The Chameleon Conspiracy (37 page)

“It was decoded. It belongs to an Australian woman. She told the police that Norman McAllister has rented a small apartment
from her but took off just about the same time you gave us the number. He still owes her two months’ rent. So far, the Australian
Federal Police have no clue. Since you know what the Chameleon looks like and you have the most ‘Chameleon hours,’ we thought
that your presence there could help.”

“Did you try to trace the Chameleon through the $3,000 wire transfer McHanna said he made?” I asked. Maybe not all bases were
covered, and I’d be spared that long haul.

“It was just another lie. There was no such transfer to anyone by that name in the past month. McHanna was bullshitting you.”

I thought it was strange. McHanna didn’t lie regarding the Chameleon’s phone number, but lied on the money transfer. I wondered
why. But said nothing.

“When am I leaving?” I asked, accepting the travel folder. “To night.”

Two days later I landed at Sydney’s airport and Peter Maxwell, the curly-haired Australian federal agent, picked me up.

“Any news?” I asked anxiously as he escorted me through immigration.

“Nothing yet,” he said. “We searched his rented apartment, but nothing was found. His landlady said he was a quiet tenant
and had no visitors, but he was always behind on his rent. She said he left a few short days ago without any luggage, together
with two men who came with a late-model Japanese car.”

“Any more details?”

“Nothing, she just saw them from the back. All she could say was that the car was white.”

“Did you get his phone records?” I was hoping for a clue there.

“He never used the apartment’s phone for outgoing calls, only incoming. She said he had a cell phone, but she doesn’t know
the number.”

“Did you trace it through other means?”

“No,” said Maxwell apologetically. “There were no listings for any of the names we had.”

“Including Norman McAllister?” I asked with a shred of hope.

“Yes, but there’s nothing. It’s quite possible he used a stolen phone or one of these ‘pay as you go’ phones that require
no registration.”

I was exhausted, but after only a few hours of sleep I forced myself to start working.
I’ll rest in my old age,
I promised myself. I had a hunch where to start looking for the Chameleon.

I called Sheila Levi, the legal secretary that the Chameleon almost managed to marry.

She sounded very surprised, but glad to hear my voice. “I was hoping you’d call,” she said in a soft voice. “In fact I wanted
to call you, but I didn’t have your number.”

“I’m here now. Is there something you wanted to tell me?” “Yes. I told you last time we met that I gave Herb Goldman jewelry
I’d inherited from my grandmother.”

“Yes.” I remembered how disgusted I’d been to hear how the Chameleon, posing as Herbert Goldman, had used Sheila.

“Well. He sold them to a jewelry shop near the Rocks. About two weeks ago I looked at the window of that shop and was happy
to see on display a necklace and a ring that I gave Goldman. They were not sold yet.”

“If you want to get them back, you’ll probably need a good lawyer.” I said.

“No, I didn’t mean that. I entered the shop. I know the owner. He’s a member of the Jewish community—he’s a nice person.
I asked him if I could pay him over time for the necklace, hoping to retrieve at least one piece from my grandmother’s gifts
to me.”

“And what did he say?”

“He agreed immediately. I’m paying him $10 a week for sixty-five weeks, and it will be mine again. He was kind to let me have
the necklace immediately. The interesting thing is that he said that Goldman came by his shop last week to sell him more jewelry.”

If I was still tired, I forgot all about it. “Tell me more.”

“The reason I wanted to call you was that I knew you were looking for him. You see, the shop keep er told me that he refused
Goldman’s offer to sell him that jewelry until Goldman could prove ownership. He became suspicious.”

“Why?”

“Because Goldman asked for $500 for jewelry worth at least $1,500.”

“Did Goldman tell the shop keep er he’d be back with proof?”

“I don’t know.”

I called Maxwell and gave him the information.

“It’s a start,” he said. “We have an additional lead. A person answering Goldman’s description has attempted to purchase a
forged passport.”

“Any leads from there?”

“No, it was an anonymous tip to our hotline. We assumed he was unable to leave Australia because his Goldman passport became
useless ever since you exposed his Goldman identity.”

