He hesitated for a moment. “Yes, in fact we do, but it’s not what we are promoting these days.” There was a subtly reluctant tone in his answer.
“Is business good?” I didn’t want to reveal that I had picked up on his lack of enthusiasm to elaborate.
“Can’t complain,” he replied.
Back at my office, I ran a quick check on McHanna. There was something about him that I didn’t like. Maybe it was because he had the sweetness of a funeral-home director. A newspaper interview I found far back in the LexisNexis database service increased my interest. A small savings-industry newsletter had interviewed McHanna during the period that Whitney-Davis was perpetrating his scam, but before it was discovered. In the interview, McHanna boasted how innovative and resourceful thinking could increase the profit base of a small savings bank. “We are developing additional investment vehicles for our customers that will add an international aspect to our line of products. We will enable our customers to invest in foreign currencies through Tempelhof Bank in Zürich, Switzerland. That’s why we hired the services of Mr. Harrington T. Whitney-Davis, a renowned financial advisor.”
Hello, my friend, I said to myself. I thought of a verse from the Bible my father had liked to quote: “Do two walk together, unless they have agreed?” We would soon see how these men had conspired.
I checked the FBI report again—nothing about Switzerland. Same went for the bank examiners. I double-checked with their agencies. Nothing in the file. I went to see McHanna again, unannounced. If he was happy to see me, he was doing a good job of hiding it. Instead, he looked concerned.
“Mr. McHanna, I forgot to ask you one other question,” I said. “In the end, did your savings bank in South Dakota finally launch the idea, offering your customers some foreign-currency investment opportunities?”
He was stunned. After he recovered, he said slowly, “Well, actually, we didn’t.”
“Why not?”
“If I remember correctly, the board didn’t think the product fit the needs of our customers. They were mostly farmers and small-business owners.”
“So the program was abandoned?”
“Yes. And right after that we discovered the fraud, and I tendered my resignation.”
Hmm. Brian DiLorenzo of the OTS told me that the savings bank had fired McHanna. What else might he have embellished?
“Have you seen or heard of Mr. Harrington T. Whitney-Davis since?”
McHanna turned his eyes to the window on his right and scratched his nose. “No.”
My friend, I thought, your mouth says no, but your body says yes.
I remembered the course about body language taught by the Mossad psychologist.
Research has shown that many, but not all, people tell the truth when they look to the left trying to remember events. When they look to the right they rely more on their imagination, and therefore they’re either intentionally lying or their answers cannot be relied upon. If a person questioned touches any part of his or her body, that indicates stress and the likelihood of a lie. Look at the person’s pupils. They dilate when someone is lying. Same goes for a dry mouth that a person tries to moisten by licking his or her lips.
“And what about Tempelhof Bank? Do you still have any relationship with them?” I asked.
McHanna’s smile disappeared. “I’m not sure. I would need to check on that. Anyway, I don’t think it’s relevant to your investigation, Mr. Gordon. This information is a trade secret of my company, and has nothing to do with my former employment.”
He had a point, I thought, but I had plenty of them as well. He had just given me a reason to follow that lead and go to Switzerland.
CHAPTER SIX
David Stone refused outright when I reported my findings and asked for his authorization to go to Zürich. “You know the Swiss sensitivity when it comes to investigations by foreign agents,” he said.
“Of course I know. Article 273,” I said. The Swiss criminal code made it a criminal offense for anyone besides a Swiss official to question a witness within Switzerland, whether the case was criminal or civil.
“Right,” said David. He then reminded me, though we both knew I needed no reminding, that this law includes agents of foreign governments who attempt to obtain information about a client of a Swiss bank. Even if a client authorizes the Swiss bank to disclose information to a foreign government, the bank cannot divulge any information on that basis.
“So?” I said when he had finished.
“I just wanted to make sure we’re on the same page.”
I knew David. Although he was content to hear me recite the Swiss law he had often suspected I overlooked, he also wanted to make sure I remembered Swiss law special restrictions regarding foreign governments. The Swiss legislature included that restriction to protect Swiss banks from pressure by foreign governments, which could make their life difficult if a Swiss bank also operated in that foreign country. We saw that when the Swiss refused for fifty years to give up any information on the bank accounts owned by Jewish victims of the Nazis. But, in that case, Congress and the U.S. courts made them finally talk and pay.
I waited for him to say more, but he did not. It was my turn. “It so happens that I have plans for a private visit to Switzerland,” I said wickedly. “And I need to be on assignment in Germany. So I request your authorization to issue a round-trip ticket to Berlin, with a stopover at my own expense in Zürich.”
“You’re on your own,” said David.
“I know that.” It’s the same old gambit: official refusal and a silent nod. It had worked fine thus far, because I’d been careful not to break Swiss law, laid low, and limited my activities to brain power. And I never broke the eleventh commandment of the trade: Though Shalt Not Get Caught.
The flight to Zürich was uneventful, except for the nosy and noisy lady beside me who insisted I meet her niece, who she swore had lost weight since the photo she flashed had been taken.
