The Red Syndrome (42 page)

"My name is Issam. I hear you made trouble," he said in heavily
accented English. "I'll finish you here if you try anything." He looked and
sounded capable of being good to his promise.

"Why am I here?" I asked.

"I ask the questions, and you answer," he said, his voice rising.
"Understand?"

I nodded and lowered my head.

"Who do you work for?"

"Transcontinental Money Solutions, Limited."

"I've heard that shit before," he said. "I'm going to ask one more time,
who do you work for?"

"I already answered you, Transcontinental Money Solutions, Limited,
a financial services company in Victoria, Seychelles. I can prove it."

After twenty minutes of unsophisticated interrogation, I could evaluate
my interrogator. He was street-smart, but that was it. I crafted my
responses accordingly.

"And I say you are a CIA agent working for Mr. Henderson."

"CIA? No way. I'm wanted by the FBI on money-laundering charges.
You can easily verify that. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if my name and
photo had been posted on INTERPOL Red Notices as internationally
wanted."

Not a bad idea, I thought, as I floated the bold lie. In fact, I wished Eric
and Brian had thought of it earlier. Unlike American law, the laws of
some countries do allow arrest for international extradition based on a
Red Notice. But a Red Notice only says that an INTERPOL member
country wants the named fugitive on felony charges; wants help in
locating the fugitive; would like any member country finding the fugitive
to make an arrest if possible; and will send an extradition request.

Now came the surprise. "I know that," he acknowledged. "We saw your
picture posted, but I think it's a ploy." I was encouraged, because his body
language indicated that he wasn't entirely convinced it was a ploy. He
leaned forward and moved his hands.

So Eric had thought of it after all. My appreciation of him increased
slightly.

"Ploy? I wish," I said matter-of-factly. "If I ever set foot in the United
States I'll be locked up for twenty years."

"Why?"

"Because I helped too many people avoid U.S. taxes. On two separate
occasions indicted individuals made a deal with their prosecutors and fingered me. The U.S. government was more interested in going after the
preacher than after his followers. I'm a wanted man."

"Why did you meet Mr. Henderson?"

I still didn't know what this "Mr. Henderson" meant to them. He didn't
seem to know Eric's first name. Another promising sign. My previous
interrogator hadn't used it, either.

"I met him only once. He wanted to hire my services to hide his assets
from his wife. That's what he told me."

"Mr. Henderson is CIA, didn't you know that?"

"Only because my interrogators in France told me. How would I know?
A guy calls me on the phone and wants my asset-protection services. I
don't ask him for his first name or what he does for a living. Why should
I care? If he has enough money to pay me, then I work for him. Plain and
simple. For all I care he could be a restaurant chef and I still wouldn't
know. I don't even know if his real name is Henderson. Many of my
clients assume new names. If he was CIA, do you think he'd tell me?"

My interrogator kept on, and I gave him the same answers. My impression that my captors knew nothing about me other than my initial contact with Eric became stronger. So the legend the CIA had constructed
had held water after all. I'd expected violence, but none was forthcoming,
or even threatened.

"Tell me about your expertise," he asked again. It had been three hours
since the interrogation had started. I was tired and hungry. My interrogator also hadn't had anything to eat or drink, but he'd smoked half a
pack of cigarettes and blown the smoke in my face. I had the creeping
feeling this was not an ordinary interrogation. They had all the answers;
luckily, they asked the wrong questions. I wasn't being forced to divulge
tactical or strategic information that might assist them in their causes. It
was becoming increasingly clear that they knew very little or nothing at
all about me, and that the only reason I'd been kidnapped was because I'd
been fingered by Zhukov. But if that were all there was to it, I would have
been either killed or dumped. So there had to be another reason why they
were holding me and why they showed such interest in my professional
skills. Maybe Zhukov had given them only half the story.

So were they trying to recruit me? Not a bad idea. Not at all, not for
them, and definitely not for me. I had already demonstrated my corruptibility by directing them to my INTERPOL picture. As far as they were
concerned, it would only be a question of time before I offered my services in exchange for my freedom and maybe some cash.

Given that this was probably where they were going, I allowed Issam to put me through my paces, give a show of my expertise. I explained how
to establish a trust in Liechtenstein and appoint two local lawyers as your
trustees so that they would be bound by attorney-client privilege, in addition to their principality's secrecy laws; how to use a Swiss numbered
bank account; how to use nominees in opening bank accounts; and how
to use the Internet to make financial transactions anonymously.

Issam was very attentive. Too attentive, I thought. He was taking notes.
I wasn't being interrogated, I was being milked. When I sensed where he
was headed, I, through the power of suggestion, led him into posing a
question. This was a slow and subtle process nurtured by the information
I was giving, or hinting at, thereby causing my interrogator to nose
around exactly where I wanted him to.

"What's your connection to your two comrades?"

"Connection? Nothing. I just met them in Libya. Never saw them
before. They were prisoners like me."

"They are spies," he said in contempt.

"Really? I thought they were Hungarian scientists. We talked a lot
about science. The older guy, Istvan, really knows things about biology. I
think he is a professor, and the other guy is his assistant. So I'm afraid you
could be wrong here as well. Why would the Hungarian government spy
on you?"

"Your friends will soon be executed," he said with an evil smile, sending
chills down my back. I said nothing. I knew Issam was closely observing
my reaction.

"Aren't they worth anything in a trade-off? The Hungarian government
will let them die just like that?"

"You could save them, and yourself," said Issam, finally showing his
hand.

"How?"

"You mentioned earlier that you could move money through the
Internet without being detected. We already know all the tricks. If you're
such a big expert, prove it."

"Sure. I could do that. Will you let us go then?"

"No," he said candidly. "But that would delay their execution."

"For how long?"

