The Chameleon Conspiracy dg-3

by Haggai Harmon

  That got to him. “Are you crazy?” he yelled. “They’ll kill me.”

  “Why? You have been serving them loyally for such a long time, they’ll probably try to smuggle you out of the country.”

  It didn’t seem to be an option that McHanna had even considered viable. And we had not yet said who “they” were.

  “It’s a good thing that you understand reality,” I said, and sat on a chair opposite him. “They’ll have no such plans. They don’t believe in protracted justice.”

  He didn’t react.

  “Of course, the fact that you were stealing them blind isn’t going to help, if they find out.”

  He was too shaken to say anything. “Mr. Niarchos Alexander Papadimitriou,” I said in a theatrical solemnity. “Do you have additional names and passports leading to bank accounts with money you skimmed?”

  “What do you want to know?” he asked faintly.

  “Where is Kourosh Alireza Farhadi?”

  “Who?”

  “Kourosh Alireza Farhadi.”

  “Never heard that name.”

  “Kourosh Alireza Farhadi, aka Albert Ward III.”

  “Really? Is that Albert’s name? I didn’t know that. I told you, Albert’s in Australia. He’s retired.”

  Aha, I said to myself, McHanna forgot when he lied, when he told the truth, or when he’d said anything.

  He supposedly knew him only as Whitney-Davis. He had just confirmed knowledge of Albert Ward, although he’d previously denied it.

  “And where is Harrington T. Whitney-Davis?”

  “They’re all the same person. Retired in Australia.”

  Bingo! But I didn’t want to show him my joy, and moved on.

  “Retired? What do you mean?”

  “He told me that he decided to retire in Australia.” “When was that?”

  “I think a few months ago.”

  “While he was in the U.S.?”

  “He called me from Australia. I last saw him a few years ago.”

  “Who owns McHanna Associates?”

  “I do.”

  “Formally?”

  “Yes.”

  “And informally?”

  He hesitated. “I have silent investors.”

  “Who are they?”

  “Foreign institutions.”

  “I need names.”

  “I can’t give you any.”

  “Why?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “Mr. McHanna, I know who your investors are.”

  “You do?”

  “Yes. You’re the paymaster of an Iranian covert operation in the U.S., which moved millions of dollars to and from the U.S. to finance secret operations of Iranian intelligence services, and to support terrorist organizations.”

  He became so pale that I though he’d faint immediately. I leaned toward him. “Mr. McHanna, I hope you realize that under the Patriot Act, what you did could get you the death penalty by lethal injection in a federal prison.”

  Before I could move, McHanna vomited on me and on his own clothes. It smelled terrible-he must have eaten the carcass of a skunk after he was brought in. Was that the kind of food they served there? I calmly took a tissue from my pocket and wiped the slime off my face and clothes, remaining in my seat.

  “Look at me,” I said. “I’m the only one who can help you out of this mess. Tell me where our guy is.”

  “I want a lawyer,” he suddenly said. “I’ve got rights.” “Do you know what is going to happen if your Iranian bosses discover you were skimming off the top? I hardly think they’ll like it.”

  “I didn’t steal anything.”

  “Right,” I said. “It was actually Papadimitriou who transferred money to his personal bank account in Greece, and it so happens that Niarchos Alexander Papadimitriou looks exactly like you.”

  “This was money I was entitled to.”

  “Don’t expect me to believe that,” I said. “Your Iranian friends will like even less the fact that you killed their agent who suspected you. U.S. prisons are safe places, but you know, anyone really determined could get to you even there. Shit happens.

  “Look, I know you killed Christopher Gonda-that is, Reza Nazeri,” I suddenly said.

  McHanna didn’t answer. He was as pale as a sheet of paper. I took a step back. I wasn’t going to let him vomit on me again.

  “The man you are looking for is in Sydney, Australia,” said McHanna faintly. “During recent years he used the name Herbert Goldman.”

  “Where can I find him?”

  McHanna hesitated.

