Haggai Harmon - The Chameleon Conspiracy

“I know the custom,” I said. “You meet one of their representatives in Europe, give him $500, and another person in the Middle East will deliver the money to the designated recipient. It’s just like Western Union.”

“Yes,” he agreed. “But with one huge exception. Western Union isn’t involved in money laundering for terror.”

I knew what he meant. A few hundred dollars, multiplied by thousands, added up to significant amounts, without any written evidence. The Western world was unaware of the hidden potential in the hawala system. Rooted in deep religious convictions, the system provides services based on personal relationships and trust. Usually there’s no collateral, and Western-style accounting is a luxury often done without. Not all the money transferred finances terror. Far from it. The original intention of the founders of the custom was to collect money for legitimate Islamic religious and charitable purposes.

“And Nada?”

“How would you label an organization that takes money from Muslims in Europe, gives no receipt, creates no paper trail of its transactions-which are based on trust and the use of telephone messages-and sends money into the hands of terror organizations? Some of it might go into the hands of innocent people, but we have ample reason to believe that these transactions funnel millions of dollars to terrorist organizations to finance terror.”

“I need to talk to my director at the Justice Department,” I said. “Can I use a secure phone?”

Ned pointed to the room next door. “There, you can use that phone. Just dial the number as if you were in the U.S.”

David picked up the phone. “Hi, Dan. How is Pakistan treating you?”

“Everything’s fine. I’m at the embassy calling you on a secure phone.” I reported my findings and asked permission to go to Lugano, to see what I could find about Nada Management’s connection to my case.

“The operation was shut down a year or two ago,” said David. Apparently he was more informed than I was. “What can you find there?”

“David, I went to Pakistan on a twenty-year-old lead and developed promising information, so maybe working on an organization that was recently closed won’t be that difficult. Anyway, I want to stop by in Israel for a few days. Switzerland is just in the neighborhood.”

“If you call countries two thousand miles apart ‘in the neighborhood,’ ” said David amusedly. “Let me run it by some people first. Call me later.”

Abdullah drove me back to my hotel. As I was looking aimlessly through the car windows, a motorcycle passed us on my right and the rider glanced through my window. I couldn’t see his face through his helmet. A minute later, another motorcycle passed us on our left, and the rider also looked directly into our car.

“Turn the car back,” I ordered Abdullah.

“What happened?”

“I forgot some papers at the embassy,” I said, raising my voice just a tad. “Just turn back.”

Abdullah turned the car around and headed back to the embassy compound. I saw the two motorcycles again. This was no coincidence; they didn’t even make an effort to hide. It looked as though they were even trying to be visible.

I couldn’t take any chances. I remembered well the story of Daniel Pearl, a Wall Street Journal reporter, who was murdered execution style after he was abducted in Karachi.

As we approached the main-compound wall, where I could already see the employee parking area at the corner of University Avenue, a truck blocked our way. I saw the driver just sitting there, with no attempt to turn or park.

“It’s a trap,” I yelled at Abdullah. “Turn around and go to the main gate!”

There was no need for my advice: Abdullah was already doing just that. With screeching tires, he backed up our car. I saw the two motorcycles again at our side, one cyclist holding a gun. I bent down on my seat to avoid an expected barrage of bullets. But none came. One motorcyclist tried to block our car from backing away, while the other, holding the gun, motioned to Abdullah to stop the car. “They’re trying to kidnap us,” I shouted. “Don’t stop.”

Abdullah stepped on the accelerator with might. The car jumped back, hitting the motorcycle riding behind us and throwing the rider up in the air. Abdullah managed to turn the car, and within ten seconds we were at the compound gate. The Delta barrier was lowered suddenly and we entered. I wiped drops of sweat off my forehead. “That was close,” I said. “Thanks for the good work.”

Abdullah nodded. “That’s my job.”

Applebee came running toward us. “What happened?”

“I think there was an attempt to kidnap us. How did you know we were returning?”

“There’s a panic button in the car with a direction finder,” said Applebee. “Abdullah must have pressed it. We saw that your car was actually around the corner.”

We went inside to his office. I gave Applebee a full account of the events. He called someone in the building and sent him to check the scene.

“What do I do next?”

“Do you want to stay in Islamabad?”

“No. I’m done here, but I need to wait for instructions from Washington.”

“Anyway, you’ll have to stick around for a day or two until we complete the investigation and work with the local police on that.” I went to the vending machine to get a soda and calm down. I sat on the couch in Applebee’s office, trying to collect my thoughts.

The phone rang. Applebee listened, said, “OK, thanks,” and hung up.

“Our Diplomatic Security Ser vice agents on the scene reported that the motorcyclist disappeared together with his motorcycle. They just found pieces from a broken red tail light, and skid marks on the road. Nothing else. Did Abdullah hit him?”

“I’m sure of that,” I said. “I saw him flying up in the air. Maybe he wasn’t hurt badly, or he was picked up by a backup team.”

“We’re in touch with the Reporting Centre of the Pakistan Police Ser vice. They’ll investigate.”

“Who are they?”

“Their criminal and political intelligence service. Who were you in contact with in Islamabad?”

“Just two men: a bank manager, Rashid Khan, and an attorney he recommended, Ahmed Khan.”

“Same last name?”

“Yes. I suspect they’re related, maybe even brothers. The lawyer was recommended by the banker, and he sold me information that most likely came from the bank.”

“We’ll get you a place to stay here,” said Applebee. “I don’t think it’d be wise for you to return to your hotel.”

“I guess not,” I said. “Could you send someone to my hotel to pick up my stuff and bring it over?”

I regretted it immediately. If anyone came to the hotel to pick up Dan Gordon’s belongings, the hotel would tell him that I checked out few days ago. I couldn’t tell Applebee that I’d checked in again under a different name. He’d have my neck for violating his security instructions. But it was too late. I needed to mitigate the potential damage.

“Who are you sending?”

“Probably Abdullah,” he said.

“OK, I’ll give him my room key.” I went outside and approached Abdullah, who was sitting in his car, next to the entrance.

“I’ve been told to move into the compound,” I said, handing him my room key. “Please go directly to my hotel room without stopping at the desk, and collect my things. I’ll call the hotel to tell them my assistant is coming over with the room key to remove my belongings, and I’ll settle the hotel bill over the phone.”

Abdullah left, and as I turned to go upstairs, Applebee met me outside. “Let me show you to your new residence. We’ve got plenty of empty houses here. Since 2001, we’ve been singles only. Our staff goes home for family visits. There’s the American Club in the compound, where you can meet other staff members, watch American TV, and have a beer.”