I ran the facts through my mind. It was possible that the Chameleon had unilaterally severed his relationship with the Iranian
intelligence services and had no way of getting another passport. Otherwise he’d have been out of there a long time ago. The
fact that he’d tried to get a passport independently both locally and from McHanna only supported my hunch. Active agents
of foreign countries can be sure that in time of distress, their handlers will extricate them. When that didn’t happen, the
only conclusion was that the Chameleon didn’t contact the Iranians.

“The Chameleon must still be around,” I said.

“The Chameleon?” asked Maxwell in surprise.

“Yes, that’s the name I gave him.” I went on to give him the limited scope of information about the Chameleon’s ties to Iran
I was authorized by Holliday to divulge to the Australians. “I think that even while still in the U.S., the Chameleon panicked
and was sure that the FBI was on to him. He needed to escape. Of course, if he’d asked to be returned to Tehran, they would
have smuggled him back. But since he didn’t, and based on our interrogation of another suspect in the U.S., I think the Chameleon
had decided on going in de pen dent, without telling the Iranians. He simply obtained a false passport under the name of Herbert
Goldman, a thirteenth alias, and decided to go to Australia, hoping that the FBI wouldn’t trace him and
that Tehran would ultimately forget about him. That by itself is a cause for concern for any intelligence service, because
independents try to market the goods they have to anyone that will buy them—in this case, information about his previous
employer.”

“We know about the Iranians’ reaction in these instances,” said Maxwell without elaborating.

“I’m sure the Chameleon obviously knew of the Iranian intelligence services’ policy to save on pension payments to self-declared
retirees, by moving to entitle their families to some death benefits instead. We suspect he went in de pen dent in Australia,
because he called a contact in New York seeking a passport and money. The man who’d conned millions out of banks and investors
remained penniless. He had to resort to petty crime and defrauded Sheila Levi, that poor secretary he’d promised to marry.
He hinted to his New York contact that the FBI may have received information from the Australian Federal Police that had traced
him in Australia.”

“It could be just disinformation the Chameleon was giving that person in New York, probably to obtain his cooperation,” said
Maxwell dismissively.

“You are right,” I answered. I couldn’t tell Maxwell that McHanna had a direct interest in keeping the Chameleon quiet. Temporarily
or permanently.

I felt tired. The twenty-four-hour travel between the U.S. and Australia had taken it’s toll on me. I returned to my hotel.
When I woke up there was a coded message from Hodson on my laptop.

The following is additional information obtained from McHanna during his interrogation; be aware that it has not been corroborated.
McHanna alleged that the Chameleon had told him during the telephone conversation that was earlier disclosed to you, that
he (the Chameleon) had a lot of money hidden in Switzerland, probably a commission he paid himself each time he stole on behalf
of the Iranians. McHanna also said that the Chameleon couldn’t get
to his money, because it was kept in cash in safe-deposit boxes in Switzerland. That made wiring the money impossible.

That’s very interesting,
I thought. McHanna lied to me regarding the wire transfer to the Chameleon and now he tells the FBI that the Chameleon has
a safe-deposit box in Switzerland? That wasn’t earth-shattering news. The Chameleon had to keep his money somewhere. For me,
the things that the Chameleon didn’t say in that connection were far more interesting. My conclusion from McHanna’s statement
was that the Chameleon was totally dependent on him. I was sure that McHanna couldn’t risk the Chameleon talking. That would
endanger McHanna’s freedom if the FBI found out what he did, or his life, if the Iranians discovered he’d betrayed them and
killed their agent. No, I concluded. McHanna doesn’t want us to find the Chameleon alive.

I called Peter Maxwell and discussed my conclusion with him. “Can you get your people in the street to listen to vibrations?
I think the Chameleon’s life is in danger.”

“We already have all our intelligence sniffers on the alert,” he said.

I sent Hodson a coded message.

I have a problem with McHanna’s story. Did he really have that conversation with the Chameleon? And if he did talk to him,
did the Chameleon request help? If so, did he give McHanna his location? How was McHanna supposed to send money or a passport
without an address? The Chameleon obviously knew that McHanna also worked for the Iranians. Wasn’t he afraid that McHanna
would turn him in?