  “If you don’t tell me, then I’ll assume it’s just another lie. Or maybe you had him killed?”

  “No, no,” he protested. “Look in my personal address book. Your men seized it when I was brought here.”

  I remembered looking through it and not seeing any reference to Goldman. “Under what name did you list his number?”

  “Norman McAllister.”

  “And the number is in the address book? Is there an address as well?”

  “No, just the phone number. It’s in code. You have to add numbers to get the correct telephone number.”

  “What’s the code?”

  “Add one to the first number, two to the second number, three to the third, and so on.”

  “Tell me when you spoke with him last.”

  “A week ago.”

  “What did he tell you?”

  “He wanted me to send him money and a passport.”

  “Did you?”

  “Yes, I wired him $3,000 through Western Union. I had no way of getting him a passport.” McHanna buried his head between his soiled hands. “I want a lawyer,” he repeated faintly.

  “Do you want to make a deal? Is that it?”

  “Maybe.”

  “I’ll get you a lawyer.” I left the room, and asked the agent to assume control. I went to the men’s room to wash up. There wasn’t much I could do. I used the industrial-strength soap and water to wash my hands and my face and the stains off my clothes, but the soap smell just got mixed with the sour smell of McHanna’s vomit.

  I returned to Hodson’s office. They were still sitting there when I entered, together with the jet stream of smell, courtesy of McHanna.

  “What happened? You smell like shit,” said Holliday, stepping a safe distance away from me.

  “McHanna doesn’t seem to like the menu here,” I said wryly. “And I took his complaint.” I went on, “He wants a lawyer, probably to make a deal.”

  “What does he have to offer?”

  “You’d better watch the video. For one thing, he didn’t flatout deny my theory that he was heading the financial arm of an Iranian clandestine operation here, moving millions to finance terror. Next, he conceded that Ward, Farhadi, Whitney-Davis and Goldman-our Chameleon-were the same person. Look in his address book under Norman McAllister for the Chameleon’s number.” I gave them the code.

  “I’m sure more details will come in McHanna’s full account,” I continued. “It’s looking like he wants a plea bargain. Between all this and Reza’s statements, he’ll be locked up forever.”

  “What statements?” Hodson sounded surprised.

  “Reza sent his mother three letters and asked her to keep them in a safe place. She kept the letters in an envelope together with other personal stuff he had left behind. She showed me the envelope, and there I found the first lead to Reza’s connection to Al Taqwa. I borrowed the letters and had them translated.”

  “Borrowed?” asked Holliday, catching the word immediately. “You said they were personal. Did his mother let you take them?”

  He knew me well. “Well, she showed them to me, and I borrowed them.”

  “Without letting her know?” asked Bob.

  “I’ll return them,” I promised. “But anyway, Reza wrote to his mother that McHanna, the head of a financial institution in New York where Reza had been working, was stealing from the company, and when Reza confronted him, McHanna threa
tened his life. Apparently McHanna kept his promise, although he didn’t confess doing it yet.”

  Holliday told me what they’d learned after sending “Dan Gordon’s law partner” to look for additional documents in the Swiss bank archives. “We found documents establishing that Nazeri was a member of Atashbon. He’d first used Christopher Gonda’s name, and as of 1988 used the name Philip Manteau. He was actually functioning as McHanna’s boss, but disguised as an employee.”

  “Were all three letters saying the same thing?” asked Hodson. “Only two. The third one hinted about the possible fate of the Chameleon. It only said that McHanna was nervous about recent developments, and that he even told his employees that if they ever reported on him, he would get them. I think Reza sent these letters to his mother as an insurance policy. Maybe he didn’t trust Atashbon command’s protection that much.”

  I got up. “I’m going home to wash up. Even I can’t stand myself any longer.”

  Back home, my happiness at the developments couldn’t distract me from how ill I felt. Was it the vomit that McHanna dribbled on me? I checked my temperature-it was 101.9°F. I took two Tylenols and fell on my bed. I slept on and off for eighteen hours until the fever subsided, but I was still aching. All of the travel and adventure was catching up to me. I remembered my mother saying that after a certain age, if you don’t wake up aching in every joint, you are probably dead.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Two days later I was asked to attend a meeting at Hodson’s office. Casey and Holliday were there as well. Hodson pulled out a white envelope. “This is for you.”

