The Chameleon Conspiracy

by Haggai Carmon

  “I thought you’d do that, so I asked the SWAT team’s commander to keep an eye on McHanna.”

  I called the duty FBI agent. “I need to locate Saida Rhaman, telephone 718-555-9878.”

  “Hold on.”

  “The last known address we have is on Atlantic Avenue, Brooklyn, New York.” He gave me the house number.

  “What’s the cross street?”

  “Third Avenue.”

  “Did you check the phone listing?”

  “Yes, it’s listed under Nikoukar Jafarzadeh.”

  “Please run a check on that person,” I requested.

  “OK. Call me in an hour.”

  “Sure, and once you’re done with him, I need background on Saida Rhaman, a receptionist at McHanna Associates. Her boss gave me the number listed as Jafarzadeh’s.”

  The name Jafarzadeh sounded Iranian, and Saida Rhaman sounded Arabic. But maybe it was a coincidence. Or not. An hour later I called the agent again.

  “Nikoukar Jafarzadeh, a male born in Tehran, Iran, in 1970, applied for a student visa in 1988 sponsored by a language-learning institute in Virginia. An F-1 student visa was issued on 2/88. The visa expired on 2/90 and there’s no record of his leaving the country. On 7 November 1992 he was stopped in Arlington, Virginia, on a minor traffic violation. He carried a Virginia driver’s license, number 099889004334. Virginia’s DMV records show his address as 1528 North 16th Road, Arlington, Virginia 22209. There’s no telephone listing for that address. No connection to Saida Rhaman was found. Additional information is forthcoming.”

  “Do I understand from the immigration info you’ve just mentioned that he’s an illegal alien?”

  “Probably, since we presume he’s still in the U.S. There’s no Social Security number attached to his name, nor an INS ‘A’ number indicating he received permanent residence, a green card, or that one is pending.”

  I called Hodson and reported. “Let our people in Virginia handle this,” said Hodson when he heard my suspicions. I was entering his turf.

  Mel, the analyst, called me. “You’d better come down here,” he said. “We found something interesting.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  As I walked into the analysts’ room, Mel gave me a document and exclaimed, “Look at this!” It was a one-page form. “This is a money-transfer order of $7,900 to Niarchos Alexander Papadimitriou, International Bank of Hellas, Athens, Greece, account GF 8873554.”

  I gave him a wondering look. “And?”

  “We also found this,” he said and flashed a red-cover Greek passport. I opened the bio page and saw our dear friend Timothy McHanna’s picture. The name on the passport was Niarchos Alexander Papadimitriou, nationality Hellenic, valid for five years. I leafed through the pages. There were a few entry and exit stamps, all from European countries.

  So multiple identities weren’t the Chameleon’s exclusive domain. I returned to the office and ran a check on Niarchos Alexander Papadimitriou. Nothing came out. I quickly sent a query to Interpol, U.S. National Central Bureau to seek Greek police assistance in identifying Niarchos Alexander Papadimitriou, and to ask whether the passport was genuine. I attached a copy. I didn’t have much hope from that end. I suspected that the genuine-looking passport was homemade.

  Although the passport appeared to have been used for travel outside the U.S., I assumed McHanna used it for additional purposes. The money-transfer order, though in the modest amount of $7,900, could indicate that McHanna didn’t trust the pension plan the true owners of his company had prepared for him and was building his own nest, padded with somebody else’s money. If there was one transfer, there could be more.

  “I suggest you ask your team to keep looking. I think the strategy should be to look for all money transfers to individuals.”

  “That’s easy,” said Mel. “We have their computers up and running.”

  Within moments the printer spewed out a report of all outgoing money transfers during the preceding seven years, sorted and grouped by recipient.

  “That’s fantastic,” I said. “Can we sort the data by date? That way we can see when money went out and to whom. Next we should do the same with incoming transfers, and finally do the same when the sending or receiving party was a corporation or a trust.” I had just brought upon myself weeks of tedious paperwork. Next, we’d compare the accounting with the records I’d brought from Switzerland.

