On Edge

by Albert Ashforth

  I nodded. Maybe because I recalled once being a young GI myself, I read Nolda right from the start differently from everyone else. And when I saw his bloated body in the hospital, I was 80 percent positive that he hadn’t killed Pete. When the body disappeared, I was 100 percent.

  Corley said, “It was also clear to me from the beginning that Colonel Hansen’s murder wasn’t a green-on-blue. I was close enough to Colonel Hansen to see that.”

  She’d been close to Pete? How had she managed that?

  She’d arranged for Jerry Shenlee to send someone over to take a closer look. That “someone” turned out to be me. I continued to wonder about her relationship with Pete. Something wasn’t right.

  I said, “Pete was investigating the Kabul Bank fraud. He was getting close to finding out something no one else knew. Why would he have told you anything?”

  She ignored the question by taking a sip of coffee.

  Finally, she said it. “You’re right. Colonel Hansen was close to finding out what no one else knew.”

  She fixed me with her dark eyes. “Or even suspected.”

  “Which was?”

  “He knew that an American had been involved in the bank fraud. In fact, that he’d orchestrated the swindle.”

  We were both silent for close to a minute. So that was it.

  I said, “That was what Pete, but no one else, knew. And that was why he was killed.”

  “Do I have to spell it out for you?” When I didn’t respond, she said, “The Afghans never would have come up with the idea of cleaning out the bank on their own. And if they had, they wouldn’t have had the balls to carry it out.”

  “Someone had to give them the green light.”

  “Yes, and since they couldn’t have figured out how to loot the bank themselves, that person had to show them how to do it.” She paused to take a sip of coffee. “On their own, they almost certainly would have messed up the job. In order to do it right, they needed help. They needed a savvy American.” Again she paused. “Someone from the United States government.”

  “The auditors never mentioned an American. The people who were charged were all Afghans.”

  “Greer was too smart for the auditors.”

  “So while staying in the background, he showed the bank officials how to do it.”

  “I believe so. And he remained in the background while they took the American government for every last dime it had transferred to the bank. As well as every last cent that had been deposited there by their countrymen. A billion dollars. And Greer made sure he got his cut.”

  “Can we prove that? If the auditors missed all that, there’s no way to prove that Greer was involved.”

  “Greer’s name never appeared anywhere in any bank transaction. The bank’s shareholders were given interest-free loans. They used the money to buy property, stocks, and so forth, and to make large currency transactions. Firms headquartered in Liechtenstein and Switzerland did the buying and trading. Often they negotiated through intermediaries, straw men. These transactions were involved and complex. With the straw men working behind the scenes in different countries and unwilling to reveal anything, it would be next to impossible to pin down Greer’s involvement.”

  I said, “But Taraki Hamed knew of the transactions that involved Greer and wrote it all down.”

  “Precisely. Both Colonel Hansen and Douglas Greer wanted what Hamed’s document contained. Hamed, of course, knew its value—and was holding out for as much money as he could get. Once Greer realized that Pete was making trips to Dubai and talking to Hamed, he knew he had to do something.”

  “So he hired Abdul Sakhi to kill Pete and make it look like a green-on-blue killing.”

  “Yes. I hope you can see why I wanted someone—a third party—to become involved in the investigation.”

  I didn’t comment. Why she wanted help with the messy financial situation was now clear enough.

  Realizing how much I knew, I could see I was lucky to have survived.

  But I still couldn’t understand Corley’s role. Why was she so intent on getting the goods on Doug Greer? I knew she had no intention of turning over Hamed’s information to the American government.

  Was it because she loved Pete and wanted revenge? For some reason, I doubted that. I didn’t think she was Pete’s kind of woman. Or was she? What was I missing?

  There was another long silence. With her hand around the coffee mug, she stared at me. Her expression was unsmiling, in fact mildly threatening. I was feeling more and more uncomfortable in Corley’s company.

