“How did they get over the biggest obstacle, the material used for U.S. currency?” asked Holliday.
“It’s difficult but not impossible,” said Hodson. “Currency paper is composed of 25 percent linen and 75 percent cotton. Red and blue synthetic fibers of various lengths are distributed evenly throughout the paper. Governments can buy it freely, and we assume Iran had no problem acquiring it. We think they decided to print the currency in the U.S. because it’d be much easier to smuggle the fabric into the U.S. than the final product-bales of billions of forged U.S. dollars. Nonetheless, the Secret Ser vice is still investigating how the fabric entered the U.S. for the Iranians’ local printing needs.”
“The printing operation here was seized, and that’s what’s important,” concluded Casey.
Hodson nodded. “I must concede that we knew about the Iranian effort, but never made the connection to the Chameleon cases until we cracked them. As early as 1996 the General Accounting Office reported that a foreign government was sponsoring production of the ‘Superdollar’-a high-quality bill.”
“How did they distribute that volume?” asked Holliday. “You can get away with a few millions, not billions.”
“The operative word is slowly. We have evidence that bills printed in the U.S. were introduced into the circulation through their bogus charities and using criminal enterprises that usually launder drug money, to launder much bigger amounts. Some of the money printed in Iran was given to Hezbollah and Islamic Jihad to finance their operations, and they distributed it from Lebanon’s Bekaa Valley. Soon enough, the money turned up in Hong Kong, Macao, South Korea, Russia, and Latin America.”
“Has anyone assessed the actual or potential damage to the U.S. economy?” I asked.
“There are only estimates,” said Hodson. “We have no numbers to mea sure the impact, but this counterfeiting is a clear form of economic warfare that could cause serious inflation in the U.S., and undermine the world market’s confidence in U.S. currency. Now we put the lid on it.”
I was curious to hear more about the ploy we used to infiltrate me into Iran. “Did the alumni hold the reunion after all?”
“Yes, we sent Erikka back to complete the arrangements. If the reunion plans were scrapped, a suspicion could arise about whether the plan was just a cover for your activities. We wanted to keep that part of your mission clean.”
Why would we care? I thought, although I knew the answer. The reunion helped recruit new assets.
“Was the event successful?”
“From our perspective, yes. We had to close the circle.” He’d tacitly confirmed my assumption.
“Any progress in the investigation regarding my Bern hotel-room search? Do you know whodunit?” I touched my head. I’d had enough of unpleasant encounters with strangers in European hotel rooms. Couldn’t my rivals just for once send somebody nice? How come in the thriller movies there’s an attractive woman who is gently confronting the good guy, while in reality I collide with burly men with body odors?
“We have incomplete results.”
I sensed that Casey wasn’t telling me everything, but CIA guys tend to be like that.
“We didn’t clean up the world from all sorts of bad guys, but we’re trying,” he said. “The job at your hotel was carried out by people working for the Iranian security services. We think they were local burglars hired for that onetime job. The Swiss police already have a suspect. Our assumption is that they wanted to know what you found out at the bank. When we realized that, we asked Benny Friedman to find a way to alert Tempelhof Bank to increase security at its ware house. They could attempt to destroy the evidence.”
I paused. “I hate to dwell on this, but how did they find out I was coming to Switzerland and where I was staying?”
“Benny has investigated it from the direction of the bank personnel. The Mossad found a bad apple in the bank’s staff, whose duty was to alert Iran whenever there was any outside interest in their clandestine financial activities passing through the bank. That was a very smart move on the Iranians’ part, installing security on both sides of the money-laundering ring.”
“How did Benny catch the mole, without having any official or formal connection to the bank?”
“Benny never said it in so many words, but I think he pulled out an old trick for smoking out your enemy. He spread a rumor at the bank that on that very day the Swiss police were about to raid the bank seeking evidence of ‘private’ deposits made at the bank by members of the current Iranian regime. One employee was monitored leaving the bank in haste during office hours and was photographed making a call from a pay phone just outside the bank. Benny had anticipated it and bugged all public phones in the area.”
