Haggai Harmon - The Chameleon Conspiracy

Benny was telling me something, which I read loud and clear. The Mossad seemed to be trying to fill the gap and provide financial services to the “needy” terrorist organizations. But why was he telling me that? Friendship aside, in these matters you didn’t share that kind of information with anyone, even with a close friend. Benny had thrown a line with some juicy bait. But was there also a sharp-edged hook?

Being direct seemed to be the best course. “Benny, why are you telling me this?”

He smiled wryly. “Because I like you.” He was as smooth as they come when it came to playing it close to the vest.

“Right. But you want something. Now tell me what it is.” “I could use help,” he said casually. He had anticipated my reaction.

“What kind of help?”

“Your favorite kind. The exciting kind.”

I sighed impatiently. “OK, I get it. Just tell me.”

His story was intriguing. For the past few years, just after the 9/11 attacks, the four “financiers” had run a small but lucrative business in Europe, and over the last four years they’d slowly taken control of a family-owned bank. This bank had been in the business of providing financial services to rich Arabs for a long time. Until the midseventies, their clients had mostly been oil millionaires from the Persian Gulf States or corrupt politicians with dirty money. Last year, the bank actually made a profit of more than $70 million.

“I take it the Mossad finally put you on commission?” Benny chuckled. “I wish. You know the drill-when you overspend five hundred dollars, accounting is all over you, but when you make seventy million a year, they don’t even say thanks.”

“Small business?”

“Well, you know, in proportion to other banks in Europe,” he said with a grin.

“What bank is it?” I asked.

“Tempelhof Bank.”

“Benny, are your guys following me?” Was it just a coincidence? I was annoyed.

“Not at all. You’ll soon see that we have a common interest.”

“OK, what’s my interest?” I was getting tired of his slow game.

“You’re looking for Albert Ward.”

“How do you know that? Benny, let’s cut to the chase. Have you been monitoring me?”

“No. I just know.”

“How?”

“People talk.”

“I didn’t.”

“You aren’t people. Since when do you expect me to divulge my sources?” He smiled, enjoying the cat-and-mouse exchange.

“Benny! What the hell is going on here? You tell me about a serious and confidential operation the Mossad is running, but you don’t tell me about a potential leak in my operation?”

“Pakistan is a sieve,” he said, shrugging. “Rarely is information sold once. Three or four times is more likely.”

“Well, U.S. government employees in Pakistan definitely told you nothing. That leaves one bank manager and one lawyer.”

“Always knew you were a quick thinker,” said Benny, his grin returning.

“Yeah, but how did that information reach you? Do they work for you too?”

“Dan, come on. Don’t expect me to answer that. You know full well that in intelligence there aren’t any loyalties. Just interests.” Benny was toying with me again.

“Does that go for you and me too?”

He had talked himself into a corner. “You know that we go beyond that.”

“Benny, don’t play with me. I have to know whether the sleazeballs I was talking to in Islamabad knew who I really am. If they double-crossed me and sold you the information, then they could sell it again to people who aren’t as nice as you are.”

“They didn’t double-cross you with me.” This time there was no grin.

“So, you got it from a third party? They told someone else, who told you.”

Benny lifted a hand in protest. “Please. This is beginning to sound like middle school gossip-who told whom what and when. I’ll just tell you. We intercepted communications between Ahmed Khan and his handler in Tehran.”

My heart raced. “Tehran? He’s working for the Iranians?” “Apparently. He didn’t buy your story about the magazine. He was certain you were working for the CIA. He checked in with Iran about you.”

“And the immediate result was an attempt to kidnap me in Islamabad. Did you intercept the Iranian response to Ahmed’s query?”

“Well, you know what they had to say about it, don’t you? They tried to kidnap you.”

“That tells me a lot,” I said. “That Ward’s disappearance is probably connected to the Iranian intelligence services.”

Benny nodded. “Nothing is coincidental with these people.”

“So what are your plans?”

He paused. “Our bank could use additional business from Iran.”

“And how do you encourage that?”

“Convince them that we are efficient, ask no unnecessary questions, and talk to no governments.”

“There are plenty of banks with those qualifications in Europe.”

“I know. But we have special persuasion techniques.”

“Let me guess-from the department of dirty tricks?” Benny smiled. “Dirty? That only refers to the people we target. I’m talking about intelligence-gathering techniques.” He had the faintest sparkle in his eyes. He knew how serious all of this was and what the implications of it were for me, but that was part of what made him who he was. I’m sure he’d never let his own amusement put my safety or my goals in jeopardy, but this kind of banter had become an ingrained aspect of our relationship.

In fact, I knew all about Benny and his techniques. I could still remember that time when we were in the Academy and he’d pretended to be a police officer and convinced a bank teller to let him take his seat behind the counter because a con man- me!-was about to pass a bad check. That was years ago, of course, but my old friend hadn’t changed one iota.

“OK,” I said. “Let’s get back to the point at hand.”

“Fine by me,” said Benny. “OK. In a sense, we’re both looking for Ward.”

Now that was a surprise. “Ward? What does he have to do with Israel that would make him interesting to the Mossad?”

“You already had one disappointment, when you jumped on that guy in Australia, right?”

“I get it. I fucked up again on something else,” I said, a little testily.

Benny smiled. “Are you ready for this?” he asked. “We’re after him too. So we know that the guy in the Sydney hospital bed isn’t Albert Ward. And he’s definitely not Herbert Goldman. We do, however, think he’s an Iranian agent.”

It was the bull’s-eye of a target I’d been aiming at since I got the case, but hadn’t yet had the proof to present conclusively. It was stunning to hear Benny sound so sure about my hunch.

“Why are you interested in him? Just because he’s an Iranian agent? There are thousands of them.”

“Because he’s one of Iran’s treasure hunters. A person who brought millions of dollars to their slush-fund coffers.”

“Why is it your business?”

“When he steals money from American banks, it’s your problem, but when that money starts financing Palestinian and other terrorist organizations, he becomes my problem too.”

“If you’re so sure it’s him and can support it with facts to convince the Australians, then let’s get him! He could still be in the hospital in Sydney.”

“I wish. Immediately after you left, the Australian police received notification through Interpol about the FBI finger-print comparison, and their conclusion was that your guy wasn’t Albert C. Ward III.”

“I think they were holding him on some local fraud charges,” I said.

“Yes, land-sale fraud. Of the three complainants who said Ward sold them somebody else’s land, not one is available to press charges. Two of them vanished, and the third one quickly withdrew his complaint. The Australian authorities had no choice but to dismiss the arrest warrant. So he walked into the sunset.”