  Finally, I said, “As luck would have it, I have a lunch date tomorrow with Greer. At twelve thirty.” When she asked, “Where?” I said, “At the Tabard. Do you know it?”

  “Of course.”

  “Greer feels relieved that the trial is over in Kabul,” I said. “He says he’s happy about the guilty verdict.”

  “He thinks he’s home free. He’s still got a lot to worry about. He just doesn’t know it yet.”

  For the next two minutes, we both sat silently. After she’d poured out more coffee, she said, “I think it will be sufficient if you only mention the second trip to Dubai. You needn’t say what we’ve found out.” She again flashed a malicious smile. “He’ll figure out the rest himself.”

  I nodded. I certainly didn’t want to have to be the one to tell Undersecretary Doug Greer that he’d eventually be facing fraud charges in an American court.

  CHAPTER 33

  TUESDAY, MARCH 5, 2013

  “I LIKE THIS place,” Greer said, as he walked into the Tabard Hotel dining room. “It’s homey.” We were seated at a table next to a large window overlooking a small courtyard. Pointing toward the far wall, he commented, “Nice pictures.”

  The waiter approached for our drink orders and Greer frowned before he decided on a martini. I told the waiter I’d stick with water.

  Nodding at the paintings, he said, “I like the abstract stuff. I do some painting. I began with water colors. Lately, I’ve been trying oils.”

  “When do you find the time?”

  “Weekends, Sundays,” he said with a laugh. “That’s about it.” He continued to glance about the room. “This place definitely beats the canteen in ISAF.” Picking up the large menu, he gave it a quick once-over and announced, “I’m having the steak.”

  When the waiter reappeared, I asked for the seared salmon.

  Greer smiled a greeting to two middle-aged women in business suits who could have been government employees, then said, “My other hobby is I like to cook.” He shook his head. “Military dining facilities all seem the same after a while. That’s how I got involved in cooking. I like variety.”

  “How often have you been over there?”

  “More times than I can count. Some visits I do my best to forget.” When I said, “That bad?” he smiled. “Sometimes I want to kiss the tarmac on the runway as soon as we land.” After smearing butter on a slice of dark bread, he said, “The Kabul Bank sure is a mess. But I have to say it’s mostly our fault. I mean our country’s fault.” He paused. “I’m glad those bank people are finally getting what they deserve.”

  “We should know better.”

  “How can you explain the disappearance of over 900 million dollars? C’mon. Like I always say, these are people who don’t have a clue where handling money is concerned. How many Afghans can balance a checkbook?” He rolled his eyes, to emphasize his point.

  “I heard it was more like a billion.”

  Doug waved to the waiter for another martini. “You’re probably right. Why quibble over a hundred million? Where’d you hear that, anyway?” Then he smirked. “I get the idea you’ve got your sources, Alex. This guy you visited in Dubai. Just who was he anyhow? Was he the guy who told you that?”

  “His name’s Taraki Hamed. Does it ring a bell?” Greer was obviously playing dumb. According to Corley, he’d been in contact with Hamed. More than once.

  He shook his head. “All I know is what I
read in the newspapers.”

  “His name was in the newspapers. He’s a former official of the bank.”

  “Wasn’t he charged? I thought we got them all. All guilty.”

  “The Afghan courts are unpredictable, but this time they did a pretty good job.”

  “I still don’t see how this guy escaped prosecution. What’s his name? Hamed?” Greer’s expression went from a frown to a dark scowl. When I didn’t answer, he said, “Well?”

  “Hamed was a vice president of the Kabul Bank, Doug. I’m surprised you don’t know that. He escaped prosecution because he didn’t do anything wrong.”

  Greer’s scowl turned darker when I said that.

  “You’re saying with all that money around he didn’t try to help himself to any? What is he? A goddamned saint?”

  “Just smart. He didn’t want to get the American government mad at him.” When Greer only shrugged, I said, “No amount of money is worth going to jail for.”