A few hours later I received Hodson’s coded answer.

We asked him these questions. McHanna said the Chameleon threatened him that if he went down, he’d
take McHanna with him. Apparently the Chameleon knew about the private nest McHanna was building for himself using the Iranians’
money. But we don’t know if the call actually happened.

I sent Hodson another coded message.

Please interrogate McHanna regarding an attempt on the Chameleon’s life. My suspicion is that if the Chameleon betrayed the
Iranians and killed Nazeri, he’d have no qualms in betraying McHanna. Therefore, I think McHanna would have him killed before
we could get to him. McHanna’s giving us the Chameleon’s telephone number was probably meant to be used as a future alibi.
If accused of arranging the Chameleon’s assassination, he could deny it by asking why would he give us a clue where the Chameleon
was hiding, if he wanted him dead rather than alive and talking?

One minute later, I received another coded message written and sent before my last message to Hodson went out.

Dan, we have another development. McHanna has confessed to ordering Ms. Otis clipped. He said that Otis was married to the
Chameleon and he may have told her something damaging. McHanna confessed that he knew that she had already exposed the Chameleon
as Ward and Goldman to the Sydney rabbi. That was enough, even if she didn’t know about the Chameleon’s Whitney-Davis identity
or the Chameleon’s covert activities and his real name. If the Chameleon were apprehended, then the shit would hit the fan
and the way to McHanna would be short. The Chameleon’s identity exposure was not just a matter between the rabbi in Australia
and Loretta Otis in the United States, two private individuals. McHanna told us that the Chameleon called months ago telling
him that his identity as Goldman was blown. No further security
infraction was necessary to convince anyone in the loop that Otis had to be eliminated.

So Hodson had reached the same conclusion as I had. The Chameleon’s life was short unless we got to him first.

I deleted the messages.

I went to meet Peter Maxwell. He came with a tall, slim, blonde woman in her midtwenties. “This is Gilian Caldwell. She’s
a member of my team.” We shook hands. “Tell him,” urged Peter.

“There’s word on the street that anyone identifying Norman McAllister could make $1,000,” said Gilian.

“Any credence?” I asked.

“Yes, pretty much. We spread that rumor.” She chuckled. “A petty thief came forward and told us that Mr. McAllister has bought
stolen jewelry from him for $150.”

“The same jewelry the Chameleon tried to sell to the jewelry shop?”

“Probably. The thief became scared when he heard there was a bounty on McAllister’s head. He told us he was afraid of getting
accused or involved in this matter. He was out of his league.”

“Of course the $1,000 reward was also a consideration,” said Maxwell.

“Did he tell you where to find McAllister?” I asked. Peter’s phone vibrated. “Maxwell,” he answered. He listened for a minute
and told us in a hurried voice, “Let’s go, a contact has been made.”

When Gilian heard the address from Maxwell she said coolly, “That’s the same address the petty thief gave us.”

We jumped into their unmarked police car and Maxwell drove us to Bondi Junction, an eastern suburb of Sydney four miles east
of the Sydney central business district. When we arrived, the area was buzzing with police activity. A uniformed officer approached
Peter. “Sir, there’s a person who has barricaded himself on the second floor of the house.” He pointed his hand toward a two-story
apartment building.

“Any demands?”

“No. We think he was probably held hostage, but his captors escaped when we arrived. The neighbors called us when they heard
screams coming out of the house.”

“If the captors left, why is the person barricading himself?” asked Peter, and my hope that we were going to find the Chameleon
died. This didn’t seem to be related to our case, so I just stood there letting Peter and Gilian do their job.

A few minutes later Peter came over to me. “We think the Chameleon is inside the house. A next-door neighbor gave us a description
that meets the Chameleon’s physical description. We need to convince him that we are the police and that he can leave safely.”

“Is he armed?” I asked, wondering why the police didn’t storm the house.

“No, but he shouted that he’s holding a can of benzene and a lighter. He promised to burn anyone getting close. We want to
resolve this without anyone getting hurt.”

A policeman came over. “Mr. Maxwell?”