The Chameleon Conspiracy (7 page)

I arrived in Islamabad together with the first rays of the rising sun. The streets were already bustling with cars, buses,
taxicabs, and bicycle riders. The sidewalks were crammed with pedestrians, most of them dressed in the Pakistani traditional
garb, men in
salwar kameez
and women in burkas.

“Mr. Gordon?” asked an overweight Pakistani man in his early forties wearing a khaki safari suit.

“And you are?”

“My name is Abdullah, sir. I’m a U.S. embassy driver. I’ve instructions to drive you.”

“Where to?” I hadn’t been expecting him.

“To your hotel first, sir. Your meeting at the embassy is not until noon.”

“Can I see your embassy ID please?” You could never be too cautious, particularly considering where I was.

“Of course, sir,” he said matter of factly, and showed me his embassy photo ID. I followed him to an unmarked embassy car,
and we drove in silence to the Marriott Hotel on Aga Khan Road.

“I can get to the embassy by myself later on,” I told him. “I need to get some rest first. I had a very long flight.”

“I understand, sir, but my instructions are to drive you,” said the driver. He explained that the RSO—regional security officer—
had requested that no U.S. government officials use the city’s transportation. “You know, sir, personal safety isn’t what
it used to be,” he added with a sigh, wiping his forehead with a handkerchief. Although it was barely eight o’clock, the temperature
was already 95°F, and the humidity high.

“Fine,” I said. “I’ll meet you at the hotel lobby at eleven thirty.”

I freshened up and waited for Abdullah, who was twenty minutes late. “I’m sorry, sir,” he said. “Bad traffic.”

I entered the car. “Where are we going?”

“The American Embassy is on Ramna Street, in the diplomatic enclave of Islamabad.”

After passing the security checks and passing through the lowered Delta barrier, I entered the embassy compound, which would
be more accurately described as a fortress. But once inside, I felt as if I were in a country club. Beautiful gardens, an
Olympic swimming pool, tennis courts, a restaurant, and a small baseball field. The embassy main building seemed to be rather
empty. I saw only a few embassy staff. “The RSO is expecting you,” said Abdullah. “He’s on the third floor. I’m restricted
from that floor.”

“Ned Applebee,” said the RSO, a well-built blond man in his early thirties, as he nearly crushed my fingers with his handshake.
We sat in his small office. “Welcome to Islamabad. Sorry I can’t offer you anything to drink. All nonessential staff has been
sent home, and I haven’t figured out how to restock that goddamned coffee machine. All we’ve got is soda. Anyway, the legal
attaché wants to see you as well. He’ll be joining us in a few minutes.”

“That’s all right, “I said. “Any diet soda will do.” I followed Ned to the hallway and took two cans from the vending machine.

“Let’s move to the bubble,” suggested Ned Applebee. We walked over to a sealed and secure room, a must in any embassy where
there are always ears on the other side of the wall. Such rooms are soundproof and windowless, with just a desk and chairs,
where no electronic equipment such as computers or cell phones is allowed. They are mostly used for top-secret conversations,
in the hope that no eavesdropping will be possible.

“I’m here on assignment looking for a U.S. citizen, Albert C. Ward III, whom we suspect of major bank fraud. His footsteps
led me here. He could be using aliases.”

“I saw the State Department’s cable,” said Applebee. “Did you ask for the Pakistani government’s help?”

“Not at this time,” I said. “It’s too early. First I need to make sure I know who the players are.”

He looked at me, surprised, but said nothing. There was no point in going into details, though luckily it didn’t seem to bother
him. “My first stop needs to be Peninsula Bank. Any contacts there?”

“Not officially,” he said cryptically.

“And unofficially?”

“You could make new friends here easily,” he said with a smile. “People like to be friends with rich Americans.”

I gave him a quizzical look, but he just smiled and added nothing.

“Like all other Third World countries?” I pressed, trying to catch his drift.

“Only in some aspects,” he said. “Just be careful. Anything else I could do for you before we start discussing my business?”

“No, thanks. Maybe I’ll need more help as I develop my leads. What do you have in mind?”

“Security instructions,” he said. “I don’t have to remind you what’s going on here, though I will. The place is crawling with
Al-Qaeda and Taliban, no matter what the Pakistanis say or do. Out of all America’s embassies, probably only Iraq and Afghanistan
are more dangerous.”