“Shrewd move,” I said in appreciation.
Just as I thought we were done, Hodson gave me a folder.
“Pack your bags, you are going to Australia to get the Chameleon.”
“Again? Why? Hasn’t the telephone number in McHanna’s address book been decoded? The Australian Federal Police can find him easily.” I just didn’t feel like leaving again.
“It was decoded. It belongs to an Australian woman. She told the police that Norman McAllister has rented a small apartment from her but took off just about the same time you gave us the number. He still owes her two months’ rent. So far, the Australian Federal Police have no clue. Since you know what the Chameleon looks like and you have the most ‘Chameleon hours,’ we thought that your presence there could help.”
“Did you try to trace the Chameleon through the $3,000 wire transfer McHanna said he made?” I asked. Maybe not all bases were covered, and I’d be spared that long haul.
“It was just another lie. There was no such transfer to anyone by that name in the past month. McHanna was bullshitting you.”
I thought it was strange. McHanna didn’t lie regarding the Chameleon’s phone number, but lied on the money transfer. I wondered why. But said nothing.
“When am I leaving?” I asked, accepting the travel folder. “To night.”
Two days later I landed at Sydney’s airport and Peter Maxwell, the curly-haired Australian federal agent, picked me up.
“Any news?” I asked anxiously as he escorted me through immigration.
“Nothing yet,” he said. “We searched his rented apartment, but nothing was found. His landlady said he was a quiet tenant and had no visitors, but he was always behind on his rent. She said he left a few short days ago without any luggage, together with two men who came with a late-model Japanese car.”
“Any more details?”
“Nothing, she just saw them from the back. All she could say was that the car was white.”
“Did you get his phone records?” I was hoping for a clue there.
“He never used the apartment’s phone for outgoing calls, only incoming. She said he had a cell phone, but she doesn’t know the number.”
“Did you trace it through other means?”
“No,” said Maxwell apologetically. “There were no listings for any of the names we had.”
“Including Norman McAllister?” I asked with a shred of hope.
“Yes, but there’s nothing. It’s quite possible he used a stolen phone or one of these ‘pay as you go’ phones that require no registration.”
I was exhausted, but after only a few hours of sleep I forced myself to start working. I’ll rest in my old age, I promised myself. I had a hunch where to start looking for the Chameleon.
I called Sheila Levi, the legal secretary that the Chameleon almost managed to marry.
She sounded very surprised, but glad to hear my voice. “I was hoping you’d call,” she said in a soft voice. “In fact I wanted to call you, but I didn’t have your number.”
“I’m here now. Is there something you wanted to tell me?” “Yes. I told you last time we met that I gave Herb Goldman jewelry I’d inherited from my grandmother.”
“Yes.” I remembered how disgusted I’d been to hear how the Chame
leon, posing as Herbert Goldman, had used Sheila.
“Well. He sold them to a jewelry shop near the Rocks. About two weeks ago I looked at the window of that shop and was happy to see on display a necklace and a ring that I gave Goldman. They were not sold yet.”
“If you want to get them back, you’ll probably need a good lawyer.” I said.
“No, I didn’t mean that. I entered the shop. I know the owner. He’s a member of the Jewish community-he’s a nice person. I asked him if I could pay him over time for the necklace, hoping to retrieve at least one piece from my grandmother’s gifts to me.”
“And what did he say?”
“He agreed immediately. I’m paying him $10 a week for sixty-five weeks, and it will be mine again. He was kind to let me have the necklace immediately. The interesting thing is that he said that Goldman came by his shop last week to sell him more jewelry.”
If I was still tired, I forgot all about it. “Tell me more.”
“The reason I wanted to call you was that I knew you were looking for him. You see, the shop keep er told me that he refused Goldman’s offer to sell him that jewelry until Goldman could prove ownership. He became suspicious.”
