The Chameleon Conspiracy (6 page)

David called me later on that day. I told him about Otis’s assassination.

He reflected for a moment and asked, “Do you think Ward is connected?”

“I can’t rule it out. Look at the sequence of events. First she faxes the Rabbi to stop the wedding, then the Rabbi calls
her to verify, then the Rabbi refuses to marry Ward and tells him why, and within days, bang bang bang, and Otis is dead.
Probably silenced either as punishment or to keep her from spilling more. It seems that our case is not dead after all. It’s
very much in motion.”

“OK. Let local law enforcement handle that—we’re only after the money. Anyway, I’ve just got the authorizations. Start packing,
you’re going to Sydney. Your travel documents are on the way. We’ve received the cooperation of the Australian Federal Police.
They have assigned an agent to assist you. His name
is…Hold on, let me get the cable. Peter Maxwell. I’ll give you his number. Call him directly to alert him of your arrival
time, and we’ll take it from there.”

“Peter Maxwell here,” said a friendly voice with a heavy Australian accent, when I dialed his number.

“Hi, Mr. Maxwell, this is Dan Gordon of the U.S. Department of Justice.”

“Hello, Dan, I’ve been expecting your call, and forget the
mister
, just call me Peter.” Peter Maxwell pronounced his name
Pita
. He was warm and open as he brought me up to speed. Goldman was still at large. Border records showed the entry of a Herbert
Goldman, a U.S. citizen, through Sydney’s airport on March 1, 2004. On the immigration form he’d indicated a hotel as place
of stay.

“Which hotel?” I asked.

“No name, just ‘a hotel.’ ”

“I’m planning to come over to see the Australian Federal Police in action,” I said.

“Please come, although I don’t expect a lot of action on this end. Hopefully we’ll find him. But it’s one hell of a big country
down here, mate.”

Three days later I arrived at the Sydney airport. To my huge surprise, all the red-eyed, weary passengers of my flight were
stopped in the terminal’s hallway by uniformed policemen with dogs on short leashes. Without much ado, we were told—or rather
ordered—to form two lines and put our hand luggage on the floor. Nice welcome, I thought, but times being what they were,
it was reassuring in its own way. Policemen then walked two dogs slowly along each passenger line, letting one dog, then the
other, sniff each piece of carry-on luggage. Ten minutes later it was over and we were let go, without even one word of explanation
or apology.

There were ways to look for drugs or explosives, but that one was the most unexpected. I knew they had to use at least two
dogs per line: one dog trained for explosives that sits stock still
and points if it finds them, the other trained to detect drugs by sniffing the luggage. Trainers had discovered that they
couldn’t cross-train the dogs, or the sniffing narcotics dogs might set off explosives. If using both types of dogs, you’d
take the explosives dogs down the line first. Then, if no explosives were found, would come the drug dogs, which could snurfle
to their hearts’ content without setting anything off.

Peter Maxwell, a tall man with a rugged, tanned face and a firm handshake, waited for me in the customs hall.

“Welcome,” he said as he walked me past customs into his unmarked police car. “Was it too tiring?”

“Somewhat,” I answered, deciding not to rant about the sudden search. “Any developments?” I was eager to jump into it.

Peter smiled. “Yes, we found the lad at a Sydney hotel.”

“Is he still there?”

“No. Ten minutes after we started questioning him, he said he was sick and fainted.”

“He actually fainted?”

“You ask me, this bloke is full of shit, but just in case, we admitted him into a hospital.”

“Is he under your watch? This guy can disappear in no time.”

“We’ve got a warrant for his arrest on local fraud charges, so in fact he’s a detainee in the hospital.”

“When can I see him?”

Peter looked at his watch. “How’s this afternoon sound? I’ll drop you off at your hotel, and if you aren’t too tired, you
can walk to the hospital. It’s very close to your hotel.”

When we arrived at the hotel, I checked in, threw my luggage on the floor, and ran out the door. I was dog tired, but I hadn’t
come to Sydney to rest. I had to see Albert C. Ward III right away.

Manhattan, New York, September 11, 2004

Crushed by the fact that I had been wrong about Ward, I had to find a new bearing. I paced through the hallway outside my
office. If the man in the hospital bed wasn’t Albert Ward, then who was he? His denials didn’t impress me. I’d seen con men
in action, and wasn’t about to be convinced by this guy. On the other hand, there was firm scientific proof that he wasn’t
Ward. Had I picked on an innocent person? I still had no idea of what the missing link could be. What about Otis’s faxed letter
connecting Ward with Goldman? Why wasn’t that enough? But until the FBI and the Australian Federal Police cleared this matter
up, I needed to move on. The solution had to be in the file. But where?