  Within an hour we started to see a clear pattern. McHanna was moving small amounts, usually $2,000 or $3,000 at a time, to his Niarchos Alexander Papadimitriou bank account in Greece. In just one year the transfers totaled $215,080. I searched the files for the name Nikoukar Jafarzadeh—just a wild guess—but there was nothing for that name.

  The FBI duty agent called. He’d contacted the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms, and Explosives and learned that Nikoukar Jafarzadeh’s name had come up following a query on his name at the National Tracing Center, Crime Gun Analysis Branch. It brought up his gun purchases: two sniper rifles and a handgun from one dealer at a gun show in Virginia. The dealer had filled out a form for ATF. That information, combined with the other evidence we already had, was too strong to ignore. First McHanna said that he’d told the receptionist not to come to work on the day following the FBI search, but she had. Next, the phones weren’t working and the receptionist had disappeared. Then came the discovery that her home phone was actually listed under Nikoukar Jafarzadeh, a man with a fondness for sniper guns.

  I called Hodson. “I may have a direction for you,” I said. “The shooter may have had inside help.” I gave him the details. “I’ll be back in the office tomorrow,” I said. “Is McHanna there already?”

  “Yes, we are working on him now.”

  When I returned to the federal building on the next day, I saw Hodson with his aides. “Made progress with McHanna?”

  “No. He isn’t talking,” said Hodson. “A dead fish is more talkative.”

  “First-degree interrogation?” I asked, thinking how aggressive FBI interrogators can be.

  “Second, as well,” he said. “He’s been under interrogation for the past twenty hours, but he isn’t saying anything meaningful.”

  I entered the interrogation room. McHanna was rattled when he saw me. He looked bad, really bad, with black circles under his eyes, which were shifting from one side to the other.

  “Can I be alone with him?” I asked.

  The FBI agent left the room.

  “McHanna, look at me. I’m your chance to live through this.”

  He raised his head with a contemptuous look that said it all.

  “I know what you did during the past two decades, or for an even longer period. No question you’re looking at a prison term. But we can pretend there’s nothing against you and let you walk right now.”

  “You mean I can go?”

  “There’s some paperwork to complete, but yes, I’ll recommend letting you go.”

  “What’s the catch?” he asked suspiciously.

  “No trick. You refuse to cooperate. It will be a while until all the documents seized in your office will be analyzed. We may not have a probable cause to hold you any longer, so I think you’re about to leave this place soon. We have patience, though, and I’m sure you’ll be back.”

  He gave me a doubtful look.

  “Of course, your employers will not be so patient. Do you know why?”

  He looked at me, waiting for me to continue.

  “Because they’ll understand you talked. Of course, an inadvertent leak from a ‘knowledgeable government source that spoke on condition of anonymity’ could appear in the media saying that you’re cooperating, and therefore were released on your own recognizance.”

  That got to him. “Are you crazy?” he yelled. “They’ll kill me.”

  “Why? You have been serving them loyally for such a long time, they’ll probably try to smuggle you out of the country.”

  It didn’t seem to be an option that McHanna had even considered vi
able. And we had not yet said who “they” were.

  “It’s a good thing that you understand reality,” I said, and sat on a chair opposite him. “They’ll have no such plans. They don’t believe in protracted justice.”

  He didn’t react.

  “Of course, the fact that you were stealing them blind isn’t going to help, if they find out.”

  He was too shaken to say anything. “Mr. Niarchos Alexander Papadimitriou,” I said in a theatrical solemnity. “Do you have additional names and passports leading to bank accounts with money you skimmed?”

  “What do you want to know?” he asked faintly.

  “Where is Kourosh Alireza Farhadi?”

  “Who?”

  “Kourosh Alireza Farhadi.”

  “Never heard that name.”

  “Kourosh Alireza Farhadi, aka Albert Ward III.”

  “Really? Is that Albert’s name? I didn’t know that. I told you, Albert’s in Australia. He’s retired.”

