“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.”
Abdullah nodded. “That’s my job.”
Applebee came running toward us. “What happened?”
“I think there was an attempt to kidnap us. How did you know we were returning?”
“There’s a panic button in the car with a direction finder,” said Applebee. “Abdullah must have pressed it. We saw that your car was actually around the corner.”
We went inside to his office. I gave Applebee a full account of the events. He called someone in the building and sent him to check the scene.
“What do I do next?”
“Do you want to stay in Islamabad?”
“No. I’m done here, but I need to wait for instructions from Washington.”
“Anyway, you’ll have to stick around for a day or two until we complete the investigation and work with the local police on that.” I went to the vending machine to get a soda and calm down. I sat on the couch in Applebee’s office, trying to collect my thoughts.
The phone rang. Applebee listened, said, “OK, thanks,” and hung up.
> “Our Diplomatic Security Ser vice agents on the scene reported that the motorcyclist disappeared together with his motorcycle. They just found pieces from a broken red tail light, and skid marks on the road. Nothing else. Did Abdullah hit him?”
“I’m sure of that,” I said. “I saw him flying up in the air. Maybe he wasn’t hurt badly, or he was picked up by a backup team.”
“We’re in touch with the Reporting Centre of the Pakistan Police Ser vice. They’ll investigate.”
“Who are they?”
“Their criminal and political intelligence service. Who were you in contact with in Islamabad?”
“Just two men: a bank manager, Rashid Khan, and an attorney he recommended, Ahmed Khan.”
“Same last name?”
“Yes. I suspect they’re related, maybe even brothers. The lawyer was recommended by the banker, and he sold me information that most likely came from the bank.”
“We’ll get you a place to stay here,” said Applebee. “I don’t think it’d be wise for you to return to your hotel.”
“I guess not,” I said. “Could you send someone to my hotel to pick up my stuff and bring it over?”
I regretted it immediately. If anyone came to the hotel to pick up Dan Gordon’s belongings, the hotel would tell him that I checked out few days ago. I couldn’t tell Applebee that I’d checked in again under a different name. He’d have my neck for violating his security instructions. But it was too late. I needed to mitigate the potential damage.
“Who are you sending?”
“Probably Abdullah,” he said.
“OK, I’ll give him my room key.” I went outside and approached Abdullah, who was sitting in his car, next to the entrance.
“I’ve been told to move into the compound,” I said, handing him my room key. “Please go directly to my hotel room without stopping at the desk, and collect my things. I’ll call the hotel to tell them my assistant is coming over with the room key to remove my belongings, and I’ll settle the hotel bill over the phone.”
Abdullah left, and as I turned to go upstairs, Applebee met me outside. “Let me show you to your new residence. We’ve got plenty of empty houses here. Since 2001, we’ve been singles only. Our staff goes home for family visits. There’s the American Club in the compound, where you can meet other staff members, watch American TV, and have a beer.”
“Thanks,” I said, and followed him to a building nearby. He opened the door on the ground floor. “Here, you should find everything you need. Call me if you have any questions.”
I sat on the sofa bed, glared at the walls and the small wall unit with family photos of smiling children, and thought of mine. I tried calling them using my mobile phone, and on the third attempt I reached Tom, my son, and Karen, my daughter, who was just about to go out the door. I didn’t tell them about my narrow escape just an hour earlier, and we focused on family matters. Tom was just returning to his college, and Karen was about to graduate, but both of them had that vision of the world being at their feet that only the young can claim. Neither held back their enthusiasm, telling me of their plans and what was new in their lives. It always made me feel proud to see that they were growing into strong adults. Of course, we couldn’t speak as freely as we would have liked to. Trained by experience as they are, they didn’t even ask me where I was or when I would be returning.
“I’m going to be back home soon,” I said. It was more wishful thinking than based on reality.
I decided to go to the club to socialize and get my mind off of things for a minute. There were four other men drinking beer and watching an American TV network. After an hour I was tired of watching stupid sitcoms with dubbed laughter even when they weren’t remotely funny. I’ve often thought that when a sitcom producer’s IQ reaches 50, he should sell. There was plenty about America I didn’t miss. I returned to my new makeshift home.
Leaning my head on the soft, green pillow of the couch, I pondered my next move. Ward had left the United States in 1980 or 1981, gone to Hong Kong and South Africa, and finally left a trace in Pakistan. From Pakistan, he may have continued to Iran. Was it possible that just about the same time he returned to the U.S. without leaving a record with the Immigration and Naturalization Ser vice, he’d made himself look years older, perpetrated bank fraud, and vanished again? That simply didn’t make sense. The hunch that his identity had been stolen needed no further support, but it was still just an assumption, and I needed proof. Before falling asleep, I decided to discuss this matter with Don Suarez, the legat at the embassy.