I sat down at my desk and opened the file for the umpteenth time. First, I read my notes taken during my conversation with
the high school principal. Ward had wanted to be a photographer for
National Geographic Magazine
. Maybe I should see if he had ever made good on that dream.

“It’d take time to search the archives dating back to 1980,” said a very polite woman when I called National Geographic. “Not
all our freelance photographers are included in our computer database. If the person you’re looking for sold us a photograph
many years back, a manual search would have to be performed.”

“Thanks, but can you please look to see whether his name appears on your computer database?” I asked. It was an absurdly long
shot—lots of kids have dreams—but I had nothing to lose, and I could get lucky.

“Let me see. You said his name was Albert Ward?”

“Yes, the third. Albert C. Ward III.”

I heard her clicking on her computer keyboard. “Yes,” she said. “I think I found something. There’s a series of photographs
taken by a person with that name during a safari in South Africa in 1981.”

“That’s great. Is there an address listed for him?”

“Yes, we sent him a check to Comfort Student Hostel, Sandton Square, P.O. Box 97848, Johannesburg, South Africa.”

Finally I was moving up in time, although just one year. At least I had an address overseas. “Thank you so much. Can you transfer
me to accounting please?”

“Accounting, Lisa speaking,” said a woman cordially.

“I would like to know how a freelance photographer named Albert C. Ward III cashed a check paid to him by your magazine in
1981.”

“And you are?”

“Dan Gordon, U.S. Department of Justice.”

“I’m sorry. You’ll have to subpoena these records. I hope you understand,” she said. “We must protect the privacy of our vendors.”

“No problem,” I said. “I’ll get you a subpoena.”

Two days later I sent her a subpoena, and a week later I had my response. Albert C. Ward III was paid $315 with a check. A
copy of the check’s front and back was attached. I looked at the back of the check. The check was deposited into account number
AZ334465 at the First African Bank, Sandton Square, Johannesburg, South Africa.

The next step was to get my hands on that bank’s records. But a U.S. subpoena would do no good in South Africa; I’d need a
South African court order for that. Just the thought of going through the necessary bureaucratic maze made me dizzy. But first,
I had to check if the account was still active. I called our accounting department and asked them to issue a check in the
amount of $75 made out to Albert C. Ward III, drawn on “Department B’s” bank account. That was our code name for the bank
account of a limited liability company we
had incorporated in Wyoming, whose shareholders or directors couldn’t be traced.

In an accompanying letter printed on our dummy corporation’s letterhead and addressed to the bank, I wrote, “Please deposit
the attached royalty payment check into account AZ334465 of Mr. Albert C. Ward III. We’ve syndicated onetime reprint rights
for Mr. Ward’s photographs, which we acquired years ago, to a U.S.-based publishing company for use in a wildlife calendar.
Our letter to Mr. Ward was returned by mail. We discovered this bank account through the details on the check we initially
paid Mr. Ward. We trust this payment shall be promptly deposited into Mr. Ward’s account.” I scribbled a signature, put the
check in an envelope, put a stamp on it instead of using our office postage machine, and sent it to the bank in South Africa.

Ten days later, I checked with accounting. Our check had just cleared. Accounting obtained a copy of both sides of our check.
The stamp on the back of the check read, “Deposit to account,” and a handwritten number was added: AZ334465.

I called the First African Bank branch manager in South Africa. “I’m the photography editor of
Wild Nature and Adventure
magazine, based in Denver, Colorado,” I said. “A while ago we purchased several photographs from your customer, Mr. Albert
C. Ward III, but we lost contact with him. We now have an important job assignment for him. Would you kindly let me have his
address, or even better ask him to get in touch with us?”

Maybe banking secrecy laws didn’t travel all the way to South Africa, I hoped.

“Let me look,” he said. “We don’t seem to have a current address either. I see that our statements were returned by the postal
service.”

“I have Comfort Student Hostel, Sandton Square, P.O. Box 97848, Johannesburg, South Africa,” I said, trying to inject more
credibility into my cover story.

“That’s the address we also have,” said the manager. “Well, it’s a hostel. Obviously people don’t stay there too long.”

“Maybe you can help me in another way,” I said, stretching his courtesy. “Maybe you can see if he continued to use his account
by drawing checks or making deposits. We really love his work, and the job offer I’m about to make is very lucrative. I know
he’d appreciate any help you could offer.”

