The Chameleon Conspiracy (8 page)

During my Mossad days, the standards and practices were different regarding the use of passports. Admittedly, though, times
were also different. Things that were acceptable in the early seventies may be no-no’s now, and vice versa. I still remembered
Alex, my Mossad academy instructor, lecturing on the various uses of passports:

We grade passports according to the security they afford the user—best, second, action, and disposable. The best passports,
which are at the top of the list, are genuine passports with real people’s names that could survive a police check in the
country of origin. The second-quality passport is also a genuine passport. However, there’s no real person to match the bio
page. The third type is an action passport that could be used while performing a quick job—concluded in a matter of days—
in a foreign country, but that’s it. We can’t use it to cross national borders, definitely not through airports. The least
valuable is the disposable passport. This one’s usually hot, meaning that it was either lost or stolen and therefore probably
appears on most police watch lists. The best part of that passport is its cover, because it can serve its purpose when you
need only to flash it. Obviously you can’t use it as an ID, unless you opt to be stupid, depriving a village somewhere of
an idiot.

Apparently, the hotel employee at the desk wasn’t a geography maven, because he didn’t even blink at my passport. I had already
made up a “legend,” a cover for why I don’t speak Dutch, or why I was so much lighter than my supposed countrymen, not looking
like the citizens of Dutch Guiana—now Suriname—who have much darker skin than mine. If asked, I could simply say that my
father was a doctor, an eye specialist in tropical ailments, and I was born in Dutch Guiana when he was sent by the UN to
help fight eye disease. Nationality? I don’t really have one. At the age of four we moved to Switzerland. I studied in South
Africa and Canada. My father was born in Germany to a Swedish father and a Czech mother; my mother was born in Hungary. Her
father was Romanian and her mother Greek. My parents escaped their countries just when World War II started. That legend usually
does it and has always satisfied people’s curiosity.

I also knew that being born in Dutch Guiana didn’t by it-self
confer citizenship. You needed one parent or grandparent with citizenship through whom you could claim it. If pressed, I’d
have come up with a Dutch grandparent for the purpose. But I’d never needed to. In my wallet I also carried a Dutch Guiana
driver’s license and a genuine Visa credit card issued to Peter Helmut van Laufer by one of those offshore banks that don’t
ask too many questions about your true identity or the source of the money you’re caching away, as long as you don’t ask them
why they charge an annual fee of $750 for the card. I also had another camouflage passport of another non ex is tent country
carrying my real name, as well as my genuine official U.S. government and tourist passports, just in case a suspicious banker
called the local police.

If that happened, I could say,
Oops, sorry, wrong passport. It’s my old name, legally changed. Here’s my other passport.
I’d choose whether to flash my other camouflage passport, or, if push came to shove, and only as a last resort, my U.S. tourist
passport, hoping I’d be allowed one phone call to the U.S. consul. The amount of explanation I’d have to offer the consul
would probably exceed the amount of money suggested by a local policeman as contribution to shore up his personal finances
and smooth things up. Never would I show my official passport. That could guarantee a free ride to jail in any country that
regarded intelligence as the exclusive prerogative of that country’s government. Violators go to jail, and the guaranteed
result would be the size of the scandal, not whether it had actually erupted.

The hotel’s lobby was half empty. I leafed through the local Yellow Pages and called Peninsula Bank, using my mobile phone.

“I’m the business manager of
Wild Nature and Adventure
magazine, based in South Africa,” I said. “We plan to establish a small office in Islamabad. I’d like to open an account
with your bank.”

“Of course, sir. Please come to our branch. We’ll be happy to assist you.”

I took a cab and landed at the manager’s desk in thirty minutes.

“I’m very pleased to meet you,” said the manager, a heavy-set, middle-aged man with jumbo ears and piercing black eyes. He
wore a three-piece wool suit with a chained gold watch tucked in the vest’s pocket. Hell, I thought, this isn’t London circa
1930, it’s Islamabad in 2004, and it’s hot in here.

He shook my hand. “My name is Rashid Khan.” I looked at him thinking that for him, the happy hour is a nap.

I gave him my business card—Peter Helmut van Laufer, with an address in Amsterdam.

“This is our temporary European office, which we are closing next week. There isn’t too much wildlife in Europe anymore,”
I said with a smile. “So, for the time being let me give you my number in Islamabad: 051 991 6687.” He wrote it down on my
business card. “We intend to open in Pakistan our regional office for Asia. Until I have Pakistani incorporation papers for
our local company, perhaps I should open a temporary personal account.”

