The Chameleon Conspiracy

by Haggai Carmon

  I turned on my chair and loudly asked the other analysts, “Guys, has anyone been through any bank statements yet?”

  “We all have,” said Mel.

  “Have you noticed something odd?”

  “Like what?”

  “All the checks I’ve seen that were made out by McHanna to charities are stamped as paid, but none carried an endorsement signature on its back or any stamp of a financial institution, and none of the checks appeared on the bank statements with the check number on it as having been cleared.”

  Three analysts answered at the same time: “I saw that too.”

  “Do you have any idea how this could have happened?” asked Mel.

  “I’ve seen it before,” I said. “That’s a trick money launderers use to hide the source or destination of dirty money.”

  Mel said, “Maybe they just recorded the money as outgoing locally, in cash, but in fact it was sent outside the country.”

  “Maybe what we could do is select at random a specified period and check all bank accounts managed by McHanna Associates,” I suggested. “Then we could see if the wired incoming amounts match with the outgoing amounts at the end of the day. I don’t mean literally daily, but over a period of time—say a week.”

  Two hours later we had interim results. Every single analyst in the room confirmed that the incoming and outgoing amounts roughly matched. The difference was about 5 to 8 percent.

  “That’s for the administrative costs,” I said jokingly, but in fact I was dead serious. I had a hunch that the excessive commissions were in fact a channel to bury even more deeply the fact that the transfer of the money created a profit that could be escrowed by any of the foreign banks and then transferred internally to another account. That other account could accumulate the graft to line someone’s pockets, but it could also be used as a terrorist slush fund. A foreign bank account is, of course, immune from audit by a U.S. regulatory or law-enforcement agency.

  “OK, I’m going to try to synthesize this in a report for Hodson. I assume you guys will do the same.” As I began walking out the door, I stopped. I knew what bothered me—not something I’d seen in the boxes, but something I hadn’t.

  “Wait a minute,” I said. “Have you seen any records containing the transactions with Al Taqwa and Tempelhof Bank? I saw them in Switzerland, but there weren’t any here.”

  They all shook their heads. So McHanna must have cleaned out his office, or he may have had additional records elsewhere.

  “I’ll be back,” I said pensively. I went out to the street, remembering that I was hungry. It was the middle of the night, but I found an all-night deli.

  There was no question that we’d hit on a money-laundering operation. But we still had to see how it actually worked, and for what purpose. I sat at the corner table and wrote down on a napkin points to remember. I spilled some mustard on the napkin, painting my comments in yellow. But even without the stained napkin I knew exactly what to do next. I returned to the analysts’ room.

  “Mel, may I suggest something else?”

  “Sure.”

  “Let’s focus for a moment on the route of the money. We’ve got records telling us that there were small deposits coming from people and small businesses into McHanna Associates’ bank accounts. Next, McHanna transfers roughly the same amounts to several banks in Europe. Next, roughly the same amounts—less up to 8 percent return to McHanna Associates—from Europe, not necessarily from the same banks to which McHanna originally sent the money. Now McHanna Associates writes a check, always in an amount smaller than $10,000, to various Islamic charities in America and the Middle East. Let’s talk about American charities first: the check made out to them was never cleared through the banking system or even endorsed. Nonetheless, there’s a ‘paid’ stamp on it. How did the charity get the money?”

  “In cash,” we both answered at the same time.

  “Did you see any receipts?” I asked.

  “Yes,” answered another analyst. “But only a few. In some instances there were receipts signed by individuals with typical Arab names, such as Ahmed or Ibrahim, without a surname or street address. In other instances there were grocery receipts, with a handwritten signature of a purported recipient.”

  “Do we have any proof that the charities in fact received the money?” I asked.

  Most of the analysts shook their heads.

  “And even if they did receive some money, who benefited from the 8 percent difference in the funds sent to Europe and returned here?”

  “Probably the guys in between,” came the answer from one of the analysts.

  “So we’ve got an intricate bidirectional money-laundering operation orchestrated by McHanna, benefiting anonymous entities or even individuals here, and unknown entities or individuals in Europe and the Middle East, not necessarily with charitable causes on their minds,” I concluded.

  Aha, my friend, I thought. I’m on my way to get you.

  “And where did the cash come from?” asked one analyst. “I don’t know,” I said. “The money went out of McHanna’s account, there’s no question about it. But did the payments ever make their way to any charity here? Is it possible that McHanna simply churned the accounts by moving money back and forth, each time leaving 8 percent to institutions outside the U.S. and away from our reach? Or that he sent the money out to somebody somewhere for an unknown reason or purpose, but on the books it appeared as if the charities received the money? That’s an ingenious plan, whether McHanna planned it or was just used as a facilitator.”

  “But why?” asked Mel. “They didn’t want to leave a paper trail in the U.S.? There couldn’t be a tax reason. All these charities are tax-exempt anyway.”

  “As I said, I don’t think these charities ever got the money, or maybe just a fraction of it. But if they did receive cash, we must conclude that its source was meant to be hidden from some eyes, maybe the FBI’s counterterrorism unit.”