I was bargaining with Issam. The situation was incredible.

"Until we get a good price for them, or until we just shoot them. It
costs us money to keep you here, food and everything."

Was he on such a budget that he couldn't afford to shell out two dollars for our daily meals? This guy was part of a group that had moved
sixty million. I knew he was bluffing. From this I learned that he was a
poor liar, and that he thought I was stupid. Which usually drives me mad.
Here, it served my interests.

"Frankly," I said, "I don't care who you shoot, as long as it's not me.
What's in it for me?" I distanced myself from the idea that we were a ring
of spies who felt our fates to be tied together.

"Your life," he snapped, apparently surprised I put zero value on Oded
and Arnon.

"I'm going to die anyway," I said, bluffing and telling the truth at the
same time. "I need more than that. I'm worth more to you alive than
dead. There wouldn't be too many bidders for my corpse, except maybe
my ex-wife - but since I stopped sending her alimony checks, my corpse
isn't worth much."

"If you prove useful, we might consider additional incentives for you.
But first you have to convince me that you're as big in your profession as
you say you are."

"How? I'm in a cell in what I'm guessing to be Yemen, and the world's
financial centers don't exactly have branches here."

"I can give you a computer that would connect you anywhere."

"With a modem?" My interest reached a new high, but my face was
bland.

"Yes, a dial-up. If you are lucky you could get connected."

I got up ready to go, but I was sent back to our group cell. Had I been
too enthusiastic?

The reception I received from Arnon and Oded was lukewarm. "Were
you guys interrogated while I was gone?" I asked them.

They shook their heads. So I had been singled out. Was it a coincidence that they'd chosen me to be the first to be interrogated? How did Oded and Arnon feel about it? Was their mixed response signaling something? Were they suspicious of me? I was sure they had talked about it. I
decided not to raise the issue.

The following morning Issam led me to an office on the second floor.
As we passed through the corridor, another door opened and a man
exited. I had a glimpse of a room full of weapons and military equipment.
When we reached the messy office, an old IBM computer with a monochrome monitor was waiting for me.

The piece belonged in a museum, I thought. I turned it on; the
Windows 95 operating system came up. I tested the modem and managed to connect to the Internet on my third attempt. I turned to Issam.
"We're on. What do you want me to do?"

"Show me how to get an anonymous ATM card," he said.

I quickly logged on to a site offering ATM cards that could be used in
sixty thousand locations around the world to withdraw cash or make payments in point-of-sale locations.

"Look at that ATM offer," I said; "you could use it in gas stations,
department stores, and supermarkets, or even trade securities with it. No
ID is required to get the card. You could mail the bank a deposit of five
thousand dollars and have the ATM card sent to you anywhere."

"Continue," he ordered.

"The annual fee is two hundred dollars, while the initial setup cost is
seven fifty." Clearly someone was capitalizing on people's need for confidentiality.

"Fine," he said, writing something in his notebook. "Now show me how
to open a numbered Swiss bank account."

I felt that the more and the longer I talked, the better my chances of
survival grew. "Most of the civilized world's governments have passed
laws against anonymous accounts, where even the banker does not know
the account holder's identity. So if a client is willing to identify himself
before a bank officer, then most banks, particularly those that offer 'private banking' or `wealth management,' don't have a problem calling the
account by a different name or just giving it a number. All bank accounts
have numbers, so what these institutions simply do is remove the owner's name from open records, such as checkbooks or computer databases
available to all bank employees. But when a government agency or a court
wants to know who the real owner is, the bank will divulge his or her
identity in no time."

"So the trick about a `numbered account' is just a ruse?"

"Nowadays, pretty much. But -" I paused, building his expectation.
- there are other ways to hide your identity."

"Tell me."

I hesitated. Was I helping a terrorist organization, or simply establishing the authenticity of my legend? I decided to answer. In any case,
this information was easily obtained, in how-to books or on the Internet.

"Simple. The bank wants to know you are who you say you are. So give
them any identity you can support with documents, such as a passport, or
any another government-issued ID. Some small banks would be satisfied
with less."

"And how do you do that, other than forgery?"

"Many countries' passports are easily available for a fee or following an
investment in their country. Many brokers help you do that. When a foreign government issues you a passport, even if you're not a citizen, give
them the alias you've selected. But don't travel with this passport; most
countries would require a visa, as well as proof of financial means, such as
a pay stub. Use the passport only as identification for opening bank
accounts."

"Show me," he said, and pointed at the computer. I logged on to
www.passportsforanyone.com; the monitor slowly displayed a list of
thirty countries that offered their passports to nonresident aliens. I told
him that just because you had a passport from a country didn't give you a
right to settle in that country. Countries distinguished between citizens,
with their many rights, and passport holders - who simply possessed
fancy IDs.

This time Issam seemed to be really satisfied. He smiled in content.

"Okay," he said, "I think we could do business together. Show me how
I can get a foreign passport under any name I choose."

I gave him a startled look. "It's not that simple," I finally said.

"But a few minutes ago you told me it was easy." He sounded disappointed and angry. The smile was gone. "Maybe you're not such a big
expert after all; maybe the only big thing about you is your ego - and
your mouth."

"Okay," I relented, hoping he wouldn't become suspicious that I had
given in so easily. "First you start by deciding which country's passport
suits your needs best."

"How would I know that? There are thirty countries to choose from."

"You could ask for a brochure from the company that arranges these
deals. It would probably include many more details, like requirements and
pricing. Once you have more information, you could choose. I can help
you with that."

"Fine, ask for a brochure, but don't try anything funny, or you're dead."

"What can I do?" I asked with a shrug, but I knew exactly what I
intended to do.

Again I logged on to www.passportsforanyone.com, clicking on CONTACT US.