“No need to wait, sir,” said Rashid. “I can open an account for the magazine immediately. When you receive the certificate
of incorporation, please send me a copy.”

An hour later I had a bank account for
Wild Nature and Adventure Magazine
. I deposited $500 in cash.

It was time to chat. “I need a recommendation for a lawyer who can help us with our local Pakistani needs. Do you happen to
know any lawyer who handles business and intellectual-property matters, and whom you can recommend?”

His eyes lit up. “Certainly, sir, you should call Ahmed Khan,” he said, and pulled a business card out of a drawer. “He’s
very good,” he said, and began praising the attorney’s services.

The recommendation was too enthusiastic,
I thought.

“Thank you, that’s very helpful. By the way, we once employed a photographer in Islamabad, but have lost contact with him.
How do you think I can trace him here? I may have a job for him.”

“Ask Ahmed Khan. He’ll arrange everything for you.” “Thanks,” I said. As I got up to leave I added, “If you happen to hear
the photographer’s name, or, even better, meet him, give him my number.”

“What is his name?”

“Albert C. Ward III.”

“The name rings a bell,” said Rashid. “Maybe he’s a customer.”

“Think so?” I said innocently. “Well, if so, I’m sure he’d be grateful if you gave me his address or phone number.”

A few clicks and gazes into his computer monitor later, he said, “We did have him as a customer, but although the account
is still open, there has been no activity for many years. We locked his credit balance in an interest-bearing account.”

“Was it a big amount?” I tried my luck.

“I’m sorry, sir, I can’t tell you that. But what I can say is that under our bank’s rules we move inactive accounts to a long-term
interest-bearing savings account only if the balance exceeds $500.”

“Oh,” I said. “So you believe he’s no longer in Islamabad?” “I’ve no idea, sir.”

“OK. Just in case, can I have his address?”

“It will do you no good. Our mail to that address was returned.”

There was no point in pressuring him for the address. It would only have aroused suspicion. Why would I be interested in searching
for a person who no longer lived in Islamabad and hadn’t for many years, just to offer him a job? Far more bothersome was
the fact that Ward had left an amount of money in excess of $500 in his bank account, and never returned to claim it. He was
a young man with limited resources. For him it was a substantial amount, so why had he abandoned it? I suggested all sorts
of theories, some improbable, and some gruesome. But I let them rest until I could breathe some life into them.

I returned to my hotel, ignoring peddlers who tried to interest me in everything from souvenirs to dried food. I had dinner
at the hotel’s Thai restaurant, the Royal Elephant. I made sure to ask the waiter for mild food. Although I like spicy food,
the Thai and Indian version of spicy is way out of my league. If you ask for spicy, they give you their version of spicy food,
which burns you on the inside for days. I once ventured to ask for spicy food in India. Three days later, the doctor finally
let me crawl out of bed.

I called Ahmed Khan. It was past seven p.m., but I hoped he was still working. His phone answered after two rings. When he
heard my name, he became very interested, or rather eager. “Yes, Rashid told me about you. I’ll be glad to be of service.”

I invited him to have a drink with me at the hotel.

“No alcohol, sir, I’m sorry. I’d be delighted to have tea, though.”

An hour later, a fat man dressed in a beige suit that was about six months late for dry cleaning walked to my table at the
lobby lounge. “Hello, sir, I’m Ahmed Khan.” He looked to be about forty-five and was even heavier up close.

“I’m pleased to meet you,” I said. For about an hour I told him about the magazine, asking questions I thought would be expected
of a business manager coming to a new country to set up operations. His answers were somewhat vague, and were mostly characterized
by the sentence, “Don’t worry, I can arrange it, I’ve got contacts.” One would wonder why “contacts” were necessary for simple
things such as incorporating a company, renting an office, or leasing a car. The impression I received of Ahmed was that he
was more a “fixer” than a lawyer. I had no evidence, but I had the distinct feeling I could steal horses with him, if the
price were right. I realized of course that such a quality could go in the opposite direction as well. I had to make sure
to play this right.

He then brought up the matter of Albert Ward. “I understand you’re looking for him?” he asked.

“Yes, he was a very good photographer, and I’ve got an interesting assignment for him—that is, if I find him.”