I checked into the Canton Park hotel, a cozy three-star hotel in the center of town. On the following morning I went to Tempelhof Bank near Bahnhofplatz in the heart of Zürich. The street-level entrance was palatial, framed by marble columns and lions. The inside was just as majestic, laid with Persian rugs, antique furniture, and a seven-foot flower arrangement. A uniformed blonde lady approached me.
“Grüezi,” she said. She switched to English, seeing the puzzled look on my face. “Welcome, how can I help?”
“I need some information concerning investment in foreign currencies.”
“Certainly,” she said. “Please be seated. I’ll have a specialist help you.”
A moment later, we were joined by a slim young man with rimless glasses.
“Hello, I’m Manfred von Wilhelm,” he said, and we shook hands.
“I’m Peter Wooten, an attorney from the United States,” I told him. Two out of three accurate pieces of information wasn’t bad. Peter Wooten was my frequent alias. The name, though, is an alias I use when I need to hide my identity from the opposition, and sometimes even from a foreign government as well.
“I’m exploring for my client—a major private U.S. investor—the option of investing in foreign currencies.”
“You came to the right place,” said Wilhelm. “Currency transactions have been our forte for many years. Swiss integrity, professionalism, and absolute discretion in protecting our customers are our bywords. May I ask who recommended us?”
“My client talked about Harrington T. Whitney-Davis, a consultant who had assisted a friend of his with satisfactory results.”
“Many consultants recommend our services, and I’m sure Mr. Harrington T. Whitney-Davis did the right thing when he mentioned our name.”
“Good, I hope to be associated with Mr. Whitney-Davis as well. Can you arrange that?”
He hesitated. “I’m not sure.”
“Maybe I came to the wrong bank,” I said cautiously. “I want to make sure about Mr. Harrington T. Whitney-Davis; I don’t think
it should be confidential. I’m asking about a business association, not about your bank’s clients.”
Slightly annoyed, he picked up his phone and dialed a three-digit number. He exchanged a few sentences in Swiss German, which I found difficult to follow, but the name Harrington T. Whitney-Davis was mentioned twice.
He hung up. “Well, my colleague just told me that years ago, Mr. Harrington T. Whitney-Davis was suggesting our services to his clients, as an outside consultant. I’m sorry I wasn’t aware of it, since I came to work for the bank only last year. What is your client interested in? Speculative trading? Hedging against currency fluctuations to guarantee proceeds from an export transaction, or to safeguard against currency-exchange-rate hikes if he’s importing goods?”
Forget about the transactions, I wanted to say, let’s talk about Whitney-Davis. But recognizing that any additional reference to him would arouse suspicion, I reluctantly moved on. I could revisit the issue after Wilhelm invested more time and effort in trying to sell me on the bank’s services. The more time he invested, the more effort he’d make not to alienate me.
“He wants to speculate,” I said. “$10 to $20 million, for starters.”
This didn’t seem to impress Wilhelm. If he hadn’t dealt with bigger fish, he certainly wanted to give that impression. Perhaps I should have mentioned a bigger amount.
“Would your client be giving the instructions? Or would he want us to trade for him?”
“Due to time differences, I think he’d prefer your experts to do it. Tell me how’s it done.”
He spent the next fifteen minutes explaining the investment mechanism. I gave him a gracious smile and a nod.
“Earlier you mentioned confidentiality. This is something that my client insists upon.”
“Swiss law and our bank’s rules assure that,” he said.
“What about communication? How does he contact you?”
“On the phone, unless there’s a problem for him in America,” he said smoothly, looking at my face through his rimless glasses. “Or he could fax or e-mail us. We can also hold his mail until he comes to Switzerland to collect it.”
“Do you have a U.S.-based correspondent bank? My client may want to use that link, rather than go through international communication lines.”
“I understand, sir. In fact, we can use McHanna Associates in New York. They aren’t a bank, but rather a service company, and I’m told they’re very experienced.”
“That sounds good,” I said.
“With your client’s written authorization, they could handle all matters for your client without any problem.”
“Including receiving mail, like your monthly statements?” “Of course.”
“By the way,” I said casually. “Where can I find Whitney-Davis? My client was so impressed with his professional abilities.”
He frowned and dialed his phone again and exchanged a few sentences.
“We aren’t sure,” he said. “You may want to contact McHanna Associates in New York. They may know more about him.”
Ah, but McHanna had already told me that he couldn’t remember whether he’d heard from Whitney-Davis since his South Dakota scam in the mid 1980s.
I returned to my hotel with a briefcase full of glossy brochures and application forms. Discovering a current business relationship between the former manager of a savings bank victimized by Whitney-Davis and a Swiss bank that appeared to run a legitimate business was peculiar but not earthshaking. There were, however, two very interesting findings. First, McHanna hadn’t only lied to me. He didn’t seem to hold a grudge against Whitney-Davis and now, in fact, could be in contact with him. I was puzzled by that finding. I had just heard that Whitney-Davis continued to use that name years after the scam. But the FBI had told us that the name had disappeared from all credit-reporting agencies. And now it had surfaced again? It was highly unusual.