“Do they really try?”

“You mean the Pakistani government? Depends on whom you ask. They’re very helpful, but only to an extent. They have tremendous
pressures from all sides, particularly from within. We’re not too popular here, so I suggest you exercise maximum caution
and take prudent measures. That means a strong security posture, being aware of your surroundings, avoiding crowds and demonstrations,
keeping a low profile. I’d also suggest changing around the times and routes you tend to
travel. And lastly, call me immediately if you feel like you’re in danger.”

“I’ve fought wars,” I said in a defensive tone.

“This is worse. In war you know who your enemy is and its general location. Here you don’t know anything. They’d love to kidnap
rather than kill you. You’re worth much more if you’re still breathing than as a motionless corpse.”

My stomach moved.

“Are you planning a trip north?”

“I’ll go anywhere I can find Ward.”

“Well, if he’s in the northwest provinces, then forget it. I suggest you don’t go. We urge all American citizens to avoid
travel to the tribal areas of Pakistan’s Northwest Frontier Province. Anyway, the Pakistani government requires all persons,
other than Pakistani and Afghani citizens, to obtain permission from the Home and Tribal Affairs Department before visiting
these tribal areas. These regions lie outside the normal jurisdiction of the Pakistani government.”

“I haven’t got any plans now, but what does that mean?”

you’re prey,” he said drily. “Even within its borders the Pakistani government can’t guarantee your safety, but in these northern
regions, you’ll be walking into sure trouble. Just forget it.”

I nodded, hoping Ward had taken the same advice. “Next—no public transportation, no befriending of strangers who seek your
company. The best thing that could happen to you is to have your money stolen.” He paused, letting me figure out what the
worst-case scenario would be.

There was a knock on the door, and a slight, darker man with a neatly clipped mustache walked in. “Hi, I’m Don Suarez,” he
said. “I’m the legat.” I recognized the term. Legal attachés stationed in the U.S. embassies are in fact FBI special agents.

“I was just briefing Dan on the security requirements here,” said Applebee.

“Pretty exciting, isn’t it?” said Suarez wryly, sitting down next to me.

“I’ve been to worse places,” I said.

“Just make sure you’re not kidnapped,” said Suarez, as if it were up to me.

“Anything happen lately?” I asked.

“All the time. But it gets the attention of the media only when foreigners are the victims. Stories about local fat cats that
are herded at gunpoint until their family coughs up the money are a nonevent for the world media.”

“Have there been any serious incidents against U.S. personnel lately?”

“Sure, there were several attempts against us,” said Suarez calmly. “There was a church bombing that killed five, including
an American woman from the embassy and her daughter, and a car bomb at the Karachi consulate that also killed fourteen Pakistanis.
In Karachi, police arrested a Yemeni national, Waleed bin Attash, and five other alleged Al-Qaeda members, with three hundred
pounds of explosives. The police told us he planned to bomb the consulate. Every morning we check our cars for bombs. In 2001,
we found explosive devices attached by magnets to two cars of our diplomats.”

“OK,” I said.

He continued. “As for transportation, Abdullah has my instructions to drive you anywhere. We’ve had a ton of unmarked cars,
ever since the evacuation of families and nonessential staff.”

“Can I trust him?”

“He has been a loyal employee for almost ten years, but be careful even with him. You never know. One final thing,” Don said.
“We’ve got plenty of vacant apartments within the compound. We can host you here if you like.”

“Thanks, but I may need to distance myself from the embassy, if I can,” I said. “But I might change my mind later.”

We exited the bubble and returned to Ned’s office. Suarez handed me a mobile phone. “Here, use this. It’s just another item
left behind by departing embassy staff.”

“Is the number traceable to the embassy?”

“No. You top it up with a card. It has no registration. I think it still has about three hours of local talk time. We’ll call
you only on that line, not at your hotel. Same goes with your calls to the embassy: don’t use your room’s phone to call us.”

I was on my way to the men’s room when a siren started wailing.

I heard shouts. “Secure all classified materials. Close all windows; all personnel must now evacuate.”

I ran down the stairs, but the few others who joined me didn’t seem to be in a particular hurry. SUVs were waiting outside
the building with their doors open and engines running.

“Get in, get in,” ordered a marine in uniform.