“I’ve got contacts,” he said. “Would you be willing to pay for the information?”

“Well,” I said, “what do you have in mind?”

“It may cost up to $1,000,” he said, surveying my face for a reaction.

“That’s too much,” I said. “We don’t need him that badly.” He wasn’t about to let go, and I knew it. The bean counters in
Washington would be all over me if I spent that much money on a tip that might be dry and covered with sixty generations of
spider webs.

“What were you thinking, then?” he said.

“No more than $250,” I said.

“Maybe $400?”

“No. $250. If the information is accurate and I find him, I’m willing to pay $100 more as a bonus.”

The following morning I woke up by the ring of my mobile phone. “Good morning, Mr. Van Laufer. This is Ahmed Khan.”

“Good morning,” I said, rubbing my eyes and looking at my watch. It was almost nine. I had overslept.

“I’ve got information about Albert Ward. Can I meet you in my office?”

“Could you come to my hotel? I need to be here to meet some people.” In fact I had no such plans, but I didn’t trust Ahmed,
and the idea of going into town just to meet him didn’t seem right.

“Sure,” he said. “I can meet you at twelve thirty.”

“Good,” I said. “Meet me at the Dynasty Restaurant at the hotel.”

Ahmed Khan met me at twelve fifteen as I was crossing the lobby to buy a newspaper. We sat at a table in the corner. I looked
at him, waiting for the news.

“Albert Ward left money in his bank account at the Peninsula Bank,” he said. I was motionless.

“How much?”

“Around $2,000.”

“So?”

“He never came back for it.”

“I see,” I said. Ahmed Khan was selling me recycled information he had probably received from Rashid.

“The last transaction he did at the bank was to buy Iranian rials; he used $200 to purchase them.”

“So he went to Iran? Then I guess I’ll have to give up on him.” I was acting indifferent, but in fact this information made
my heart go ballistic.

Ahmed wasn’t deterred. “I think I know where he went.”

That certainly aroused even more interest, but I wasn’t about to show it, or the price would go up immediately.

“Where?”

“To Tehran.”

“How do you know?”

“I’ve got sources.”

I wasn’t about to cross-examine him over that. He’d have to give me something better for my $250, and he knew that.

“Do you have an address in Tehran?”

“Yes.”

“Current?”

He hesitated. “I don’t know, it could be. Please remember, Mr. Van Laufer, that he went to Tehran twenty years ago. He may
have moved since.”

“So what good is it for me to have a twenty-year-old address? I need him now.”

“I can make some phone calls,” he said. “OK, please go ahead. I’ll be around.”

Ahmed called me in the afternoon. “I have developments,” he said. “But I’ll have to pay my source $300, and that will leave
nothing for me.”

“What’s the information?”

“I’ll know more if you agree to pay the $300, and the $250 for me.”

“OK,” I said in feigned surrender. “Fine. Ward is really a great photographer.”

“I’ll come to night for the money,” he said.

“Well, you’ll have to bring the information as well. It’s not my personal money, it’s the magazine’s, and I must account for
it.”

At six thirty Ahmed appeared, unannounced. He was excited. “I think something strange has happened,” he said.

“What?”

“Albert Ward arrived in Tehran on an invitation of Professor Manfred Krieger, who headed a German archaeological team for
its excavation work in Tal-e Malyan. There were rumors of buried golden treasures of the Parthians and the Sasanians.” He
went on and on. A class in history is usually interesting, but not at that moment. However, it was no time to demonstrate
my impatience.

“How long did he work for them?”

“They signed him up for three months and paid his first month’s salary of $500 in advance.”

“Why would they do that?”

“I don’t know,” he said candidly, and it was the first time I believed a sentence he said. “This was shortly after the Islamic
Revolution, and as an American he was probably afraid to go there, or at least to go and not be paid. So maybe this is how
they made him come.”

Again, it seemed to me that Ahmed’s information had come from the same source: Peninsula Bank, and Rashid, its manager. I
smelled a rat.

He brought his head closer to me, as if telling me a secret. “I think he was lured to Tehran for an entirely different reason.”

“Oh?”

“The money he received from the German archaeologists didn’t come from Germany.”

“So? Why is it important?” I said casually. “They could have paid him from their account in Tehran.”

“They could have. But the money came from Lugano, Switzerland.”