Second, McHanna Associates was apparently helping U.S. residents avoid the prying eyes of the U.S. government by accepting and keeping their Swiss banking correspondence. That could be considered aiding and abetting money laundering, if the proceeds deposited by the client were the fruit of a crime. But at that moment I was too frustrated, tired, and hungry to follow up on these promising leads or think about the resurrection of Whitney-Davis’s name. The idea that man could live on bread alone turned out to be all wet. I was hungry and needed a beer. Unfortunately, the meal I ended up getting consisted of a tuna sandwich and a local beer that tasted as if it had gone through a horse first.
I hooked up my laptop to my room’s high-speed Internet connection and sent Esther the efficient office admin an encrypted e-mail:
Please check with the New York State Banking Department whether McHanna Associates need a license to act as a liaison for a Swiss bank in currency transactions for U.S. citizens. If such a license is necessary, please see if one was issued to McHanna. Also, ask the FBI field office in Manhattan whether there’s an ongoing investigation regarding that company’s possible involvement in money laundering. Finally, check if McHanna ever filed any tax returns listing Harrington T. Whitney-Davis as an employee, or engaged him as an in de pen dent contractor.
The latter two questions were legitimate, but the chances that the FBI would discuss the first question, even though we were both agencies of the U.S. government, were slim to none. As to the tax returns, the IRS could not, under federal law, share that information without a court order. Neither the FBI nor the IRS were the bad guys in this bureaucratic nightmare. They had to maintain a stringent procedure for information exchange. But maybe Esther, with her quiet demeanor, could achieve what I couldn’t with my big mouth and aggressive attitude.
I had a free evening. But Zürich at night is as exciting as having a warm beer with an overly talkative blind date you agreed to meet during a temporary moment of insanity. Swiss TV isn’t any better. I called my children and went to sleep.
In the morning, I had barely shaken myself awake when I turned on my laptop computer. There was an incoming encrypted e-mail from Esther:
There’s no need for a license from the New York State Banking Department if the company isn’t doing any banking activities in New York, such as taking deposits or making loans to the public. Providing liaison services alone requires no license. As for the FBI, I received an evasive answer regarding any investigation of McHanna Associates. The IRS says officially that they can’t help us, but unofficially I was led to understand that Harrington T. Whitney-Davis’s name never appeared on McHanna Associates’ tax filings, although it’s possible that an alias was used. Please let me know if you need anything else. Esther.
I returned to New York. Unenthusiastically, I pulled out the files again. I checked the names of the perpetrators in the remaining eight cases. By now, what I found didn’t surprise me; it was all so obvious that I almost expected it. All eight men had left the U.S. in 1980 or 1981. Their respective names had resurfaced briefly, one with each of the banking or other scams perpetrated. Then each had vanished again. Since I discovered that the name of Whitney-Davis resurfaced, I ran a check on all other names to see if we had a wholesale revival. But the answer came as expected. No. No resurgence of any other name.
I had a hunch that the suspected perpetrators’ disappearances weren’t coincidental. There was a clear pattern. Since none of the men had any meaningful criminal record, or a troubled past, I didn’t suspect that they had cooperated with the thefts of their identities, although I couldn’t rule that out altogether. I had to decide on a direction. But I had no idea which way to turn.
CHAPTER SEVEN
There were additional questions I wanted to ask McHanna about his contacts with Whitney-Davis, but I decided against it. The information I had received in Switzerland was, at best, just raw intelligence, and confronting McHanna before I had hard evidence could be damaging.
I called David Stone. He had always been a good sounding board for my queries. David’s physical appearance as a typical absentmind
ed university professor with profuse white hair and eyeglasses slipping to the tip of his nose was misleading. Although nearing retirement, he was very alert, and all brain. He was always the first to come to the office and the last to leave, the exact opposite of a lot of guys in his position, who are just there to mark time until their pension kicks in. I tried to imagine what David would do in retirement, but it seemed so out of character for him that no clear picture materialized in my mind’s eye.
“Let me put you on speaker,” he said. “Bob Holliday is also here, and I want him to get involved.”
“OK, I’m facing an interesting question. Who would know that a bunch of apparently unrelated young American men in their early twenties left the United States at about the same time, leaving no trace behind them?”
“There are many young men, Americans and other nationals, who take off and never return to their homelands. That’s no news,” David answered.
“I think there’s at least one common denominator to all these cases,” I continued, “but the FBI takes it even a step further. They think all the scams were perpetrated by the same person.”
“I saw that. Their conclusion is based on paper-thin evidence. You know that from a false premise, any conclusion can be drawn. I tend to think that the FBI found itself in a cul-de-sac, or it wouldn’t have off-loaded the file on us.” David sounded tired. “I didn’t get back to you on this because I had no answers either. So maybe you shouldn’t follow their way of thinking, or you’ll end up where they ended—facing a brick wall.”
“This is strange, now that you mention it, David,” I said. “Because it goes along with my line of thinking. If what I’ve discovered so far checks out, then the entire theoretical structure the FBI is working from will collapse. They had just one chink in the armor. Maybe we don’t have Albert C. Ward III assuming eleven aliases. Maybe we’ve got ourselves a Mr. Anonymous with twelve aliases, including one as Albert C. Ward III.”
The Chameleon Conspiracy Page 5