Haggai Harmon - The Chameleon Conspiracy

It was time to chat. “I need a recommendation for a lawyer who can help us with our local Pakistani needs. Do you happen to know any lawyer who handles business and intellectual-property matters, and whom you can recommend?”

His eyes lit up. “Certainly, sir, you should call Ahmed Khan,” he said, and pulled a business card out of a drawer. “He’s very good,” he said, and began praising the attorney’s services.

The recommendation was too enthusiastic, I thought.

“Thank you, that’s very helpful. By the way, we once employed a photographer in Islamabad, but have lost contact with him. How do you think I can trace him here? I may have a job for him.”

“Ask Ahmed Khan. He’ll arrange everything for you.” “Thanks,” I said. As I got up to leave I added, “If you happen to hear the photographer’s name, or, even better, meet him, give him my number.”

“What is his name?”

“Albert C. Ward III.”

“The name rings a bell,” said Rashid. “Maybe he’s a customer.”

“Think so?” I said innocently. “Well, if so, I’m sure he’d be grateful if you gave me his address or phone number.”

A few clicks and gazes into his computer monitor later, he said, “We did have him as a customer, but although the account is still open, there has been no activity for many years. We locked his credit balance in an interest-bearing account.”

“Was it a big amount?” I tried my luck.

“I’m sorry, sir, I can’t tell you that. But what I can say is that under our bank’s rules we move inactive accounts to a long-term interest-bearing savings account only if the balance exceeds $500.”

“Oh,” I said. “So you believe he’s no longer in Islamabad?” “I’ve no idea, sir.”

“OK. Just in case, can I have his address?”

“It will do you no good. Our mail to that address was returned.”

There was no point in pressuring him for the address. It would only have aroused suspicion. Why would I be interested in searching for a person who no longer lived in Islamabad and hadn’t for many years, just to offer him a job? Far more bothersome was the fact that Ward had left an amount of money in excess of $500 in his bank account, and never returned to claim it. He was a young man with limited resources. For him it was a substantial amount, so why had he abandoned it? I suggested all sorts of theories, some improbable, and some gruesome. But I let them rest until I could breathe some life into them.

I returned to my hotel, ignoring peddlers who tried to interest me in everything from souvenirs to dried food. I had dinner at the hotel’s Thai restaurant, the Royal Elephant. I made sure to ask the waiter for mild food. Although I like spicy food, the Thai and Indian version of spicy is way out of my league. If you ask for spicy, they give you their version of spicy food, which burns you on the inside for days. I once ventured to ask for spicy food in India. Three days later, the doctor finally let me crawl out of bed.

I called Ahmed Khan. It was past seven p.m., but I hoped he was still working. His phone answered after two rings. When he heard my name, he became very interested, or rather eager. “Yes, Rashid told me about you. I’ll be glad to be of service.”

I invited him to have a drink with me at the hotel.

“No alcohol, sir, I’m sorry. I’d be delighted to have tea, though.”

An hour later, a fat man dressed in a beige suit that was about six months late for dry cleaning walked to my table at the lobby lounge. “Hello, sir, I’m Ahmed Khan.” He looked to be about forty-five and was even heavier up close.

“I’m pleased to meet you,” I said. For about an hour I told him about the magazine, asking questions I thought would be expected of a business manager coming to a new country to set up operations. His answers were somewhat vague, and were mostly characterized by the sentence, “Don’t worry, I can arrange it, I’ve got contacts.” One would wonder why “contacts” were necessary for simple things such as incorporating a company, renting an office, or leasing a car. The impression I received of Ahmed was that he was more a “fixer” than a lawyer. I had no evidence, but I had the distinct feeling I could steal horses with him, if the price were right. I realized of course that such a quality could go in the opposite direction as well. I had to make sure to play this right.

He then brought up the matter of Albert Ward. “I understand you’re looking for him?” he asked.

“Yes, he was a very good photographer, and I’ve got an interesting assignment for him-that is, if I find him.”

“I’ve got contacts,” he said. “Would you be willing to pay for the information?”

“Well,” I said, “what do you have in mind?”

“It may cost up to $1,000,” he said, surveying my face for a reaction.

“That’s too much,” I said. “We don’t need him that badly.” He wasn’t about to let go, and I knew it. The bean counters in Washington would be all over me if I spent that much money on a tip that might be dry and covered with sixty generations of spider webs.

“What were you thinking, then?” he said.

“No more than $250,” I said.

“Maybe $400?”

“No. $250. If the information is accurate and I find him, I’m willing to pay $100 more as a bonus.”

The following morning I woke up by the ring of my mobile phone. “Good morning, Mr. Van Laufer. This is Ahmed Khan.”

“Good morning,” I said, rubbing my eyes and looking at my watch. It was almost nine. I had overslept.

“I’ve got information about Albert Ward. Can I meet you in my office?”

“Could you come to my hotel? I need to be here to meet some people.” In fact I had no such plans, but I didn’t trust Ahmed, and the idea of going into town just to meet him didn’t seem right.

“Sure,” he said. “I can meet you at twelve thirty.”

“Good,” I said. “Meet me at the Dynasty Restaurant at the hotel.”

Ahmed Khan met me at twelve fifteen as I was crossing the lobby to buy a newspaper. We sat at a table in the corner. I looked at him, waiting for the news.

“Albert Ward left money in his bank account at the Peninsula Bank,” he said. I was motionless.

“How much?”

“Around $2,000.”

“So?”

“He never came back for it.”

“I see,” I said. Ahmed Khan was selling me recycled information he had probably received from Rashid.

“The last transaction he did at the bank was to buy Iranian rials; he used $200 to purchase them.”

“So he went to Iran? Then I guess I’ll have to give up on him.” I was acting indifferent, but in fact this information made my heart go ballistic.

Ahmed wasn’t deterred. “I think I know where he went.”

That certainly aroused even more interest, but I wasn’t about to show it, or the price would go up immediately.

“Where?”

“To Tehran.”

“How do you know?”

“I’ve got sources.”

I wasn’t about to cross-examine him over that. He’d have to give me something better for my $250, and he knew that.

“Do you have an address in Tehran?”

“Yes.”

“Current?”

He hesitated. “I don’t know, it could be. Please remember, Mr. Van Laufer, that he went to Tehran twenty years ago. He may have moved since.”

“So what good is it for me to have a twenty-year-old address? I need him now.”

“I can make some phone calls,” he said. “OK, please go ahead. I’ll be around.”

Ahmed called me in the afternoon. “I have developments,” he said. “But I’ll have to pay my source $300, and that will leave nothing for me.”

“What’s the information?”