“Why?”
“Because Goldman asked for $500 for jewelry worth at least $1,500.”
“Did Goldman tell the shop keep er he’d be back with proof?”
“I don’t know.”
I called Maxwell and gave him the information.
“It’s a start,” he said. “We have an additional lead. A person answering Goldman’s description has attempted to purchase a forged passport.”
“Any leads from there?”
“No, it was an anonymous tip to our hotline. We assumed he was unable to leave Australia because his Goldman passport became useless ever since you exposed his Goldman identity.”
I ran the facts through my mind. It was possible that the Chameleon had unilaterally severed his relationship with the Iranian intelligence services and had no way of getting another passport. Otherwise he’d have been out of there a long time ago. The fact that he’d tried to get a passport independently both locally and from McHanna only supported my hunch. Active agents of foreign countries can be sure that in time of distress, their handlers will extricate them. When that didn’t happen, the only conclusion was that the Chameleon didn’t contact the Iranians.
“The Chameleon must still be around,” I said.
“The Chameleon?” asked Maxwell in surprise.
“Yes, that’s the name I gave him.” I went on to give him the limited scope of information about the Chameleon’s ties to Iran I was authorized by Holliday to divulge to the Australians. “I think that even while still in the U.S., the Chameleon panicked and was sure that the FBI was on to him. He needed to escape. Of course, if he’d asked to be returned to Tehran, they would have smuggled him back. But since he didn’t, and based on our interrogation of another suspect in the U.S., I think the Chameleon had decided on going in de pen dent, without telling the Iranians. He simply obtained a false passport under the name of Herbert Goldman, a thirteenth alias, and decided to go to Australia, hoping that the FBI wouldn’t trace him and that Tehran would ultimately forget about him. That by itself is a cause for concern for any intelligence service, because independents try to market the goods they have to anyone that will buy them-in this case, information about his previous employer.”
“We know about the Iranians’ reaction in these instances,” said Maxwell without elaborating.
“I’m sure the Chameleon obviously knew of the Iranian intelligence services’ policy to save on pension payments to self-declared retirees, by moving to entitle their families to some death benefits instead. We suspect he went in de pen dent in Australia, because he called a contact in New York seeking a passport and money. The man who’d conned millions out of banks and investors remained penniless. He had to resort to petty crime and defrauded Sheila Levi, that poor secretary he’d promised to marry. He hinted to his New York contact that the FBI may have received information from the Australian Federal Police that had traced him in Australia.”
“It could be just disinformation the Chameleon was giving that person in New York, probably to obtain his cooperation,” said Maxwell dismissively.
“You are right,” I answered. I couldn’t tell Maxwell that McHanna had a direct interest in keeping the Chameleon quiet. Temporarily or permanently.
I felt tired. The twenty-four-hour travel between the U.S. and Australia had taken it’s toll on me. I returned to my hotel. When I woke up there was a coded message from Hodson on my laptop. The following is additional information obtained from McHanna during his interrogation; be aware that it has not been corroborated. McHanna alleged that the Chameleon had told him during the telephone conversation that was earlier disclosed to you, that he (the Chameleon) had a lot of money hidden in Switzerland, probably a commission he paid himself each time he stole on behalf of the Iranians. McHanna also said that the Chameleon couldn’t get to his money, because it was kept in cash in safe-deposit boxes in Switzerland. That made wiring the money impossible.
That’s very interesting, I thought. McHanna lied to me regarding the wire transfer to the Chameleon and now he tells the FBI that the Chameleon has a safe-deposit box in Switzerland? That wasn’t earth-shattering news. The Chameleon had to keep his money somewhere. For me, the things that the Chameleon didn’t say in that connection were far more interesting. My conclusion from McHanna’s statement was that the Chameleon was totally dependent on him. I was sure that McHanna couldn’t risk the Chameleon talking. That would endanger McHanna’s freedom if the FBI found out what he did, or his life, if the Iranians discovered he’d betrayed them and killed their agent. No, I concluded. McHanna doesn’t want us to find the Chameleon alive.