“This is too much detective work,” I said waving my hand in dismissal. “I’m just trying to help my magazine. Maybe I should
let this thing go.”

“As you wish,” he said, clearly disappointed. “But if I were you, I’d look deeper into it. There might be a story behind it,
although not for a magazine about wildlife, but for a news magazine. You could investigate it and end up with an interesting
story.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that after Ward left Islamabad, there were three attempts by the transferring bank in Switzerland to reverse the money
transfer and get the money back, claiming that the transfer was made by mistake.”

“Did the bank in Islamabad ever return the money?”

“No. Since it was already in Ward’s account, there was no way of doing it without Ward’s consent or a court order. And neither
was obtained.”

“I see,” I said, trying to figure out how these bits of information fit into any of my theories. When I didn’t respond, Ahmed
tried to ignite further interest in me. “Do you know who the bank that made the transfer was?”

“No. How would I know?”

“Al Taqwa Management, a Lugano-based financial institution.”

“Who are they?” I asked, although the name rang a bell.

“All I know is that they have ties to terrorist organizations.” “Oh,” I said. “I should stay away from this matter then.”
Ahmed gave me a long look. “OK, then can I have my money?”

I gave him $300. “Please sign a receipt,”

He quickly wrote down a receipt on a blank piece of paper. “I’m giving you only $300 because you didn’t give me a current
address, but still it’s more than the $250 I promised you.”

Obviously he didn’t like that, but I threw in an incentive. “If you find him, I’ll still be thankful. Anyway, we should talk
about the main reason I came here, the incorporation of a company to publish our magazine. I’ll call you this week.”

Time to go back to the embassy. This matter was getting into areas outside my original assignment. I called Ned Applebee.

“Abdullah will come to your hotel to bring you over in thirty minutes,” promised Ned.

Abdullah was as good as Ned’s word. I was in Applebee’s office in less than an hour.

“Any success?” he asked, though somehow he didn’t sound too interested.

“The person I’m looking for left Pakistan twenty years ago with more than $500—probably around $2,000—deposited in his bank
account, and never returned. Before leaving he bought $200 in Iranian currency. A source told me he was allegedly invited
to Iran by a German archaeological team, which paid him $500 in advance for one month of photography work, and he vanished.
Several years later, a bank attempted to reverse the transfer, saying that it had discovered during an audit that a predecessor
bank made the transfer as a result of fraud and wanted the money back. The Pakistani bank refused.”

“Interesting,” he said, looking out his window. He couldn’t have been less interested.

“I’m told that the institution that wanted the money back is located in Lugano, Switzerland.”

“The fact that it’s in Switzerland doesn’t by itself guarantee integrity. Crooks are everywhere.”

“I agree, but these guys are big-time.”

“Who?”

“Al Taqwa.”

Applebee sat up in his chair. At last I had his attention. “Nada Management? Are you sure?”

“No, I said Al Taqwa.”

“I know that. But they’ve been known as Nada Management since 2001.”

“I’m sure I heard my man say Al Taqwa Management, but remember, it came from a single source, uncorroborated, and I didn’t
see any documents. Why? Do you know them?”

“They’re backing terror organizations. If you missed reading the intelligence reports about their role, you may have read
about them in newspapers.”

Now I remembered where I’d heard the name.

“I need to get the Agency involved,” he said, meaning the CIA. “The information you get here can be important.”

I had been there before. When my findings had touched on matters of national security and I’d brought it to the attention
of the CIA, they’d taken control over my case immediately, making my own job assignment secondary. I didn’t mind, except it
was time-consuming, and interfered with my own case. However, my job performance at the Department of Justice is measured
by results; any distraction means fewer or delayed favorable results. Due to the ultrasecret nature of my time-consuming involvement
with the CIA, it isn’t reflected in my personnel file, which is brought up for periodic evaluation at the Department of Justice,
so I risked looking like I was under-performing. But I had no choice. The result is that I appear to be performing less effectively
than others in my department. Obviously, David Stone knew about my occasional side activities,
and authorized them. A cautious man, David knew we both played for the same team, and therefore he was covering for me. But
he was about to retire, so what was next? I’d have to explain to the new director. His name had already been announced—Robert
Holliday, who had served as David’s deputy for the past six months.

Half an hour later, a man in his early fifties came into Ned’s office. He was of medium build, balding, with a goatee and
piercing, ice blue eyes. “Hi, I’m Phil Boyd. Tell me what you have.”