  Aha, I said to myself, McHanna forgot when he lied, when he told the truth, or when he’d said anything.

  He supposedly knew him only as Whitney-Davis. He had just confirmed knowledge of Albert Ward, although he’d previously denied it.

  “And where is Harrington T. Whitney-Davis?”

  “They’re all the same person. Retired in Australia.”

  Bingo! But I didn’t want to show him my joy, and moved on.

  “Retired? What do you mean?”

  “He told me that he decided to retire in Australia.” “When was that?”

  “I think a few months ago.”

  “While he was in the U.S.?”

  “He called me from Australia. I last saw him a few years ago.”

  “Who owns McHanna Associates?”

  “I do.”

  “Formally?”

  “Yes.”

  “And informally?”

  He hesitated. “I have silent investors.”

  “Who are they?”

  “Foreign institutions.”

  “I need names.”

  “I can’t give you any.”

  “Why?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “Mr. McHanna, I know who your investors are.”

  “You do?”

  “Yes. You’re the paymaster of an Iranian covert operation in the U.S., which moved millions of dollars to and from the U.S. to finance secret operations of Iranian intelligence services, and to support terrorist organizations.”

  He became so pale that I though he’d faint immediately. I leaned toward him. “Mr. McHanna, I hope you realize that under the Patriot Act, what you did could get you the death penalty by lethal injection in a federal prison.”

  Before I could move, McHanna vomited on me and on his own clothes. It smelled terrible—he must have eaten the carcass of a skunk after he was brought in. Was that the kind of food they served there? I calmly took a tissue from my pocket and wiped the slime off my face and clothes, remaining in my seat.

  “Look at me,” I said. “I’m the only one who can help you out of this mess. Tell me where our guy is.”

  “I want a lawyer,” he suddenly said. “I’ve got rights.” “Do you know what is going to happen if your Iranian bosses discover you were skimming off the top? I hardly think they’ll like it.”

  “I didn’t steal anything.”

  “Right,” I said. “It was actually Papadimitriou who transferred money to his personal bank account in Greece, and it so happens that Niarchos Alexander Papadimitriou looks exactly like you.”

  “This was money I was entitled to.”

  “Don’t expect me to believe that,” I said. “Your Iranian friends will like even less the fact that you killed their agent who suspected you. U.S. prisons are safe places, but you know, anyone really determined could get to you even there. Shit happens.

  “Look, I know you killed Christopher Gonda—that is, Reza Nazeri,” I suddenly said.

  McHanna didn’t answer. He was as pale as a sheet of paper. I took a step back. I wasn’t going to let him vomit on me again.

  “The man you are looking for is in Sydney, Australia,” said McHanna faintly. “During recent years he used the name Herbert Goldman.”

  “Where can I find him?”

  McHanna hesitated.

  “If you don’t tell me, then I’ll assume it’s just another lie. Or maybe you had him killed?”

  “No, no,” he protested. “Look in my personal address book. Your men seized it when I was brought here.”

  I remembered looking through it and not seeing any reference to Goldman. “Under what name did you list his number?”

  “Norman McAllister.”

  “And the number is in the address book? Is there an address as well?”

  “No, just the phone number. It’s in code. You have to add numbers to get the correct telephone number.”

  “What’s the code?”

  “Add one to the first number, two to the second number, three to the third, and so on.”

  “Tell me when you spoke with him last.”

  “A week ago.”

  “What did he tell you?”

  “He wanted me to send him money and a passport.”

  “Did you?”

  “Yes, I wired him $3,000 through Western Union. I had no way of getting him a passport.” McHanna buried his head between his soiled hands. “I want a lawyer,” he repeated faintly.

  “Do you want to make a deal? Is that it?”

  “Maybe.”

  “I’ll get you a lawyer.” I left the room, and asked the agent to assume control. I went to the men’s room to wash up. There wasn’t much I could do. I used the industrial-strength soap and water to wash my hands and my face and the stains off my clothes, but the soap smell just got mixed with the sour smell of McHanna’s vomit.