  “Just because the receiving institutions have Islamic and Arabic names doesn’t automatically mean that they’re supporting terrorism,” said Mel.

  “True…” I said in a level tone.

  “I’m a Muslim,” he went on. “And in my neighborhood in Brooklyn there are several Islamic charities that do holy work for the sick and needy. I don’t think they have anything to do with terrorism.”

  There was no point in arguing with him. Who knew?—these charities’ names could have just been used by McHanna without their knowledge. But there were also charities that were raided by the FBI, suspected of being a hub of money laundering for Islamic terrorist groups in the Middle East. So I only added, “What we need to check first is the legitimacy of the institutions listed in McHanna’s records. We can check if they received any money from McHanna and if they’re for real.”

  I relayed the same suggestion to Hodson.

  Two days later, almost-identical responses came from FBI field offices throughout the country. A typical example read,

  The charity in question doesn’t maintain a valid office or employ any staff. A principal who was interviewed claimed that they’re saving costs and directing all donors’ contributions to the needy in their community. There were no organized records showing names of recipients of support from the charity. We didn’t identify any records showing they received money through McHanna Associates. We didn’t get an answer to our query why money was sent from their communities to McHanna instead of using it locally. We recommend a thorough inquiry and audit. Since donations made to the charity interviewed are tax-exempt, an IRS audit is necessary to ascertain compliance with the rules.

  Well, it was time to meet with my old friend Timothy B. McHanna. Would he be happy to see me? I had no doubt I’d give him heartburn—but then again, who cares?

  Unannounced, I went to his office. The door was open. I didn’t see any staff, and the office was in complete disarray. Empty files and papers were strewn on the floor. Drawers were half open. Not such a clean job by our men, I
supposed. With no one to stop me, I went directly through the reception area to McHanna’s private office. He was standing looking helplessly at the mess.

  “Hello, Mr. McHanna.”

  “Hi,” he said, a bit startled to see me.

  “Remember me?”

  He nodded hesitantly, looking down at the papers on the floor.

  “I need to know only one thing. Where is Albert Ward?” Going straight to the jugular wasn’t a friendly approach, but it was justified under the circumstances. McHanna had already lost his “virginity”—the FBI had already raided his office, and there was no time or cause for sweet talk.

  “I already told the FBI. I don’t know who that is.” He nervously walked toward his desk. As he sat down in his chair I heard the familiar hissing sound of a bullet. If I still remembered its unique shoosh, it was a 7.62 millimeter. It smashed the window and went just over McHanna’s head, hitting the opposite wall. I thought of Dave, my Mossad Academy guns instructor, who’d said with half a smile, “Remember, if the enemy is within range, so are you.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  I dove to the floor and yelled at McHanna, “Get down, get down!” He fell on the carpet and crawled under his desk. I edged to the window to peep outside. I saw a gunman on the roof of the adjacent building aiming at our window with his scope-mounted gun.

  “Don’t get up,” I said. “There’s a sniper on the roof of the next building.”

  “Some crazy guy,” said McHanna. “This never happens in South Dakota. But then again, South Dakota is much smaller.”

  What was wrong with him? Somebody shoots at him, and his immediate reaction is a statistical comparison?

  “Do you know why he’s trying to kill you?” I asked, still lying on the carpet wondering what the sniper would do next.

  McHanna didn’t answer. He’d just broken the rule I learned during my military service: don’t draw fire—it irritates the people around you. I was clearly in the shooter’s range, and could take a bullet if I got up.

  “Stay where you are,” I said. “There could be additional snipers.” I crawled toward the entrance door. Another bullet hit the door just inches above my head.

  Son of a bitch. I had no gun, no backup, and no idea how many shooters there were. I saw one, but there could have been more. I couldn’t risk exiting through the door because it’d put me directly in the line of fire.

  I dialed Hodson’s office from my mobile phone. After two rings I heard Hodson’s secretary announce, “Mr. Hodson’s office.”

  As I responded, “Julie, this is Dan Gordon,” she said, “Hold on,” and put me on hold. I anxiously looked at the battery bars on my phone. I was left with only a few more minutes of power. I couldn’t take the risk. I disconnected and dialed 911. The operator came on.

  “What is your emergency?”

  “Shots fired at me by a sniper,” I said, but realized I was talking to myself. The phone was dead. Battery empty. I crawled toward the desk and tried to reach the telephone. Another shot shattered the mirrored display cabinet next to the desk, covering me and the floor around me with broken glass. I pulled down the telephone cord and grabbed the receiver. There was no dial tone.

  “McHanna,” I said. “Do I need to dial 9 or something to get an outside line?”

  “No, just press any button on the right.”

  I pulled the phone to the carpet and tried them all, but the phone was dead. I checked the cord. It was still hooked to the wall, but the phone was still dead.

  “We should leave immediately,” I said. “Is there another exit?”

  “You mean from my office?”

  “Yes.”

  “Only the door you came in through.”

  “How about your office suite? Does it have a back door?”

  “Just the one front door.”

  I crawled back toward the windows, groping for the curtain cords. I managed to close the heavy curtains on two of the three windows. Another bullet went through one of the curtains and into the opposite wall.

