Haggai Harmon - The Chameleon Conspiracy

“OK, let’s do the routine.”

David tried to hide his surprise.

“What’s the matter?” he asked. “You usually grumble when I raise the bureaucracy involved in foreign travel.”

“I’ve learned to live with it,” I said. It was kind of awkward. David was right. I usually complained about that bureaucracy when trips to sunny locations and paradise islands were concerned, probably because it unnecessarily delayed my departure, but now I was compliant when a trip to Pakistan was concerned? Maybe I was happy to go to resort areas without any delay, but going to Pakistan nowadays isn’t exactly a fun trip, particularly if you’re an American. Usually it doesn’t take much to make me professionally happy: catch an absconding con man with his multimillion-dollar loot in a sunny resort; find a cooperative bank manager in an offshore location who will spill on his clients for less than $1,000; or get a call from my boss telling me he got praises for my work, not just complaints I was cutting corners. But as always in life, miracles happen to others. I get reality.

Five days later, formalities were completed and Esther gave me the airline tickets. “Be careful out there,” she said in her motherly voice. Esther was a very pleasant African-American woman in her early fifties with gray streaks in her black hair, which gave her a dignified appearance that perfectly matched her personality. I was constantly telling her she should go to law school, with her methodical and sharp mind.

“Don’t buy any food from street vendors,” she continued, knowing my penchant for food adventures. “We don’t want you back here on a stretcher.” I remembered the time I’d eaten nearly-raw hamburger in a remote town in Southeast Asia that gave me a five-foot-long tapeworm that took months to get rid of.

I looked at the ticket folder. I was leaving the following morning on American Airlines flight 132 to London Heathrow Airport, continuing on British Airways flight 6429 to Islamabad, arriving the day after at six a.m. I inserted into the folder my vaccination card showing I had received hepatitis A and typhoid vaccinations. Esther handed me a printed form. “That’s the current travel advisory issued by the State Department,” she said. I glanced at the memo. The Department of State continues to warn U.S. citizens to defer nonessential travel to Pakistan due to ongoing concerns about the possibility of terrorist activity directed against American citizens and interests there. The U.S. Embassy in Islamabad and the U.S. consulates in Karachi, Lahore, and Peshawar continue to operate at reduced staffing levels. Family members of official Americans assigned to all four posts in Pakistan were ordered to leave the country in March 2002, and have not been allowed to return. Al-Qaeda and Taliban elements continue to operate inside Pakistan, particularly along the porous border region. Their presence, coupled with that of indigenous sectarian and militant groups in Pakistan, requires that all Americans in or traveling through Pakistan take appropriate security measures.

Esther grinned. “Still wanna go?”

“Even more so,” I said. I made quick arrangements for Snap, called my two children at their colleges just to let them know I’d be overseas for a while (they were quite used to it by now), and took a cab to JFK Airport.

I arrived in Islamabad together with the first rays of the rising sun. The streets were already bustling with cars, buses, taxicabs, and bicycle riders. The sidewalks were crammed with pedestrians, most of them dressed in the Pakistani traditional garb, men in salwar kameez and women in burkas.

“Mr. Gordon?” asked an overweight Pakistani man in his early forties wearing a khaki safari suit.

“And you are?”

“My name is Abdullah, sir. I’m a U.S. embassy driver. I’ve instructions to drive you.”

“Where to?” I hadn’t been expecting him.

“To your hotel first, sir. Your meeting at the embassy is not until noon.”

“Can I see your embassy ID please?” You could never be too cautious, particularly considering where I was.

“Of course, sir,” he said matter of factly, and showed me his embassy photo ID. I followed him to an unmarked embassy car, and we drove in silence to the Marriott Hotel on Aga Khan Road.

“I can get to the embassy by myself later on,” I told him. “I need to get some rest first. I had a very long flight.”

“I understand, sir, but my instructions are to drive you,” said the driver. He explained that the RSO-regional security officer- had requested that no U.S. government officials use the city’s transportation. “You know, sir, personal safety isn’t what it used to be,” he added with a sigh, wiping his forehead with a handkerchief. Although it was barely eight o’clock, the temperature was already 95°F, and the humidity high.

“Fine,” I said. “I’ll meet you at the hotel lobby at eleven thirty.”

I freshened up and waited for Abdullah, who was twenty minutes late. “I’m sorry, sir,” he said. “Bad traffic.”

I entered the car. “Where are we going?”

“The American Embassy is on Ramna Street, in the diplomatic enclave of Islamabad.”

After passing the security checks and passing through the lowered Delta barrier, I entered the embassy compound, which would be more accurately described as a fortress. But once inside, I felt as if I were in a country club. Beautiful gardens, an Olympic swimming pool, tennis courts, a restaurant, and a small baseball field. The embassy main building seemed to be rather empty. I saw only a few embassy staff. “The RSO is expecting you,” said Abdullah. “He’s on the third floor. I’m restricted from that floor.”

“Ned Applebee,” said the RSO, a well-built blond man in his early thirties, as he nearly crushed my fingers with his handshake. We sat in his small office. “Welcome to Islamabad. Sorry I can’t offer you anything to drink. All nonessential staff has been sent home, and I haven’t figured out how to restock that goddamned coffee machine. All we’ve got is soda. Anyway, the legal attache wants to see you as well. He’ll be joining us in a few minutes.”

“That’s all right, “I said. “Any diet soda will do.” I followed Ned to the hallway and took two cans from the vending machine.

“Let’s move to the bubble,” suggested Ned Applebee. We walked over to a sealed and secure room, a must in any embassy where there are always ears on the other side of the wall. Such rooms are soundproof and windowless, with just a desk and chairs, where no electronic equipment such as computers or cell phones is allowed. They are mostly used for top-secret conversations, in the hope that no eavesdropping will be possible.

“I’m here on assignment looking for a U.S. citizen, Albert C. Ward III, whom we suspect of major bank fraud. His footsteps led me here. He could be using aliases.”

“I saw the State Department’s cable,” said Applebee. “Did you ask for the Pakistani government’s help?”

“Not at this time,” I said. “It’s too early. First I need to make sure I know who the players are.”

He looked at me, surprised, but said nothing. There was no point in going into details, though luckily it didn’t seem to bother him. “My first stop needs to be Peninsula Bank. Any contacts there?”

“Not officially,” he said cryptically.

“And unofficially?”

“You could make new friends here easily,” he said with a smile. “People like to be friends with rich Americans.”

I gave him a quizzical look, but he just smiled and added nothing.

“Like all other Third World countries?” I pressed, trying to catch his drift.

“Only in some aspects,” he said. “Just be careful. Anything else I could do for you before we start discussing my business?”