  “You’re right,” Greer said. “You can’t spend money if you’re behind bars.” As an afterthought, he added, “No matter how much you have.”

  The waiter arrived at that moment, and we began moving plates to make room for our food. Greer asked for another martini. “The martinis here are great and so are the steaks. Two of my weaknesses.”

  After a couple of bites of steak, he returned to the subject of Afghanistan. “In some ways, I like the country, Alex, don’t get me wrong. But dealing with the people hasn’t always been easy.” After ordering another martini, Greer continued to talk, rattling on between bites of potatoes and steak about his experience as the government Undersecretary working in Afghanistan.

  At points, he began having difficulty finding the right word.

  The four martinis were having an effect.

  When the waiter returned, Greer announced, “The pies here are out of this world.” Then, after asking for the dessert menu, he smiled and held up his empty glass. “You only live once.”

  We were sipping coffee when we again started talking about the Kabul Bank situation. “It’s the biggest bank collapse in history. Can you believe that? And it happened right here under our noses. Yours and mine.”

  “And Pete’s. Pete knew more about how it happened than anyone.”

  “A billion dollars is a lot of loot. So, okay, the money’s gone. What happened to it? Where did it all go?”

  “Only the bank officials know where it went. Some of it went to the Emirates. The bank would lend money to a bank official, who’d use it to buy property in Dubai. Some went to Switzerland, places like St. Moritz.”

  Doug again frowned. “But wouldn’t that be kind of . . . well, obvious?”

  “Obvious only if an individual used his own name. Not obvious if he had a cutout or, let’s say, a firm headquartered in Liechtenstein, where the directors’ and owners’ names aren’t public. They do the buying for him. They buy from another intermediary.”

  “A straw man. A guy who’s paid to move money. Over there, the bankers and businesspeople are good at hiding money.”

  Greer shook his head and was silent for a long minute. Like me, he might have been doing his best to grasp how much money one billion dollars was—and how much it would buy. With his credit card out, he told the waiter he wanted to pay. On the way back out to N Street, I thanked him for the lunch.

  “You’re welcome. Let’s go up to Dupont Circle. I can grab a taxi up there.” After a brief pause, he turned and faced me. “You seem to know quite a bit about how they managed to steal the money.”

  “Only what I could pick up here and there.”

  “Like in Dubai?” Standing on the sidewalk and looking for a cab, Greer said, “What were you doing in Dubai, anyway? What were you trying to find out? I’m curious.”

  “I guess you could say I was playing some hunches and trying to make some educated guesses. I was only following up on what Pete . . . Colonel Hansen . . . was working on.”

  “Which was?”

  “What the auditors missed. Some of it was critical.”

  “And your source was . . .”

  “Taraki Hamed, the former bank official.”

  “You say he was never on the take.”

  “The United States government may, at times, seem careless, Doug, but you know better than anyone. When our government wants to, it’s good at finding out things. Hamed was smart. He knew that sooner or later people were going to want to know what happened.”

  “So?”

  “So he observed what was happening and wrote it all down. Every last transaction. Every last name. From what we can see, he didn’t miss anything—or anybody.”

  When a taxi pulled up, Greer said, “I’d like to continue this conversation. Could you come by for dinner on Saturday evening? I’ll cook.” When I said fine, Greer said, “You like chicken? Strawberries?” Still holding the taxi door, he said, “Make it, say, about seven or a little after.”

  I gave Doug a hand as he climbed awkwardly into the cab. He threw me a quick wave as the vehicle pulled out from the curb and, seconds later, disappeared into traffic.

  After an hour of walking around downtown, my curiosity got the better of me. The three-martini lunch is a beautiful American tradition. But Greer had gone it one better. I called his office.

  “Mr. Greer isn’t available at present,” his secretary said.

  “Is he in a meeting?”

  “What did you say your name was?”

  “Would it be better to call tomorrow?”

  “That might be advisable,” his secretary said.

