Haggai Harmon - The Chameleon Conspiracy

That got to him. “Are you crazy?” he yelled. “They’ll kill me.”

“Why? You have been serving them loyally for such a long time, they’ll probably try to smuggle you out of the country.”

It didn’t seem to be an option that McHanna had even considered viable. And we had not yet said who “they” were.

“It’s a good thing that you understand reality,” I said, and sat on a chair opposite him. “They’ll have no such plans. They don’t believe in protracted justice.”

He didn’t react.

“Of course, the fact that you were stealing them blind isn’t going to help, if they find out.”

He was too shaken to say anything. “Mr. Niarchos Alexander Papadimitriou,” I said in a theatrical solemnity. “Do you have additional names and passports leading to bank accounts with money you skimmed?”

“What do you want to know?” he asked faintly.

“Where is Kourosh Alireza Farhadi?”

“Who?”

“Kourosh Alireza Farhadi.”

“Never heard that name.”

“Kourosh Alireza Farhadi, aka Albert Ward III.”

“Really? Is that Albert’s name? I didn’t know that. I told you, Albert’s in Australia. He’s retired.”

Aha, I said to myself, McHanna forgot when he lied, when he told the truth, or when he’d said anything.

He supposedly knew him only as Whitney-Davis. He had just confirmed knowledge of Albert Ward, although he’d previously denied it.

“And where is Harrington T. Whitney-Davis?”

“They’re all the same person. Retired in Australia.”

Bingo! But I didn’t want to show him my joy, and moved on.

“Retired? What do you mean?”

“He told me that he decided to retire in Australia.” “When was that?”

“I think a few months ago.”

“While he was in the U.S.?”

“He called me from Australia. I last saw him a few years ago.”

“Who owns McHanna Associates?”

“I do.”

“Formally?”

“Yes.”

“And informally?”

He hesitated. “I have silent investors.”

“Who are they?”

“Foreign institutions.”

“I need names.”

“I can’t give you any.”

“Why?”

He didn’t answer.

“Mr. McHanna, I know who your investors are.”

“You do?”

“Yes. You’re the paymaster of an Iranian covert operation in the U.S., which moved millions of dollars to and from the U.S. to finance secret operations of Iranian intelligence services, and to support terrorist organizations.”

He became so pale that I though he’d faint immediately. I leaned toward him. “Mr. McHanna, I hope you realize that under the Patriot Act, what you did could get you the death penalty by lethal injection in a federal prison.”

Before I could move, McHanna vomited on me and on his own clothes. It smelled terrible-he must have eaten the carcass of a skunk after he was brought in. Was that the kind of food they served there? I calmly took a tissue from my pocket and wiped the slime off my face and clothes, remaining in my seat.

“Look at me,” I said. “I’m the only one who can help you out of this mess. Tell me where our guy is.”

“I want a lawyer,” he suddenly said. “I’ve got rights.” “Do you know what is going to happen if your Iranian bosses discover you were skimming off the top? I hardly think they’ll like it.”

“I didn’t steal anything.”

“Right,” I said. “It was actually Papadimitriou who transferred money to his personal bank account in Greece, and it so happens that Niarchos Alexander Papadimitriou looks exactly like you.”

“This was money I was entitled to.”

“Don’t expect me to believe that,” I said. “Your Iranian friends will like even less the fact that you killed their agent who suspected you. U.S. prisons are safe places, but you know, anyone really determined could get to you even there. Shit happens.

“Look, I know you killed Christopher Gonda-that is, Reza Nazeri,” I suddenly said.

McHanna didn’t answer. He was as pale as a sheet of paper. I took a step back. I wasn’t going to let him vomit on me again.

“The man you are looking for is in Sydney, Australia,” said McHanna faintly. “During recent years he used the name Herbert Goldman.”

“Where can I find him?”

McHanna hesitated.

“If you don’t tell me, then I’ll assume it’s just another lie. Or maybe you had him killed?”

“No, no,” he protested. “Look in my personal address book. Your men seized it when I was brought here.”

I remembered looking through it and not seeing any reference to Goldman. “Under what name did you list his number?”

“Norman McAllister.”

“And the number is in the address book? Is there an address as well?”

“No, just the phone number. It’s in code. You have to add numbers to get the correct telephone number.”

“What’s the code?”

“Add one to the first number, two to the second number, three to the third, and so on.”

“Tell me when you spoke with him last.”

“A week ago.”

“What did he tell you?”

“He wanted me to send him money and a passport.”

“Did you?”

“Yes, I wired him $3,000 through Western Union. I had no way of getting him a passport.” McHanna buried his head between his soiled hands. “I want a lawyer,” he repeated faintly.

“Do you want to make a deal? Is that it?”

“Maybe.”

“I’ll get you a lawyer.” I left the room, and asked the agent to assume control. I went to the men’s room to wash up. There wasn’t much I could do. I used the industrial-strength soap and water to wash my hands and my face and the stains off my clothes, but the soap smell just got mixed with the sour smell of McHanna’s vomit.

I returned to Hodson’s office. They were still sitting there when I entered, together with the jet stream of smell, courtesy of McHanna.

“What happened? You smell like shit,” said Holliday, stepping a safe distance away from me.

“McHanna doesn’t seem to like the menu here,” I said wryly. “And I took his complaint.” I went on, “He wants a lawyer, probably to make a deal.”

“What does he have to offer?”

“You’d better watch the video. For one thing, he didn’t flatout deny my theory that he was heading the financial arm of an Iranian clandestine operation here, moving millions to finance terror. Next, he conceded that Ward, Farhadi, Whitney-Davis and Goldman-our Chameleon-were the same person. Look in his address book under Norman McAllister for the Chameleon’s number.” I gave them the code.

“I’m sure more details will come in McHanna’s full account,” I continued. “It’s looking like he wants a plea bargain. Between all this and Reza’s statements, he’ll be locked up forever.”

“What statements?” Hodson sounded surprised.

“Reza sent his mother three letters and asked her to keep them in a safe place. She kept the letters in an envelope together with other personal stuff he had left behind. She showed me the envelope, and there I found the first lead to Reza’s connection to Al Taqwa. I borrowed the letters and had them translated.”

“Borrowed?” asked Holliday, catching the word immediately. “You said they were personal. Did his mother let you take them?”

He knew me well. “Well, she showed them to me, and I borrowed them.”

“Without letting her know?” asked Bob.

“I’ll return them,” I promised. “But anyway, Reza wrote to his mother that McHanna, the head of a financial institution in New York where Reza had been working, was stealing from the company, and when Reza confronted him, McHanna threatened his life. Apparently McHanna kept his promise, although he didn’t confess doing it yet.”