The Chameleon Conspiracy dg-3

by Haggai Harmon

  She quickly backtracked with a smile. “Well, if you don’t mind. It’s just that it’s perfect for my needs.”

  As a gentleman, I acquiesced, returning her smile. “Fine,” I said.

  The other bedrooms were smaller, but I found one with a king-size bed. The third room was empty but for two desks and office chairs, with a combined fax, copier, scanner, and printer and a digital telephone, both hooked up to a signal scrambler that made them secure.

  “That will be our communication room,” said Nicole. “I need to shower and change. I’ll see you in a little while.”

  I wondered who watched the safe apartment while it was empty. Or was it ever empty? Obviously, the classified communication equipment could not be left there without security. I went outside. I’d always liked the area for its cultural attractions- the Bois de Boulogne, Champs Elysees, Arc de Triomphe, Musee d’Art Moderne de la Ville de Paris, and Musee Marmottan Monet were all within walking distance. There were many cafes and restaurants to explore. I strolled along the narrow rue St. Didier with its boulangeries, fruit and vegetable shops, and flower shops. I continued to Androuet, the famous cheese store.

  I’ll be back here soon, I promised myself, once I’m done with my chores with Nicole.

  I returned to the apartment. Nicole sat on the sofa with her bare feet on the coffee table. In blue jeans, she looked miles away from her strictly business appearance at the convention.

  “This is a great area,” I said companionably. “Lots of interesting places to visit.”

  “We’re here to crack a case,” she said severely. “We aren’t tourists.” She wasn’t kidding. I nodded. “Let’s start by defining the perimeter,” she said.

  She’s perfect, I thought-in other words, boring.

  “I need to trace Ward’s movements,” I said, masking some anger.

  “Right. Professor Manfred Krieger the archaeologist is our most solid anchor at this time.”

  “I agree.”

  “OK, we could start with him right now,” said Nicole. “Shouldn’t be hard to track him down, although we don’t know if he’s still alive.”

  “I sure hope he is,” I said. Even in a world of hunters and targets, sometimes people aged and died of natural causes.

  Nicole clicked at her laptop, briskly accessing the Net through encrypted wireless. “Here it is. Professor Krieger published an article on archaeology of the Orient in 2003, in Archaeology and Heritage, an academic journal published in London. So, unless the article was written a long time ago, then at least in 2003 he was still alive. It says here that he teaches at the University of Berlin.”

  It took only a few minutes to find Professor Krieger’s address and phone number in Berlin.

  “So what do we want from this guy?” she queried.

  “I want to pick his memory, or even his records concerning his staff during his 1980 excavations in Iran.”

  “And do you think he’d still have them?”

  “Nicole, archaeologists rummage through records left thousands of years ago. It’s kind of against their religion for them to throw out their own papers, don’t you think?” I was trying to reintroduce levity into the room.

  Nicole allowed a smile. “OK. What’s the suggested legend? We need to make it plausible and pitch it to Langley. We can’t approach him without their authorization.”

  “Just for making a phone call you need Langley’s approval?” I thought of the improvisational manner in which we operated at the Mossad, and the social-engineering methods I applied during my tenure as a lone wolf at the Department of Justice while hunting money launderers. We were working with totally different institutional cultures.

  “We should bear in mind that the legend must hold water not only with the professor, but elsewhere. We don’t know the types of connections the professor has in Iran. If there’s a hole in our story and he suspects us, and tells the Iranians about our snooping, the doors will shut in our faces. And maybe some metal doors behind us, if they ever get us.”

  “On second thought, you’re right,” I conceded. “The source of information leading us to Krieger is a dubious character in Islamabad. We don’t really know who he is, and why he was telling me this story for only the $300 I gave him. Definitely something rotten there. Getting me to contact Krieger could be one of his ulterior motives. Who knows, maybe he’s more conniving than I thought.” I decided not to tell Nicole about the information Benny gave me linking Ahmed Khan to the Iranian intelligence services. Not just yet.

  For the next hour we raised and rejected several options, and finally came up with the one we thought would be reasonably plausible. Nicole e-mailed an encrypted message to Langley to get approval. She slammed shut her laptop computer, got up from her chair, and stretched her arms, revealing a flat, tanned stomach. “We’re done here. It will be a day or so until we hear from them.”

  I went out to the street and walked straight to the boulangerie, bought two baguettes, and ended up in Androuet, the cheese shrine. The aroma was overwhelming.

  “We sell 340 different kinds of cheese,” said a friendly salesperson in a green apron, who realized I was besieged. I bought Camembert, Brie, and Fontainebleau cheese.

  “Monsieur,” he said, “may I suggest you take also Vacherin? We sell it only from October to March.”

  I stopped at the corner wine store and got a bottle of a promising Cotes du Rhone. I went back to the apartment, resisting an urge to start devouring the food en route. We feasted until I felt the wine pulling down my eyelids.

  By the following morning, an encrypted message had come in: “Legend approved, mode of approach at your discretion.”