“Are we under attack?” I asked the person sitting next to me.

“I don’t know,” he said.

Then a bell sounded.

I saw Ned Applebee announcing loudly, “OK, the drill is over, you may now return to your positions.”

I let out a deep breath and approached Applebee. “We are in the epicenter of terrorism,” he told me. “We must be prepared.
There are several threats or actual attempts every day. We live in a cage. See for yourself,” he said, grimly pointing at
the outside wall.

“I can see that,” I said, looking around. The compound was surrounded by brick ramparts topped with razor wire, and reinforced
by steel pillars to stop any car from breaking in.

“This place was built after the previous embassy building was burned to the ground by an angry mob in 1979,” said Ned.

Once Abdullah drove me back to my hotel, I waited for him to leave, checked out, and took a cab. It was in clear violation
of my security instructions, but following strict orders was never my forte. But now these instructions made me realize that
I had to enhance my own security, not breach it. After driving around the city for two hours, I called my hotel from my mobile
phone and made a room reservation for Peter Helmut van
Laufer, from Paramaribo, Dutch Guiana. An hour later I called the hotel again and asked at what time the front desk shift
changed, because I needed to catch up with someone from the morning shift.

“At four p.m., sir,” said the receptionist.

I continued touring Islamabad from within my cab. The city is in fact a nice town surrounded by hills. What struck me most
was the abundance of trees, giving the city a calmer atmosphere. “This is a new city, sir,” said my driver. “Only in 1959
this site was chosen to replace Karachi as the capital of Pakistan. Internationally known urban planners were commissioned
to design the new city. In 1967 Islamabad was officially made the capital.”

“What are the landmarks?”

“There aren’t many,” he said. “There’s the National Assembly Building, and Quaid-i-Azam University.”

I asked him to take me downtown. The change was significant. Hundreds of carts, bicycles, and peddlers were all over. Colors
and smells were strong, giving the place a vibrant presence, as opposed to the too-planned wide streets of the other zones.
I quickly became convinced that Islamabad drivers believe that traffic laws are informational only. The most-used instrument
of their cars is the horn. If you learn to drive in New York City and live through it, with the delivery vans and the yellow
taxicabs, then you may qualify to drive in Pakistan. I wouldn’t be surprised if an Islamabad taxi driver told his passenger,
Take cover, I’m changing lanes.
I repeatedly looked around to see if I attracted any unwanted attention. Other than the children begging at traffic lights,
I noticed nothing suspicious.

At four thirty p.m. I returned to my hotel with the cab, and checked in.

“Welcome, Mr. Van Laufer,” said the smiling reception-desk employee when I told him my name. “How was your flight?”

“Too long,” I said.

“Can I see your passport, please?”

“Sure,” I said and gave him my Dutch Guiana passport. Dutch Guiana ceased to exist in 1975, when it gained independence
from the Netherlands and became Suriname. For a non ex is tent country, the passport I gave him was a work of art. It even
had a registration number and an “official” seal, an authentic-looking cover embossed with gold lettering, and my genuine
laminated photo. Its pages carried many visa and authentic-looking entry and exit stamps from very valid and existing countries.
Unless you were a geography buff, you couldn’t tell the passport and the stamps were faked. It looked like a real passport,
but it wasn’t.

Before going on assignment to Third World countries, or even to Western Europe, when my adversaries are no gentlemen, I assume
a different identity. Due to political sensitivities, most of the time I cannot use a real passport issued by another country,
unless I received it from that country’s government. (If the assignment is for the CIA, it’s a different ball game.) When
crossing borders on routine Department of Justice cases, I always use a very genuine U.S. passport, almost always my standard
dark-blue tourist passport. I have to carry my official U.S. government passport while overseas on official U.S. government
business. But its distinctive dark-red cover is nothing to show when standing in a long line of strangers waiting to pass
a foreign immigration agent. For other identification purposes, particularly when nongovernmental entities are involved, I
resort to second best, passports “issued” by a service carrying names of countries that have changed, or even better, never
existed. What’s the chance that an average hotel receptionist or banker will know that British Honduras is now Belize, that
Rhodesia became Zimbabwe, or that Zanzibar merged with Tanganyika to become Tanzania? With the declining popularity of Americans
abroad, better to be a businessman from Dutch Guiana than a U.S. government agent.