you’re very hungry. I don’t even mention the Iranian treatment of spies or the thickness of the noose.”

  “Benny, if you don’t want to go hunting, don’t complain if we eat the catch without even offering you a dry bone. It’s not as if we’re gonna board a plane tomorrow or cross the border on a camel or a mule. If action is planned for next year, today is the time to talk about it.”

  “Dan, talk to me when you have something on your plate other than the urge to succeed.”

  He had been tough, but not unreasonable, and he hadn’t dismissed my ideas out of hand.

  I returned to the safe apartment. Nicole gave me that look reserved for a husband coming in late at night with a lipstick stain on his collar. “Where have you been?”

  I shrugged. The days I’d had to report to anyone but my boss about my movements had passed the minute the judge signed the divorce decree. That was a long time ago, but sometimes it felt as though it were just last week.

  “We’ve got results from Dr. Feldman at the NSA. He received the Agency’s formal request for assistance, and here are the initial results.”

  Nicole held a one-page document. “We may be on to something,” she said cautiously, and read from the document:

  Bahman Hossein Rashtian, forty-four, is a senior officer of Department 81, an ultrasecret unit of Iranian security services in Tehran. He’s a Shiite Muslim and a fanatic follower of Ayatollah Khomeini’s doctrines. Soon after the Islamic Revolution in 1979, the Iranian ayatollah in charge of state security started Department 81 for several covert purposes, including training and sending agents to infiltrate the United States. Further information shall be provided as additional search is refined.

  “So is Department 81 the enigmatic Atashbon?” I wondered.

  “Could be,” said Nicole. “Or maybe Department 81 was a provisional name indicating the year it was started? But no, not if it was started soon after the ’79 Revolution. It’s all guesswork.”

  I called Casey Bauer on the secure phone and reported the finding. “I’ve also asked Benny Friedman to run a check on that name. Can I share the information I’ve just received on Rashtian with Benny?”

  Casey thought for a moment. “Yes, you may, but need I mention that you shouldn’t disclose who provided us with the information?”

  “No need. I know the rules.”

  I called Benny. “Are you still in Paris?”

  “Yes, what’s up?” Judging from his tone, he was no longer in a bad mood.

  “I need to talk to you.”

  “Meet me in one hour at Café Rosebud, 11 rue Delambre, in the 14th arrondissement.”

  “Another fancy place?”

  “Not at all. In fact, it’s where Simone de Beauvoir and Jean-Paul Sartre escaped to for private conversations.”

  As I walked into the café, Benny was sipping coffee. We sat in the corner. “Anything new on Rashtian?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact, I was about to call you about that.” “Then tell me,” I suggested.

  “Bahman Hossein Rashtian is an Iranian security-services officer. We’ve information showing he was orchestrating penetration of his agents into the U.S. by using false identities stolen from young American tourists.”

  “Department 81,” I muttered.

  “So you already know,” said Benny.

  “I know very little about that,” I conceded. “This is a big hunch based on small intelligence.”

  “Go ahead,” said Benny eagerly.

  “I believe that unsuspecting Americans were either lured into Tehran or were visiting neighboring states when their passports and other identification documents were taken.”

  “Right,” said Benny, picking up the information flow. “And then they were videotaped by Bahman Hossein Rashtian’s interrogators telling their life stories and giving minute details about their families, friends, places of study, and work. Thereafter, they were probably executed and buried in unmarked graves.”

  “So you support my speculation?” I asked curiously. Benny nodded.

  “That son of a bitch,” I mumbled. “I know you’ll never answer me in a million years, but just in case, how did you establish that?”

  “Refugee interrogation,” said Benny curtly. He didn’t add other information, and I knew I shouldn’t press the issue. He had told me what he could. Obviously, I wanted to know if he had any information on Rashtian’s trained agents, and whether they were in fact successful in infiltrating the U.S., and why they were planted there in the first place. But knowing Benny, I was certain that if he had that information, he’d trade it with the CIA in exchange for information that Israel needed. The information was vital. Sleeper cells tend to wake up at one point and carry out a mission. It could be financial fraud, but more likely something more ominous and heinous than just stealing money. These days the writing was on the wall, and it said terror. When, where, and how? I had no clue, but I felt the urgency to find out.

  I returned to the safe apartment and sent an encrypted message to Casey Bauer. Hours later a response came through the system: “Dan, I’m arriving in Paris tomorrow afternoon with Casey Bauer. Bob Holliday.”

  “Before they come, I think we need something more solid than the hunches and rumors we have,” said Nicole.

  “Like what?”

  “Like stronger evidence on the identity of the Chameleon.” I stopped myself from asking her if she was nuts. The U.S. had been trying to find him for over twenty years, and now she wanted to solve the mystery in a day? Instead, I kept silent for a few minutes.

  Then I stood up, grabbed my head with both hands, and exclaimed, “Of course. I think we can try that avenue.”

  “What avenue?

  “We’ve got the Chameleon’s fingerprints. I lifted them off his cup in Australia.”

  “No, you have the prints of one Herbert Goldman,” she said defiantly.

  “We already went over this,” I said, without losing my temper. “The guy in Australia is the Chameleon. I have it on author
ity from Benny, and we’ve got his prints.”

  “And you’re going to match them against what?” asked Nicole. I was at first defensive, but it was a valid question.

  “I take it that the FBI had determined that the Chameleon wasn’t Albert Ward, because they couldn’t establish a match of the prints I lifted at the hospital with any prints in their database, including Ward’s. So I suspect there’s no point in asking them the same question again.”

  “And we suspect he isn’t Herbert Goldman either, because his wife told that to the FBI,” said Nicole.

  “Right. I tend to believe her because she was the one to expose him in the first place. Why would she lie here?” I asked.

  “So we’re back at square one. Against what database are you going to match the prints you lifted?” Nicole demanded.

  “The Iranians’,” I snapped, without having any reason or basis to support what I’d said, nor any feasible plan on how to achieve it.

  “Well,” said Nicole. “We can ask NSA to do that.” If she was joking, it didn’t sound like she was. And when no cynical smile followed, I became convinced that I wasn’t the only daydreamer in the room. There were officially two of us.

  I called Dr. Ted Feldman in Menwith Hill, using the secure phone.

  “Can you match fingerprints against the Iranian security service’s database?”

  His response was noncommittal. “Send me what you have. Make sure we receive it through your agency’s liaison office, and we’ll see what we can do.”

  “I’ll ask the FBI to send you the samples I gave them. That, together with samples the Australian Federal Police took and sent separately.”