  “Do you think we should call him or pay a personal visit?” I asked Nicole.

  “I think we should start with calling him. A personal visit could be intimidating or suspicious. Why would an American come to Berlin to ask a few questions for a family memorial book for a person who’s been missing for twenty-some years?”

  I dialed.

  “Krieger,” announced a man’s voice.

  “Professor Krieger?”

  “Ja.” He answered in German.

  “My name is Stanley Ward. I hope you speak English.” “Yes.”

  “I’m sorry to bother you on a small matter, but I wonder if you remember Albert Ward, a member of my family?”

  “Remind me.”

  “He was a young photographer who worked for you in the excavations in Tal-e Malyan, Iran, in the early 1980s.”

  “I remember that name very vaguely.”

  “As I said earlier, I’m Stanley Ward, his cousin. We’re preparing a family history pamphlet and want to dedicate a page to his memory.” I paused upon mentioning that Ward had died, hoping he’d reveal something he might know about it. But he kept silent, and I continued.

  “Since he mentioned your name in a postcard he sent my parents, I thought you might be able to tell me about his work. It’ll take only a few minutes of your time.”

  “There isn’t anything to tell,” he said. “Dagmar Fischer, my assistant at the time, suggested bringing him over. If I’m not mistaken, she said she had met him some place in Africa. But at the end, he never came to work for us. The truth is, those volunteers are really good for nothing. Unless they are getting academic credit, lots of them don’t show up, and some of those who do come behave like they’re in a summer camp and forget we are involved in serious scientific research.”

  “Did he expect to be paid for his work?”

  “Of course not, nobody did. We had a limited bud get mostly spent on local diggers and food supplies for my staff and students. He was expected to be a volunteer like all others.”

  “Do you remember anything special about him?”

  “Nothing. I never met him. I remember the name only because we had to sponsor an Iranian visa for him.”

  “Where can I find Ms. Dagmar Fischer?”

  “She teaches at the University of London’s Archaeology Department.”

>   I thanked him and hung up the phone. Nicole, who had been recording the conversation, stopped the tape recorder. Next, we called Dagmar Fischer, who was found after a few tries and proved more pleasant than the grumpy Professor Krieger.

  “Yes, I knew Al Ward pretty well. I remember him as a kind person.”

  “That’s nice to hear,” I said. “Have you been in contact?” “No. I last saw him many years ago. While I was a student, I went on vacation to South Africa, where I met him in a youth hostel. We spent some time together, and I even went with him on a safari, where he took magnificent photos.”

  “I understand he had plans to follow you to Iran.”

  She laughed. “You make it sound romantic. It wasn’t, at least not from my perspective. While still in South Africa I heard from my classmate that a German archaeology expedition was planning a dig in Iran and was looking for students willing to volunteer. I called the department and they agreed to take me. I flew from Johannesburg to Tehran and joined Professor Krieger’s team. When the site of Anshan in Tal-e Malyan was discovered, we needed a professional photographer, but with a very small bud get, we wanted a volunteer. I told Professor Krieger about Ward being a good photographer who was looking for adventure. Professor Krieger asked me to invite Ward. I had his next address in a youth hostel in Islamabad, Pakistan, and sent him a letter.”

  “Did he respond?”

  “Yes, but it took some time, and his letter was very short, like one or two sentences-‘Coming on that date,’ or something like that. I was a bit surprised that he didn’t even ask about the terms or anything else.”

  “Maybe he wanted to be in your company more than anything else?”

  “Maybe,” she giggled.

  “Was anyone worried about bringing an American to Iran, considering it was after the revolution?”

  “Well, we told the Iranians that we were planning to invite a young American photographer to join the group’s excavations in return for room and board. Which for us meant, you know, a tent in the desert and canned food.”

  “So what’d they say?”

  “You know, I have no idea. I was really just rank and file-I was helping Professor Krieger with some administrative chores. But I guess it wasn’t OK, because Ward never actually showed up.”

  “Do you know who handled the visa matter for the Iranians? Perhaps he will know.”

  “I’m not sure I remember. It’s been so long. But I think I saw the Iranian officer twice at the camp. Actually, I’m sure I did, because he came back about a month later. He told us they’d hold us responsible for attempting to bring Ward over. He said they’d discovered that Ward was a spy.”

  “He said Ward was a spy?” I tried to sound surprised. “That’s shocking. And besides, even if that ridiculous story were true, why would you be responsible?”

  “Because his visa application to Iran was sponsored by the expedition. Well, he said Ward was an American spy. We were pretty upset. Plus we were left without a photographer.”

  “Was Albert a spy?” I repeated in disbelief, sounding a complete novice.

  “I hardly think so. He was too simple to be anything but what he was, just a kid wandering around. Why don’t you ask Albert?”

  “I can’t,” I said. “He disappeared. He never returned from wherever he was.”

  “Oh my god,” she said. “I can’t believe that!’

