The Chameleon Conspiracy dg-3

by Haggai Harmon

  “I need to digest what you’ve just told me,” I said. “Anyway, it occurs to me one good thing has come out of this conversation.”

  “What?”

  “If you own Tempelhof Bank, can you tell me more about what kind of relationship McHanna has with it?” It wasn’t too late to score some points at home by unveiling a money-laundering operation in New York.

  “Who?”

  “You mean you don’t know him?” Benny shook his head. “He was a manager at the South Dakota bank that the Chameleon conned. Now he runs a financial-services company in New York, and I think he still is in contact with the Chameleon. I’ve got a piece of information linking him, using an alias, to Tempelhof Bank.”

  “Let me find out,” said Benny. “But aside from that, I think we can agree to cooperate in finding the Chameleon.”

  “Helping you out is a decision made above my head.” “You never had to ask permission before.”

  “That’s true. But working for you without getting my superiors’ consent is a violation of my oath.”

  “Hey, I didn’t say work for me,” he said defensively. “I said work together.”

  “Like I said, I need to get permission.”

  “You’ll get it.” He sounded alarmingly sure of himself. “What are you saying? That you already made a request through the proper channels?” His face confirmed that I was right. “Thanks for asking my opinion first,” I grumbled.

  “Don’t give me that act, Dan. We both know that when we worked together the last couple of times, things worked out as they should have.”

  “You could have at least asked me.”

  “I was protecting you,” he said. “An official request by the Mossad to the U.S. government to cooperate is standard procedure. Talking to you first before asking your government would have complicated things. You’ve just confirmed that.”

  I left it at that. “So what did my bosses have to say?” How odd that a foreign intelligence service would know about my forthcoming instructions before me. But pressing him further was not going to be fruitful; it would only make him dig in his heels that much more.

  “We’re still waiting. American bureaucracy, you know.”

  “Right. Well, let me see what my boss tells me. We’ve got a conference scheduled.”

  Later that day, after Benny and I had parted, I got a call from the U.S. Embassy. “A cable came in for you.”

  I was sure it was one of those routine memos circulated that the ever-helpful Esther kept sending me even when I was away.

  “Can you deliver it to my hotel?” I had already taken off my shoes, stretched on the couch, and started reading the newspaper. The last thing I wanted to do was head to the embassy.

  “Sorry, no. This is classified material that cannot leave this room.”

  Why would I get that sort of document? I was investigating money launderers and white-collar criminals. Communications about them are sensitive, but not secret. They’re frequently called “sensitive but unclassified” (SBU), containing data that isn’t related to national security, but where their disclosure to the public could cause damage. My curiosity exceeded my laziness.

  “I’ll be right over.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  I left my hotel room and walked a few blocks to the embassy on 71 Hayarkon Street, right on Tel Aviv’s shoreline on the Mediterranean Sea. I went directly to Pat, the secretary of COS-chief of station-CIA in Israel, who handed me an envelope. It contained a one-page document. I began reading immediately: Central Intelligence Agency

  Directorate of Operations

  Washington, DC 20505

  Memorandum

  To: Dan Gordon, OFARML/DOJ

  CC: David Stone, OFARML/DOJ

  From: Pamela H. Grace

  Date: October 7, 2004

  Priority: Urgent

  Classification: Secret

  Subject: TDY The Department of Justice has put you on a TDY to a CIA-led special task force on terrorist financing. A plenary meeting and briefing will be held for two days in France commencing on October 11, 2004. Travel arrangements have been made by the Tel Aviv embassy. Please confirm attendance. The scheduled meeting, its location, and its topic, as well as this memo, must be treated as secret.

  An attached note informed me that I’d be met at the Paris airport by Matt Kilburn, an Agency representative. I returned the cable to Pat and signed a receipt that I’d read its contents. TDY meant temporary duty assignment. I was being put on an interagency transfer for a specific intelligence assignment.