I called Peter Maxwell and discussed my conclusion with him. “Can you get your people in the street to listen to vibrations? I think the Chameleon’s life is in danger.”
“We already have all our intelligence sniffers on the alert,” he said.
I sent Hodson a coded message. I have a problem with McHanna’s story. Did he really have that conversation with the Chameleon? And if he did talk to him, did the Chameleon request help? If so, did he give McHanna his location? How was McHanna supposed to send money or a passport without an address? The Chameleon obviously knew that McHanna also worked for the Iranians. Wasn’t he afraid that McHanna would turn him in? A few hours later I received Hodson’s coded answer. We asked him these questions. McHanna said the Chameleon threatened him that if he went down, he’d take McHanna with him. Apparently the Chameleon knew about the private nest McHanna was building for himself using the Iranians’ money. But we don’t know if the call actually happened. I sent Hodson another coded message. Please interrogate McHanna regarding an attempt on the Chameleon’s life. My suspicion is that if the Chameleon betrayed the Iranians and killed Nazeri, he’d have no qualms in betraying McHanna. Therefore, I think McHanna would have him killed before we could get to him. McHanna’s giving us the Chameleon’s telephone number was probably meant to be used as a future alibi. If accused of arranging the Chameleon’s assassination, he could deny it by asking why would he give us a clue where the Chameleon was hiding, if he wanted him dead rather than alive and talking?
One minute later, I received another coded message written and sent before my last message to Hodson went out. Dan, we have another development. McHanna has confessed to ordering Ms. Otis clipped. He said that Otis was married to the Chameleon and he may have told her something damaging. McHanna confessed that he knew that she had already exposed the Chameleon as Ward and Goldman to the Sydney rabbi. That was enough, even if she didn’t know about the Chameleon’s Whitney-Davis identity or the Chameleon’s covert activities and his real name. If the Chameleon were apprehended, then the shit would hit the fan and the way to McHanna would be short. The Chameleon’s identity exposure was not just a matter between the rabbi in Australia and Loretta Otis
in the United States, two private individuals. McHanna told us that the Chameleon called months ago telling him that his identity as Goldman was blown. No further security infraction was necessary to convince anyone in the loop that Otis had to be eliminated.
So Hodson had reached the same conclusion as I had. The Chameleon’s life was short unless we got to him first.
I deleted the messages.
I went to meet Peter Maxwell. He came with a tall, slim, blonde woman in her midtwenties. “This is Gilian Caldwell. She’s a member of my team.” We shook hands. “Tell him,” urged Peter.
“There’s word on the street that anyone identifying Norman McAllister could make $1,000,” said Gilian.
“Any credence?” I asked.
“Yes, pretty much. We spread that rumor.” She chuckled. “A petty thief came forward and told us that Mr. McAllister has bought stolen jewelry from him for $150.”
“The same jewelry the Chameleon tried to sell to the jewelry shop?”
“Probably. The thief became scared when he heard there was a bounty on McAllister’s head. He told us he was afraid of getting accused or involved in this matter. He was out of his league.”
“Of course the $1,000 reward was also a consideration,” said Maxwell.
“Did he tell you where to find McAllister?” I asked. Peter’s phone vibrated. “Maxwell,” he answered. He listened for a minute and told us in a hurried voice, “Let’s go, a contact has been made.”
When Gilian heard the address from Maxwell she said coolly, “That’s the same address the petty thief gave us.”
We jumped into their unmarked police car and Maxwell drove us to Bondi Junction, an eastern suburb of Sydney four miles east of the Sydney central business district. When we arrived, the area was buzzing with police activity. A uniformed officer approached Peter. “Sir, there’s a person who has barricaded himself on the second floor of the house.” He pointed his hand toward a two-story apartment building.
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