  “Can you remember now the name of the officer? Maybe he could tell us if he knew where Albert went instead of coming to Iran after his entry was refused.”

  “Well, I guess I could look it up in my records. It’s possible that maybe I wrote his name down in my log of the excavation.”

  “Thanks, that would be great. So while we’re talking, what happened next?”

  “What happened? Nothing, I guess. We completed the excavation and returned to Germany. Professor Krieger’s paper on the excavation was very well received. I finished my studies, and the excavation site is now open to tourists.”

  “Have you seen or heard from Albert again?”

  “No, and I did find it odd. I don’t know why he would vanish like that. Though I suppose he could have been upset because…” She trailed off.

  “Because…?” I prompted, hoping I wasn’t pushing her too far.

  “It’s kind of personal, but you know, I guess it doesn’t matter. It’s been twenty years. I…rebuffed his advances because I didn’t find him attractive in a personal way.”

  A day later, when I called Dr. Fischer back, she had the officer’s name: Bahman Hossein Rashtian. He was working in Iranian state security.

  I consulted Nicole.

  “What we should do is go to London,” she said immediately, “to see what the NSA has to offer on the Iranian connection to our case.”

  “Why London?”

  “Because their UK base is the largest outside the U.S. There’s no point in asking the French station for broadscale assistance- they’ll just send us to London, or even to Washington.”

  I called Bob Holliday, my new boss. David had just retired. To add to my other bones to pick with the Chameleon, he’d made me miss David’s retirement party.

  “Bob, we need NSA assistance.”

  “Why?”

  “We need unrestricted international communications-intelligence reach, the kind of air sniffing that only NSA can provide.” I gave him the details and answered his many questions. Each time we spoke I could see more clearly that working with him was going to be a world of difference from having David as my boss. He had a way of firing questions at me that sometimes made me feel as if I were performing under the baleful eye of a strict but very cordial schoolteacher.

  After he exhaustively interrogated me, he agreed to see what he could do.

  The following morning Bob called. “OK, an NSA connection is established. You’ll be picked up tomorrow at nine a.m. from your London hotel.” He gave me the details. “We expect a nice and sunny day.”

  The journey to London was fast. Bob was wrong on the weather. The next day brought us the typical English weather of rain and fog, and a new friend: a slim African-American woman in a black pantsuit. “Hi, I’m Pamela Johnson. I’ll be taking you to Menwith Hill.”

  “What’s in Menwith Hill?” I asked.

  “That’s the major station of NSA, operated jointly with the British Government Communications Headquarters, GCHQ.”

  “And what about the sunny weather you promised?” I asked. “Well, you know. Weather forecasts are horoscopes with numbers.”

  After a three-hour drive ending amid the green meadows of Yorkshire, we arrived at a heavily fenced and guarded area. Following thorough security screening, we were brought to a round, windowless building.

  “Welcome to NSA,” said a man with an accent that smacked of the American South, as we entered his small office. “I’m Dr. Ted Feldman, and I’ll do my best to help you. What’s going on here?”

  He and Pamela took notes as Nicole quickly explained.

  “I see,” Feldman said. “We’ll try to do what we can, once formalities are satisfied.”

  The NSA picked up where others were bound by legal restrictions. As I well knew, they operated in cyberspace, where there were few rules, breaking encrypted communications and transferring the messages to linguists to analyze the messages in more than 110 languages.

  “What do you have in mind?” I asked.

  “We can engage Echelon, our global surveillance network,” he said briskly. “It’s the most comprehensive and sophisticated signals intelligence ever made. It can monitor every communication transmitted through satellite, micro wave, cellular, and fiber optics. That includes communications to and from North America.”

  “How much does that all add up to?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “We estimate it at five billion telephone calls, e-mail messages, faxes, and broadcasts daily.”

  “Any communication?” I asked with concern, thinking about some private conversations I’d held with several wo
men I’d dated.

  He smiled. “Not to worry.” He must have heard that anxious question many times.

  “How do you do it?”

  “Echelon collects data through a variety of methods, including through radio antennae at listening stations located in key areas around the world. We scan the enormous amount of data through filtering software using a computer network hosted by the UK’s GCHQ, Canada’s CSE, Australia’s DSD, and New Zealand’s GCSB.” The torrent of acronyms could make you dizzy. Only insiders knew and cared that they stood for Communications Security Establishment, the Defense Signals Directorate, and the Government Communications Security Bureau. We needed little explication.

  “The filtering software flags messages containing any of a set of key words, such as bomb or nuclear,” Feldman continued.

  “How does the actual process of data sifting work?” asked Nicole.

  “We’ve got word-pattern recognition technologies, plus advanced technology in speech recognition and optical character recognition. See, the computers convert sound gleaned from intercepted telephone conversations and text images from fax transmissions, and store them in a searchable database.”

  “What about foreign languages?”

  “Translation software recognizes many languages and can translate them into English. Once text is stored in the database, our analysts engage data-mining software that searches data to identify relationships based on similarities and patterns.”