  Damn. The shooter had time and ammunition, just the things I was hoping he’d be short of. If I identified correctly based on my military training, the sniper was using a U.S.-made USMC-series gun, which has a magazine capacity of five rounds and an effective range of one thousand yards. We were only fifty to seventy-five yards away. He had already used four rounds. I tried to push the heavy desk toward the window to block some of the shooter’s view, but even with McHanna pushing from underneath, we couldn’t move it. The desk was too heavy.

  Rays of sunlight emerged through the one window with open curtains. That gave me an idea. I crawled to the wall on the shattered glass, cutting my arm and knee, and found a largish piece of a mirror, which had fallen from the wall unit. I pushed a guest chair around to face the window and quickly mounted the mirror on its cushion, leaning it against the chair’s back. The mirror captured the sun’s rays and reflected them in the general direction of the shooter. As I heard the next shot breaking the mirror I jumped to my feet and ran through the door. I tried the phone on the receptionist’s desk. It was dead as well.

  I needed something to protect myself if I encountered any opposition face-to-face, but the only thing I could find was a metal letter opener on her desk. I cautiously checked the outside door. The hallway was empty. I ran to the emergency exit next to the elevator door and down the stairs to the floor below McHanna’s office.

  The first office was a dentist’s clinic, and the receptionist and two waiting patients were startled as I barged in. I was breathing hard and bleeding from my hand, and my pants had blood stains in the knee area.

  “I need to use the phone,” I said, and when I saw their hesitation—a small wonder given my bloody and messed-up appearance— I added, “I’m a federal agent.”

  “Let me take care of that,” said a man in a white doctor’s gown who emerged from an inside room hearing the commotion. “Are you hurt?”

  “I’m OK, thanks, but I really need the phone,” I said. Looking uneasy, the receptionist handed me the receiver. Moments later I heard sirens and the building was flooded by SWAT, the Special Weapons Assault Team, wearing black protective gear and carrying high-power guns. A neighbor must have called the police after hearing the shots. One SWAT member entered the dentist’s office and approached me.

  I flashed my DOJ ID. “There’s a shooter on the roof of the next building. There could be more than one.”

  “Were you the target?” he asked.

  “I may have been, but more likely they wanted to get Timothy McHanna. He’s on the twelfth floor, in McHanna Associates. Don’t let him out of your sight. He’s the subject of a federal investigation.”

  He radioed to his team, and we ran to the twelfth floor. McHanna was still cowering under his desk. But police were already everywhere, and no one was shooting. The officer answered his radio. “Got you.”

  “OK,” he said. “There was just one shooter, and he got away, leaving empty shells behind him.”

  “I’m getting the hell out of here,” said McHanna as he emerged from under the desk.

  “I think we need to talk first,” I said.

  “I have nothing to tell you,” he said dismissively.

  “Who wanted to kill you? He may try again.”

  “How do you know I was the target? Could have been for you. From what I hear, you’ve got your own enemies.”

  He had a point, but I wasn’t about to concede it.

  “I’ll look into the list of people who want me dead. But I suggest you do the same. I suspect the bullets were meant for you.”

  “Why?” he asked faintly, although I suspected he knew the answer already.

  “Because nobody knew I was coming to see you.”

  “Not even in your own office?”

  “No. I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d pay a visit to an old friend. Just a spur-of-the-moment thing.”

  “Mr. Gordon, I hardly think this is funny. My life is in danger.”

>   Now he was admitting it. That’s some progress, I thought. “Were any threats made against you?”

  “No.”

  “Tell me, who wants you dead?”

  “I really don’t know.”

  “Obviously the shooter knows, but he’s currently unavailable. I don’t have his e-mail or phone number, so I can’t ask him. That leaves only you to answer my question. Who wants you dead?”

  “I said I don’t know.”

  “Why are your phones dead?”

  “Dead? All of them?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t know. Maybe a power failure.”

  “Where is your staff? I didn’t see anyone when I came in.” “I told them not to come in for now. We can’t operate our business when all our files and computers are gone.”

  “Do you have any new employees?”

  “No, they’ve all been with me for quite some time.”

  “So nobody came in today?”

  “Just the receptionist. She came in this morning as usual, but I sent her home.”

  “Did she leave immediately?”

  “I don’t really know.”

  “Did she say anything about the mess in the office?”

  “No. She was here yesterday during the search.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Saida Rhaman.”

  “What’s her address and phone number?”

  “I only have a number. She told me she recently moved to a new apartment, and I don’t have the address.” He removed an address book from his inside jacket pocket. “Her number is 718-555-9878.”

  I told the SWAT agent quietly, “Don’t let him out of your sight.”

  I went outside and called Hodson from a pay phone. “I think the attempted hit is directly connected to our search yesterday,” I told him. “Somebody is trying to silence McHanna. It’s also possible that the sniper was just sending him a warning. A shooter with a sniper’s rifle with a scope doesn’t miss from such a short distance unless he’s totally clumsy.”

  “That means that, whoever they are, they don’t trust McHanna to keep quiet voluntarily,” said Hodson. “Maybe it’s time. I’ll send agents to pick him up for questioning.”