The next morning, after recharging myself with fruit juice and a muffin for breakfast at the club, I called him. “Sure, come over,” he replied.
As I sat down next to his desk, Suarez said, “I heard you had an experience yesterday.”
“Yes,” I said. “Any clues?”
“Not yet. The main direction in that kind of investigation is intelligence, not police work. The police couldn’t find any witnesses to the attack, although Abdullah said the street was bustling.”
“So are you working on intelligence?”
“Yes, together with the Agency, but that takes time.”
The post-September eleventh era had finally seen a little more cooperation between the FBI and the CIA, with a little less time dedicated to turf wars.
“What do you think? Was it because I was snooping around Ward? Was I picked at random because they saw the embassy connection with the car and Abdullah?”
“Anything is possible,” he said, shrugging, just when I needed a more concrete answer.
I told him about my suspicions about Ward, my unanswered questions about how he could be in two places at the same time.
“Maybe he wasn’t,” said Suarez. “In the sixties through the eighties, there were instances where young American men just disappeared. I guess some of them simply wanted to. I wouldn’t be surprised if some of them are monks in a Buddhist monastery in Tibet, fishermen in New Zealand, or just basking on the beach in Goa.”
“And you leave it at that?”
“Sure, if they’re adults, and if there are no complaints from families about missing persons, and there’s no evidence of foul play. Hey, there’s a limit to the amount of babysitting the federal government can do with taxpayers’ money.”
“Do you have names of these people?”
“No, because if we had a name, that’d mean somebody was looking for him. We don’t have a world chart with pins indicating where any American citizen is at any given moment. We aren’t there yet.”
I wouldn’t get any answers from him, I thought. I lost interest in the conversation.
A cable from David Stone came in. “You are authorized a one-week vacation. No work is to be performed in any country other those included on the authorized list provided before your departure. David.”
That was David’s nice way of saying, “You can go wherever you want, but don’t mess up things or you’re on your own.”
An armored embassy car drove me to the airport. I had changed my mind about Switzerland. I had started to think that the Al Taqwa link Khan was selling me was dubious. If necessary, I’d pursue it with the bank’s receivers from New York. Instead, I took a British Airways flight to London. From London, I boarded an El Al flight to Ben Gurion Airport, Israel. When I arrived, it was already dark. I rented a car, listened to Israeli oldies, and drove to my hotel on the beach in Tel Aviv.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The next morning I called Benny Friedman, my Mossad buddy. Friendship forged in military organizations lasts forever. Although we served together for only three years, we created a strong bond. Our friendship withstood the cultural gap between us. Benny came from an Orthodox family and adhered to all the tenets of the Jewish faith, while I considered myself nonreligious, only keeping the traditional rituals during holidays. Benny also had a wry sense of humor, but only those who knew him well could really “get it.” I was one of the few who did, and I felt that if anybody could penetr
ate what was going on in his agile mind, I could. Well, maybe.
I’d left the Mossad when I was exposed to the enemy during an operation which effectively “burned” me from participating in any future field operations. But Benny had stayed on. He’d climbed through the ranks and made it to the top of Tevel, the foreign-relations wing of the Mossad, which is charged with liaisons with foreign intelligence services, including with countries considered hostile to Israel.
When we’d first learned about this wing’s functions during our training at the Mossad Academy, some eyebrows were raised. “What? Trade secrets with your rivals?” one asked. Alex, our training instructor, was very calm about it. “We are in the game of interests, and you don’t let feelings and animosities get in your way,” he had said. “If you need to exchange information with someone, you just do it. Politics may collide, but we do our work. Same goes for any intelligence service worldwide. We collect intelligence concerning our enemies’ intentions and capabilities, and we’d get it from Satan if he were offering it at the right price.”
Benny’s secretary transferred the call.
“Dan, is that you? Where are you?”
“In Tel Aviv for a few days.”
“Business?” Benny knew what I was doing, and in the past we had helped each other in matters of our work. I never felt I was abusing our friendship, and I don’t think he felt any differently.
“Actually, I’m on a family visit. But you know me, I never stop working. Lunch?”
“Sure.” Benny never said no to a good meal, and neither did I. The only difference was that he ate only kosher food, while I ate also kosher.
Two hours later we met on the fishermen’s pier in Jaffa’s old port. The city of Jaffa, now part of Tel Aviv, is one of the oldest port cities of the world, with a history dating back five thousand years. The pier is younger, only about a thousand years old, and is mainly used by fishing boats that bring their fresh catch to the restaurants lined along its outer walls. This was a place where restaurant decorators didn’t need to fake authenticity-it was the authentic place. Weatherworn fishermen’s boats bobbed nearby. Busy people were unloading crates of fish, and there was a strong mix of smells: sea air, fish, and burning wood coal from the open air grills barbecuing fish.
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