  I put it in my pocket.

  “No,” said Hodson. “Read it now.”

  I opened the envelope. It contained a letter from the assistant secretary of defense. Dear Dan, On behalf of the United States, I wish to thank you for your contribution in unveiling the sale of long-range cruise missiles to Iran. Maintaining the military supremacy of the United States and disarming rogue nations guarantees our national security. Your efforts were an important step towards fulfilling that goal.

  “What the hell is he talking about?” I was really surprised. “I had no connection to any information on Iranian missiles.”

  “You missed a lot while you were in isolation,” said Casey. “The pieces are all falling together. Ukraine has confirmed that twelve of its cruise missiles were sold to Iran and six to China. However, when it became public, the Ukrainians claimed that the sales were unauthorized. They also claim that private businessmen sold Iran twelve X-55 cruise missiles, which are known better as Kh-55s or AS-15s.”

  “With nuclear warheads?” I asked.

  “No. But that’s no consolation. They have a range of eighteen hundred miles, which covers most of Russia, Japan, and of course Israel.”

  “I heard that Iran was developing long-range missiles,” I said. “And that their ultimate goal is to develop transcontinental missiles with a sixty-five hundred mile range that can get to the United States. But they aren’t there yet, so that’s why they purchased ready-made ones. But what have I got to do with it?”

  Hodson ignored my question and continued. “Even now, after that sale, Iran is already the third country in the world, after the U.S. and Russia, to have cruise missiles. This type has a sophisticated navigational system that corrects itself after launch by comparing the terrain it passes with photos of the target programmed into its computer.”

  “But you didn’t answer my question. What have I done in this matter to deserve the letter?” I persisted.

  Casey finally spelled it out. “You identified Hasan Lotfi as a potential defector. We made contact with him. He brought in the information. The Pentagon is pretty pleased. Pressure put on the Ukrainian government led to the dealers’ indictment, and the Iranians will have a difficult time getting spare parts and tech support. Without that, the missiles won’t be operational too soon.”

  I folded the letter and put it back in the envelope. “My grandchildren will be proud of me,” I said with half a smile. “What about McHanna? I was sick like a dog for two days.”

  Hodson briefed me on McHanna’s interrogation.

  “What about the sniper?” I asked.

  “Staged,” said Hodson. “We suspected from the beginning that the event was odd. A pro using a scope missed from fifty-seven yards? No sniper would miss from four times that short distance using such sophisticated equipment. The conclusion was that the shooter didn’t intend to hit McHanna.”

  “He only wanted to frighten him?”

  “We thought of that too. But your initial suspicion of Saida Rhaman, the receptionist, was right. We got to her, and from her to her uncle, Nikoukar Jafarzadeh. Corroborative evidence was found when we discovered that the gun was purchased in Virginia by Nikoukar Jafarzadeh. He and his niece told us that McHanna had asked them to arrange the mock shooting.”

  “Did he give them a reason?”

  “Yes. According to them, McHanna said that his management didn’t appreciate him and was about to fire him, which could lead to Saida’s losing her job as well. Therefore he thought that an attempt on his life would make it difficult for the company’s owners to get rid of him.”

  “Did you buy that story? It doesn’t make sense.”

  “Do I look like I just fell off the turnip truck?” grunted Hodson. “We’ve leads suggesting that Nikoukar Jafarzadeh was the Atashbon’s local muscle, and the shooting came as a warning to McHanna.”

  “Why didn’t he take McHanna out?”

  “We’ll investigate that. But personally I think that McHanna misread the Iranians. He was too valuable to them, his stealing notwithstanding. Money was not their problem at that point-you’ll soon hear why. McHanna was the only non-Iranian in the operation, and they didn’t trust him completely, but still needed a Yankee in the operation.”