  I couldn’t be sure, but I had an idea Greer hadn’t made it back to the office after lunch. He definitely would have been wiser not going back.

  Back in Addison Heights, I stopped by Corley’s apartment.

  “How was your lunch?” she asked.

  “Very pleasant. I had the salmon.”

  “That’s great. Is there anything I should know?”

  I shook my head.

  Although I could see that Greer had become very nervous, I decided not to mention that opinion. He wasn’t just knocking down the booze; for most of the meal he’d been talking rapidly, and at times, it seemed as if his mind was somewhere else. He definitely seemed worried. Maybe he sensed the walls were closing in.

  Based on what Bud Withers said, Greer was behind two attempts on my life. And he’d hired Abdul Sakhi to silence Pete.

  He’d worked his way up from the bottom. Whatever he’d gotten in life, he’d earned—or taken. I knew the type well enough. But now he’d taken too much, and he was going to have to figure out how to extricate himself from this mess. Someone as smart and as slippery as Greer would try to find a solution. And I had a feeling he could stand the heat.

  And that was the reason he wanted to see me again. He wanted to find out how much I knew. He wanted to start working his way out of a tight situation.

  I said, “Undersecretary Greer has invited me over for supper on Saturday evening. He lives in Bethesda. He’s a hobby cook and he likes having guests.”

  Corley looked very thoughtful. “I’m impressed. You’re coming up in the world.” As I stood up to leave, she said, “I have a feeling we won’t be needing your services much longer.”

  I wondered just whom she meant by “we” but didn’t ask.

  Later that evening, I received a call from Wanda. When she asked what I was doing, I said I’d fallen asleep on the sofa.

  “I assume you’re not going back to Dubai—or Afghanistan!”

  “Nothing like that. But I am preparing for Saturday.”

  “What’s happening on Saturday?”

  “Doug Greer invited me to stop by his place on Saturday evening. From what I understand, he likes to cook. We had lunch today. Talked about the situation in Afghanistan, naturally.”

  “That’s all?”

  “No, we also talked about the bank situation. Doug’s interested in it. By now, I guess everybody is. The officers were running a Ponzi
scheme to end all Ponzi schemes. With the trial over, they’ll be doing their best to negotiate shorter sentences.”

  “Well, I was going to ask if you wanted to accompany me to a D.C. Summit Meeting. I get regular invitations. One of the generals will be talking. But since you’ve got other plans . . .”

  When I asked if I could have a rain check, Wanda said, “Of course.”

  CHAPTER 34

  SATURDAY, MARCH 9, 2013

  AT A FEW minutes before seven on Saturday evening I turned off the East-West Highway onto Chelton Road. I knew I was somewhere in the neighborhood of the Columbia Country Club, where once, years before, I attended a wedding party. After five minutes of driving, I turned into a cul-de-sac at the end of which was Doug Greer’s place. It was a neighborhood of broad streets, well-tended lawns, and expensive homes. The rain had begun again but was now only a drizzle. A solitary street lamp provided the light on the road.

  I was still fifty yards from the house, and driving slowly, when I saw a line of cars parked on the street. Two vehicles, a police van and an ambulance, had pulled onto the apron in front of Greer’s house. Among the vehicles on the street were two police cars. At that moment, a TV news truck arrived, and with a squeal of brakes, halted in front of the house. A small knot of people, about ten in all, was gathered in front of Doug Greer’s home.

  The flashing red light from one of the police cars was reflecting off the large picture windows at the front of his house.

  What was going on?

  After parking, I walked up to where two policemen stood in rain gear, keeping people off the premises. Crime scene tape ran from a fence post to a tree and toward the rear of the house.

  “My name is Klear, Alex Klear.” I showed some ID. “What’s up?”

  After they’d exchanged glances, the younger policeman took down my name and said, “Next of kin? Are you a relative of the gentleman who lives here?” When I said I was a colleague, he glanced at the older policeman, who only shook his head.