“Glad to help,” said the manager. After a moment he said, “We have recent activity in the form of a check in a small amount
that came from the U.S.” That was our check.

“Anything other than that?”

“Well, nothing, in the account, but we did receive an inquiry from the Peninsula Bank branch in Islamabad, Pakistan, asking
to authenticate Mr. Ward’s signature.”

He gave me the branch’s address.

Although the lead was promising, I wasn’t elated. It was almost twenty years old, and searching a nation of over 160 million
for a tourist who had last visited it two decades ago was hardly a plausible proposal. Still, I had to try.

I knew how to hunt, but this prey’s footsteps in Pakistan were long washed away by time. There had to be a way. I was hungry
for the kill, but where could I start? I couldn’t fail again. Usually the last place you look for something is where it was
the whole time. I called my boss and took a deep breath. “David, on a strong hunch and a thin lead, I’m taking my investigation
to Pakistan.”

“How thin is the lead?”

“Like sliced salami, but it’s the only thing I have. Nonetheless, maybe I can develop it further from there.”

“You know the routine,” said David, intuitively trusting my instincts, even after I’d told him how paper-thin my lead was.
“Travel authorizations. The U.S. Embassy in Pakistan and the Pakistani government have to give you the go ahead.”

Under the federal “Chief of Mission” statute, federal government employees could operate in a foreign country only with the
U.S. ambassador’s consent. Therefore, the U.S.
Embassy could assign an embassy control officer to be present during all my activities. Normally an embassy chaperone for
my contacts with locals irritated me to no end—sources could be as silent as a house-trained husband in the presence of a
foreign diplomat—but the deterioration of security in Pakistan made me less resistant.

“OK, let’s do the routine.”

David tried to hide his surprise.

“What’s the matter?” he asked. “You usually grumble when I raise the bureaucracy involved in foreign travel.”

“I’ve learned to live with it,” I said. It was kind of awkward. David was right. I usually complained about that bureaucracy
when trips to sunny locations and paradise islands were concerned, probably because it unnecessarily delayed my departure,
but now I was compliant when a trip to Pakistan was concerned? Maybe I was happy to go to resort areas without any delay,
but going to Pakistan nowadays isn’t exactly a fun trip, particularly if you’re an American. Usually it doesn’t take much
to make me professionally happy: catch an absconding con man with his multimillion-dollar loot in a sunny resort; find a cooperative
bank manager in an offshore location who will spill on his clients for less than $1,000; or get a call from my boss telling
me he got praises for my work, not just complaints I was cutting corners. But as always in life, miracles happen to others.
I get reality.

Five days later, formalities were completed and Esther gave me the airline tickets. “Be careful out there,” she said in her
motherly voice. Esther was a very pleasant African-American woman in her early fifties with gray streaks in her black hair,
which gave her a dignified appearance that perfectly matched her personality. I was constantly telling her she should go to
law school, with her methodical and sharp mind.

“Don’t buy any food from street vendors,” she continued, knowing my penchant for food adventures. “We don’t want you back
here on a stretcher.” I remembered the time I’d eaten nearly-raw hamburger in a remote town in Southeast Asia that
gave me a five-foot-long tapeworm that took months to get rid of.

I looked at the ticket folder. I was leaving the following morning on American Airlines flight 132 to London Heathrow Airport,
continuing on British Airways flight 6429 to Islamabad, arriving the day after at six a.m. I inserted into the folder my vaccination
card showing I had received hepatitis A and typhoid vaccinations. Esther handed me a printed form. “That’s the current travel
advisory issued by the State Department,” she said. I glanced at the memo.

The Department of State continues to warn U.S. citizens to defer nonessential travel to Pakistan due to ongoing concerns about
the possibility of terrorist activity directed against American citizens and interests there.

The U.S. Embassy in Islamabad and the U.S. consulates in Karachi, Lahore, and Peshawar continue to operate at reduced staffing
levels. Family members of official Americans assigned to all four posts in Pakistan were ordered to leave the country in March
2002, and have not been allowed to return. Al-Qaeda and Taliban elements continue to operate inside Pakistan, particularly
along the porous border region. Their presence, coupled with that of indigenous sectarian and militant groups in Pakistan,
requires that all Americans in or traveling through Pakistan take appropriate security measures.

Esther grinned. “Still wanna go?”

“Even more so,” I said. I made quick arrangements for Snap, called my two children at their colleges just to let them know
I’d be overseas for a while (they were quite used to it by now), and took a cab to JFK Airport.