  Help was on the way from an unlikely source. The CIA had seldom been helpful in my efforts to retrieve money fraudulently obtained from criminal activities, which the U.S. government had to pursue under a federal statute. Usually the flow of information was unidirectional: from me to them. Maybe it would change now and, with their help, I could get moving on the Chameleon’s case. I was surprised, though, that I hadn’t received direct instructions from David or Bob telling me I was assigned to a CIA task force.

  I went to the embassy’s travel office on the second floor. Guy, a skinny staffer, gave me an envelope with an El Al ticket to Paris, departing Ben Gurion Airport on October 10. I used the secure phone to call David Stone.

  After the initial pleasantries, David got to the point. “Have you met your friend Benny yet?”

  “Yes, I always meet him while I’m in Israel. He’s an old friend.”

  “While you were still in Pakistan a request from the Mossad came through channels suggesting cooperation in discovering the Chameleon.”

  “Did they say what their interest is?”

  “They just said that we had a mutual interest, but didn’t specify.”

  “Benny told me yesterday about their request. Israel has no direct connection, but he still wants to cooperate with us.”

  “What? Did he elaborate?” David sounded surprised.

  “He told me that the Chameleon is an Iranian agent stealing money in the U.S. for a slush fund that finances terrorist organizations. The Mossad intercepted communications between Tehran and someone working for them in Pakistan mentioning Ward’s names, and also mine. So this guy, whoever he is, is on the Mossad’s radar as a terror financier. That made him a Mossad target.”

  “Be careful, Dan,” said David in a fatherly tone. “One of these days questions could be raised. Just be careful.”

  “I am,” I said. “I think my informal contact with the Mossad through Benny is invaluable for us. It has always been.”

  “I’m sure of that. But for the sake of transparency, why don’t you make a written record of each of your meetings, and send me a copy for the file.”

  “David, would you have me fill out a report every time I meet up with a buddy? What is this, East Germany circa 1980?”

  “Dan, don’t take it to an extreme. You aren’t meeting with your buddy. You’re meeting with a high-ranking executive of a foreign-intelligence service. Although the Israelis are our close allies, still, any contact between a federal employee and foreign agents must be reported. These are the rules. Besides, believe me, it’s also for your own good.” I knew he was right, of course, and in the past, each time a meeting with Benny was more than just friendly and touched sensitive issues, I’d always written a memo to the file.

  I asked David about my TDY to the CIA. I didn’t even know whether the task force would be an internal CIA ad hoc group, or a multiagency group that included representatives from other government agencies. The distinction was critical, because in the latter case, each representative ranked equally with the others and took instructions from his or her own agency. However, in an internal CIA working group, I’d be subject to their directives, and David would remain in the background.

  “You won’t be working for me. It’s for the CIA, as in the previous cases.”

  “You mean Eric Henderson again?” My tone must have revealed my reservations. Eric and I were never cuddle buddies; in fact our relationship was sulfurous at best.r />
  “No. There’s another guy, Casey Bauer. Try to be nice to him, for a change.”

  “I’m always nice!”

  David laughed.

  I returned to my hotel. Benny called me a few minutes after I entered my room. “Hi Dan. Any news?”

  I felt a bit uncomfortable. Benny was always one step ahead of me. Or was it more than one? For a moment it flashed through my mind: Good thing this guy is my friend, you sure wouldn’t want him as your enemy.

  “Nothing yet,” I said. “But you know how the fucking bureaucracy works. Give them time.” I hadn’t yet heard what my new CIA boss would have to say about cooperating with the Mossad. He might not be exactly thrilled about it.

  Two days later, on a breezy morning with cloudy skies, I drove to Ben Gurion Airport just outside Tel Aviv, returned my rented car, and boarded flight LY 324 to Charles de Gaulle International Airport in France, twenty miles north of Paris. We landed at five thirty in the afternoon. A boyish, athletic-looking man in his early thirties approached me at the gate.

  “Mr. Gordon?” I nodded. “I’m Matt Kilburn.”

  “Please show me an ID,” I asked cordially, but firmly. He showed me his U.S. passport.

  “OK,” I said. “Where do we go?”