  “I guess they were right.” I scratched my head. “What about Reza Nazeri? He was pushed from the platform of a train to his death. Was McHanna involved?”

  “McHanna confessed that he ordered his death as self-defense. Reza discovered that McHanna was stealing and threatened to turn him in.”

  I wondered why Reza hadn’t just had McHanna quietly eliminated. Had he tried and failed?

  “What about Nazeri’s apartment? I found it too clean.”

  “We haven’t gotten to it yet, but I’m sure McHanna went there personally or sent Jafarzadeh.”

  “So if we have sufficient evidence, why strike a deal?”

  “McHanna told us these details in a proffer, with the understanding that there will be a plea bargain. Life without the possibility of parole. That’s a worse punishment than death.”

  “What about the remaining members of Atashbon?”

  “He said he has details on only six members.”

  “Did he name them?”

  “Yes. Kourosh, our Chameleon; Reza, aka Gonda, now deceased; and Arthur Jenkins, Timothy Williamson, Alec Simmons, Kevin DiAngelo, and Frank Gonzales. These names match the names of American men who went missing in the eighties. These six suspects changed these names to other American-sounding names immediately after they completed the first round of the scam operations. They simply used the good old throwaway cover: one alias was layered on top of another alias. That’s why we couldn’t find them- the string of aliases was abandoned, but the operatives remained here. They are all in custody. They claimed that they had severed their relationship with Iran a long time ago, and are now law-abiding citizens.”

  “Though not, of course, of the U.S.” I said. “Do you believe them?”

  He chuckled. “They’ll be indicted, and tried. If convicted, they’ll be deported after serving their sentences-that is, if they’re still living forty to sixty years from now. Oddly, or not so oddly, some of them claimed to be employees of a legitimate printing-press company. When we checked their story an interesting thing happened. In addition to their racketeering activity in defrauding banks and being covert operatives of Iran, they were opera
ting a much bigger operation, which dwarfed the $300 million stolen from U.S. banks. We’re talking billions of dollars here. Three hundred million is a lot of money, but it cannot collapse the U.S. economy. But hundreds of billions could cause serious damage.”

  “Billions? I saw no reference to it in the files.”

  “There was no reference there,” said Hodson. “Together with U.S. Secret Ser vice we discovered that Atashbon members in the United States were running a printing press of counterfeit U.S. dollars. Iranian agents bought the printing machines from Germany and smuggled them to the U.S. in several shipments, using a front company run by Atashbon members. The sad thing is that Americans trained the Iranians to use these high-end printing presses.”

  “You mean we trained them to print dollars?” asked Bob Holliday.

  “Of course not,” said Hodson. “In the early 1970s the Shah of Iran asked the U.S. to help solve counterfeiting problems that threatened to undermine Iran’s currency. So we sent technical people from the Bureau of Engraving and Printing to Tehran to improve the safety of the Iranian currency.”

  “The balls on them!” said Casey Bauer. “We trained them. Now we discover that they had an incredible audacity. Years later these motherfuckers were intending to collapse the U.S. economy.”

  “Good thing the hundred-dollar bill was redesigned,” I said.

  “There are three types of forged dollars,” explained Hodson. “Two are rather primitive and easy to detect, but the third is a real piece of art. Common forgers use offset lithography, which prints dollars that lack the feel of real currency because the ink is flat, unlike the raised ink of genuine bills. Digital forgeries are very common because anyone with a scanner and high-quality printer or a copier can become a forger. But again, unless you use the fabric of genuine dollars, the notes printed are in fact Monopoly money, particularly when they all have the same serial number. But the Iranians managed to produce high-quality notes, using the same intaglio printing presses that the Bureau of Engraving does.”

  “What’s intaglio?” asked Bob.

  “A press that creates miniscule ridges on cotton-linen paper by forcing it at high pressure into the ink-filled grooves of an engraved plate. Now the outcome looks-and better yet, feels-like real currency,” answered Hodson, looking at his notes.