I repeated my story and Boyd took notes. “Are you planning to do anything with that information?” he asked.

“Well, I need to find Ward and the $300 million and change it looks like he stole. Seems like he had a string of aliases and
stole from government-insured banks and private investors. Am I stepping on something?”

“Maybe. Nada Management, or Al Taqwa, is on the watch list of every intelligence service in the West.”

“Why?”

“Terror financing. These guys were catering mostly to Muslim clients, and were known for their
hawala
exchange system. Small amounts, from $500 to $1,000, are transferred to other
hawala
in different locations.”

“I know the custom,” I said. “You meet one of their representatives in Europe, give him $500, and another person in the Middle
East will deliver the money to the designated recipient. It’s just like Western Union.”

“Yes,” he agreed. “But with one huge exception. Western Union isn’t involved in money laundering for terror.”

I knew what he meant. A few hundred dollars, multiplied by thousands, added up to significant amounts, without any written
evidence. The Western world was unaware of the hidden potential in the
hawala
system. Rooted in deep religious convictions, the system provides services based on personal relationships and trust. Usually
there’s no collateral, and Western-style accounting is a luxury often done without. Not all the money transferred finances
terror. Far from it.
The original intention of the founders of the custom was to collect money for legitimate Islamic religious and charitable
purposes.

“And Nada?”

“How would you label an organization that takes money from Muslims in Europe, gives no receipt, creates no paper trail of
its transactions—which are based on trust and the use of telephone messages—and sends money into the hands of terror organizations?
Some of it might go into the hands of innocent people, but we have ample reason to believe that these transactions funnel
millions of dollars to terrorist organizations to finance terror.”

“I need to talk to my director at the Justice Department,” I said. “Can I use a secure phone?”

Ned pointed to the room next door. “There, you can use that phone. Just dial the number as if you were in the U.S.”

David picked up the phone. “Hi, Dan. How is Pakistan treating you?”

“Everything’s fine. I’m at the embassy calling you on a secure phone.” I reported my findings and asked permission to go to
Lugano, to see what I could find about Nada Management’s connection to my case.

“The operation was shut down a year or two ago,” said David. Apparently he was more informed than I was. “What can you find
there?”

“David, I went to Pakistan on a twenty-year-old lead and developed promising information, so maybe working on an organization
that was recently closed won’t be that difficult. Anyway, I want to stop by in Israel for a few days. Switzerland is just
in the neighborhood.”

“If you call countries two thousand miles apart ‘in the neighborhood,’ ” said David amusedly. “Let me run it by some people
first. Call me later.”

Abdullah drove me back to my hotel. As I was looking aimlessly through the car windows, a motorcycle passed us on my right
and the rider glanced through my window. I couldn’t
see his face through his helmet. A minute later, another motorcycle passed us on our left, and the rider also looked directly
into our car.

“Turn the car back,” I ordered Abdullah.

“What happened?”

“I forgot some papers at the embassy,” I said, raising my voice just a tad. “Just turn back.”

Abdullah turned the car around and headed back to the embassy compound. I saw the two motorcycles again. This was no coincidence;
they didn’t even make an effort to hide. It looked as though they were even trying to be visible.

I couldn’t take any chances. I remembered well the story of Daniel Pearl, a
Wall Street Journal
reporter, who was murdered execution style after he was abducted in Karachi.

As we approached the main-compound wall, where I could already see the employee parking area at the corner of University Avenue,
a truck blocked our way. I saw the driver just sitting there, with no attempt to turn or park.

“It’s a trap,” I yelled at Abdullah. “Turn around and go to the main gate!”

There was no need for my advice: Abdullah was already doing just that. With screeching tires, he backed up our car. I saw
the two motorcycles again at our side, one cyclist holding a gun. I bent down on my seat to avoid an expected barrage of bullets.
But none came. One motorcyclist tried to block our car from backing away, while the other, holding the gun, motioned to Abdullah
to stop the car. “They’re trying to kidnap us,” I shouted. “Don’t stop.”

Abdullah stepped on the accelerator with might. The car jumped back, hitting the motorcycle riding behind us and throwing
the rider up in the air. Abdullah managed to turn the car, and within ten seconds we were at the compound gate. The Delta
barrier was lowered suddenly and we entered. I wiped drops of sweat off my forehead. “That was close,” I said. “Thanks for
the good work.”