  “First, please give me your passports.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “You’re getting a new one. I’m sending your old passport back to your office in New York by diplomatic pouch.” He handed me a sealed envelope with a new U.S. passport and an Arizona driver’s license. Both carried my picture, with my new name, Anthony P. Blackthorn. I gave him my official government employee’s passport and my personal passport, and walked with him through immigration and customs. Within twenty minutes we were outside the terminal building in a Peugeot 607 driven by a young blonde woman who couldn’t have been a day older than twenty-six.

  “Hi,” she said as I sat in the back seat. “Welcome to Paris.”

  “Glad to be here. Where are we going?”

  “To a nice place, I can assure you.”

  There was no point in asking any further questions. Having been a frequent visitor to France, I couldn’t help but notice that we weren’t going to Paris. As we entered the A13 highway, the car turned north toward Rouen, instead of south.

  Twenty minutes passed in complete silence while I looked at green fields and busy rush-hour traffic. I saw an Exit 14 sign to Vernon and Giverny, and the car took the exit. I remembered the name Giverny. This village, in the gateway to Normandy, was for many years the home of Claude Monet, the French Impressionist. We passed a bridge over the Seine and three miles later we entered the village. Many tourists were walking in the streets, particularly on rue Claude Monet, where a simple sign directed the visitors to Fondation Claude Monet, his home and garden. Approximately one hundred yards down the road, I saw the Musee d’Art Americain Giverny.

  I could no longer hold back. “Is that where we are going?” I asked. “To these museums?”

  “I wish,” said the blonde female at the wheel. “But I’m sure you’ll have an opportunity to visit these places. They are nothing short of magnificent.” She pointed to the Musee d’Art Americain as we passed it. “This museum presents American Impressionist paint ers influenced by Claude Monet. I think they are affiliated with the Terra Museum, near Chicago.”

  “So where are we going?” I asked again.

  “To a small, nearby chateau.”

  The car turned into a small village road, and ten minutes later I saw the castle. It was spectacular.

  “This is it,” said the woman. “An eighteenth-century chateau.” The castle was surrounded by many acres of park, with a pond and trees. The landscape seemed taken out of the paintings of Watteau, the French rococo artist.

  She stopped our car at the circular driveway. I got out and entered the chateau. On the right, connected to a spacious foyer on the ground floor, was a huge dining room with an ancient parquet floor and big windows looking out on the extensive gardens. An adjacent room was a winter garden, full of flower-pots and soft-colored couches.

  “Hello, Mr. Blackthorn,” said a prim, very proper sort of man in his early seventies. His white mustache was impeccably trimmed, and his black jacket beautifully tailored. “I’m M. Bellamy, and I’ll be your host during the convention. Please let me show you to your room.”

  I followed him up the marble stairs to what Europeans call the first floor and into a large room that had an elegant mahogany bed, night table, easy chair, and small desk. Another door led to a small bathroom. There were no telephones or television in my room.

  “If you need anything, please let me know,” he said in French-accented English. “Dinner will be served at eight o’clock.”

  Nothing but envy crossed my mind when I saw the accommodations. That’s what happens when your agency has a generous, nonpublic bud get. Compared to my office’s bud get that is cut every year, while the workload increases…David never stopped reminding me of that.

  I went downstairs dressed casually for dinner. I opened the dining room door and was stunned. There were ten or twelve people seated, all dressed up-jackets, ties, the works. I stood shameful in my jeans and sneakers. I quickly turned around and returned to my room to change into my only blazer and white shirt, but I didn’t even have a presentable tie. During a dinner in Tel Aviv I had stained the only one I’d packed. When I’d left the U.S. three weeks before for Pakistan, I’d brought nothing but light and casual clothes suitable for a hot climate. However, they were obviously inappropriate for a fancy chateau in Europe in October.

  I seated myself at a table with a place card saying anthony p. blackthorn. Next to me, in a black evening dress, sat my blonde female driver. Her place card said NICOLE A. BLAIR.