  I returned to Hodson’s office. They were still sitting there when I entered, together with the jet stream of smell, courtesy of McHanna.

  “What happened? You smell like shit,” said Holliday, stepping a safe distance away from me.

  “McHanna doesn’t seem to like the menu here,” I said wryly. “And I took his complaint.” I went on, “He wants a lawyer, probably to make a deal.”

  “What does he have to offer?”

  “You’d better watch the video. For one thing, he didn’t flatout deny my theory that he was heading the financial arm of an Iranian clandestine operation here, moving millions to finance terror. Next, he conceded that Ward, Farhadi, Whitney-Davis and Goldman—our Chameleon—were the same person. Look in his address book under Norman McAllister for the Chameleon’s number.” I gave them the code.

  “I’m sure more details will come in McHanna’s full account,” I continued. “It’s looking like he wants a plea bargain. Between all this and Reza’s statements, he’ll be locked up forever.”

  “What statements?” Hodson sounded surprised.

  “Reza sent his mother three letters and asked her to keep them in a safe place. She kept the letters in an envelope together with other personal stuff he had left behind. She showed me the envelope, and there I found the first lead to Reza’s connection to Al Taqwa. I borrowed the letters and had them translated.”

  “Borrowed?” asked Holliday, catching the word immediately. “You said they were personal. Did his mother let you take them?”

  He knew me well. “Well, she showed them to me, and I borrowed them.”

  “Without letting her know?” asked Bob.

  “I’ll return them,” I promised. “But anyway, Reza wrote to his mother that McHanna, the head of a financial institution in New York where Reza had been working, was stealing from the company, and when Reza confronted him, McHanna threatened his life. Apparently McHanna kept his promise, although he didn’t confess doing it yet.”

  Holliday told me what they’d learned after sending “Dan Gordon’s law partner” to look for additional documents in the Swiss bank archives. “We found documents establishing that Nazeri was a
member of Atashbon. He’d first used Christopher Gonda’s name, and as of 1988 used the name Philip Manteau. He was actually functioning as McHanna’s boss, but disguised as an employee.”

  “Were all three letters saying the same thing?” asked Hodson. “Only two. The third one hinted about the possible fate of the Chameleon. It only said that McHanna was nervous about recent developments, and that he even told his employees that if they ever reported on him, he would get them. I think Reza sent these letters to his mother as an insurance policy. Maybe he didn’t trust Atashbon command’s protection that much.”

  I got up. “I’m going home to wash up. Even I can’t stand myself any longer.”

  Back home, my happiness at the developments couldn’t distract me from how ill I felt. Was it the vomit that McHanna dribbled on me? I checked my temperature—it was 101.9°F. I took two Tylenols and fell on my bed. I slept on and off for eighteen hours until the fever subsided, but I was still aching. All of the travel and adventure was catching up to me. I remembered my mother saying that after a certain age, if you don’t wake up aching in every joint, you are probably dead.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Two days later I was asked to attend a meeting at Hodson’s office. Casey and Holliday were there as well. Hodson pulled out a white envelope. “This is for you.”

  I put it in my pocket.

  “No,” said Hodson. “Read it now.”

  I opened the envelope. It contained a letter from the assistant secretary of defense.

  Dear Dan,

  On behalf of the United States, I wish to thank you for your contribution in unveiling the sale of long-range cruise missiles to Iran. Maintaining the military supremacy of the United States and disarming rogue nations guarantees our national security. Your efforts were an important step towards fulfilling that goal.

  “What the hell is he talking about?” I was really surprised. “I had no connection to any information on Iranian missiles.”

  “You missed a lot while you were in isolation,” said Casey. “The pieces are all falling together. Ukraine has confirmed that twelve of its cruise missiles were sold to Iran and six to China. However, when it became public, the Ukrainians claimed that the sales were unauthorized. They also claim that private businessmen sold Iran twelve X-55 cruise missiles, which are known better as Kh-55s or AS-15s.”