  “Hi, Ms. Blair,” I said smiling. “Am I late for anything?”

  “No. Call me Nicole. We’re just having dinner.” The setting was perfect.

  A waiter came to our table and served us with terrine maison, a molded dish with smoothly ground meat and mushrooms. He poured Merlot into our crystal goblets.

  A tall, distinguished-looking, gray-haired man in his mid-fifties rose from his chair, holding his wine goblet, while the waiters were clearing the table. The staff that served us in the dining room and later on in the winter garden could never have guessed that the attendees weren’t gathered to hear lectures about art, but rather were (most of them) agents of the world’s largest spy agency.

  “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. My name is Arnold Kyle, and I’m the chairman of this convention. Welcome to the annual meeting of the Arizona Chapter of the American Association of Impressionist Art Lovers. Cheers!” The men and women around the beautifully set tables raised their glasses and “cheered.”

  “One house keeping notice before dinner. We start our day tomorrow at nine a.m. with a lecture on post-Monet French Impressionists given by Dr. Louise Guillaume, a lecturer at the Institut Francais. At ten thirty, after a short coffee break, we’ll have a general meeting of our chapter to elect a new board and president. I know you consider these matters boring, but we must go ahead with our agenda and approve a new bud get, so I ask all of you to attend. After lunch we will continue with our deliberations concerning the future of our chapter. In the late afternoon we will tour the Fondation Monet and the Musee d’Art Americain and return here for dinner. After dinner we will have a closed meeting to discuss the proposed merger of our chapter with the California chapter.”

  I was appreciative of the idea-a disguised meeting in the heartland of Impressionism. The legend was perfect. It effectively masked the identities of a bunch of clean-shaven Americans in Europe. Bring one or two lecturers from town to talk about Monet, display a welcome banner, and we were in business. The rest of the time spent behind closed doors would be dedicated to far craftier, but less artistic, matters.

  The main course was gigot d’agneau roti aux herbes gratindauphinois, a roasted leg of lamb with herbs. For dessert we had plateau de
fromages -a plate of French cheeses-and coffee. I skipped both.

  I made small talk with Nicole. She was as much “Nicole” as I was “Anthony.” She was rather attractive and friendly, but I had other things on my mind than getting friendlier, and I knew that the same went for her. So after a few drinks and non-revealing conversations, we retired to our respective rooms.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The following morning we had an illuminating lecture about Monet, to satisfy the appearance of a convention. Immediately after the lecturer left, two young men went and sat outside the closed doors, while two others continued patrolling under the windows, all in a seemingly relaxed mode. When we returned, Arnold Kyle rose and addressed the small audience. I counted the participants. There were nine men and two women. Nobody looked younger than twenty-five or older than fifty-five. There was one African-American woman. Two of the men looked Hispanic.

  “We are here in connection with our continued effort to combat terrorists by drying up their funding. This particular meeting focuses on Iran’s role in terror financing. In addition to a new member from the FBI’s Counterterrorism Unit, Matt Kilburn, we’ve another new member from the Justice Department’s Office of Asset Recovery and Money Laundering, Anthony Blackthorn. Matt and Tony, please identify yourselves.”

  All eyes turned to me and to Kilburn, who sat across the room. Both of us nodded. Kyle continued.

  “Matt has been working with us during the past two months in connection with our investigation of the affairs of Nada Management. Tony is a money-laundering expert who is currently investigating bank fraud perpetrated by an individual who may be helping finance Iran’s clandestine terrorist activities. Iran continues, behind a curtain of strict confidentiality, to promote terror through proxies. You can find details in the notes we handed you earlier. Please read and return them to me before the conclusion of this meeting. No written material leaves this room.” He paused to sip from his goblet. “Now, just as we sought cooperation with other nations to join a coalition to fight an overt war against Saddam, we are seeking collaboration in the covert war against terror. As you’re well aware, terror is stateless, but its sponsors are not. Our role here”-he circled his hands as if to grasp us-“is to break the lifeline between terror and its sponsors. In one word, money.”