The next morning I called Benny Friedman, my Mossad buddy. Friendship forged in military organizations lasts forever. Although we served together for only three years, we created a strong bond. Our friendship withstood the cultural gap between us. Benny came from an Orthodox family and adhered to all the tenets of the Jewish faith, while I considered myself nonreligious, only keeping the traditional rituals during holidays. Benny also had a wry sense of humor, but only those who knew him well could really “get it.” I was one of the few who did, and I felt that if anybody could penetrate what was going on in his agile mind, I could. Well, maybe.
I’d left the Mossad when I was exposed to the enemy during an operation which effectively “burned” me from participating in any future field operations. But Benny had stayed on. He’d climbed through the ranks and made it to the top of Tevel, the foreign-relations wing of the Mossad, which is charged with liaisons with foreign intelligence services, including with countries considered hostile to Israel.
When we’d first learned about this wing’s functions during our training at the Mossad Academy, some eyebrows were raised. “What? Trade secrets with your rivals?” one asked. Alex, our training instructor, was very calm about it. “We are in the game of interests, and you don’t let feelings and animosities get in your way,” he had said. “If you need to exchange information with someone, you just do it. Politics may collide, but we do our work. Same goes for any intelligence service worldwide. We collect intelligence concerning our enemies’ intentions and capabilities, and we’d get it from Satan if he were offering it at the right price.”
Benny’s secretary transferred the call.
“Dan, is that you? Where are you?”
“In Tel Aviv for a few days.”
“Business?” Benny knew what I was doing, and in the past we had helped each other in matters of our work. I never felt I was abusing our friendship, and I don’t think he felt any differently.
“Actually, I’m on a family visit. But you know me, I never stop working. Lunch?”
“Sure.” Benny never said no to a good meal, and neither did I. The only difference was that he ate only kosher food, while I ate also kosher.
Two hours later we met on the fishermen’s pier in Jaffa’s old port. The city of Jaffa, now part of Tel Aviv, is one of the oldest port cities of the world, with a history dating back five thousand years. The pier is younger, only about a thousand years old, and is mainly used by fishing boats that bring their fresh catch to the restaurants lined along its outer walls. This was a place where restaurant decorators didn’t need to fake authenticity-it was the authentic place. Weatherworn fishermen’s boats bobbed nearby. Busy people were unloading crates of fish, and there was a strong mix of smells: sea air, fish, and burning wood coal from the open air grills barbecuing fish.
We sat at the table closest to the water. Benny hadn’t changed much during the past year or so since I’d last seen him. But his mustache had grayed, he had gained a little weight, and he had lost much of his hair. He was starting to look older than his years. I knew why. He took his job more seriously than anybody I’d ever known. To him it wasn’t just a job, it was almost some sort of sacred obligation.
“World travel is treating you well,” I said, looking at his belly.
“Age has its indignities,” he said wryly. “In 1975 I was interested in acid rock, and now I’ve got acid reflux. Besides,” he added, “look who’s talking. You don’t exactly look like the slim serviceman you once were.”
He had a point, of course, and I was quick to change the subject. After schmoozing for a while and catching up on our respective families, I moved on to business. I told Benny about my debacle in Sydney, without giving him any telltale details or mentioning Ward’s name.
Somehow Benny wasn’t surprised to hear my story, although he said nothing. I decided to whet his appetite.
“Ever heard of Nada Management?”
Benny left his fork stuck in the huge red snapper he was dissecting.
“Sure, why? Are you trying to dig dead corpses out of their graves?”
“What do you mean?”
“They went out of business and their principal figure committed suicide.”
“How come I missed that information?”
“I’m surprised. It was all over the place.”
“Do you have anything concrete on them?”
“I’m sure we do. I can send you some reading material later. Where are you staying?”
“The usual.”
“Good.”
At six P.M. there was a knock on my hotel-room door and a bellman brought me a yellow envelope. I opened it, and sat at the desk to read the printed document.
On the top it read “The Central Institute for Intelligence and Special Operations,” the official name of the Mossad, Israel’s foreign-intelligence service. Below that were today’s date and a handwritten note. Dan, I’m attaching the documents you have requested. Most of the information has already been made public. Some of it could be outdated or inaccurate, so treat it wisely and don’t regard it as evidence, but as uncorroborated intelligence to develop further leads. I’m here for the rest of the week if you need me. Regards, Benny.
To the note was attached a thick, bound, printed document which seemed like a photocopied section of even a bigger document. Nada Management aka Nada Management Organization SA, Switzerland, fka Al Taqwa Management Organization SA. A financial institution in Lugano, located at Viale Stefano Franscini 22, Lugano CH-6900 TI, Switzerland, not far from the Italian border. The company was previously named Al Taqwa Management (fear of God in Arabic). Al Taqwa is believed to have played a major part in laundering money for Osama bin Laden. Swiss and Liechtenstein police raided Al Taqwa’s offices in Switzerland and Liechtenstein, respectively, and Swiss police raided as well the home of its principal, Huber, in Rossimattstrasse 33, 3074 Muri, Bern (see more below), and the homes of Youssef Nada and Ali Ghaleb Himmat, two other Al Taqwa directors. Al Taqwa’s accounts in Swiss banks were frozen. Separately, Italian police closed an Islamic cultural center in Milan used as Al-Qaeda’s European logistical center. The center was financed by Ahmed Idris Nasreddin, a Kuwaiti businessman who was also an Al Taqwa director. Three months later, Al Taqwa was shut down permanently. The U.S. government’s Office of the Coordinator of Counterterrorism distributed a list of sixty-two organizations and individuals suspected of involvement in terrorist activities. Nada Management was included on the list. Al Taqwa was the financial arm of the Muslim Brotherhood. That organization was founded in Egypt in the late 1920s and has fought for the formation of a pure pan-Islamic theocratic state.
Obviously the document was sanitized, and anything meaningful had been redacted. What was left was history, not intelligence, I concluded, and just leafed through the rest of the pages. Since Nada Management and Huber were all dead, it was all very interesting, but what would I do with it? I pushed the bulky document aside and called Benny.
“Thanks for the stuff, but the organization seems to be as dead as its directors.”
“Frankly, I don’t know where it takes you,” said Benny, reading my mind. “That’s the only unclassified material we’ve got on these guys. There’s one thing you should know though, unless your friends at CIA have already told you.”
“What?”
“We heard rumors that, immediately after the Islamic Revolution, the Iranians and their subsidiary terrorist organizations were looking for genuine travel documents issued by the U.S. and other major Western countries.”
“Why? Didn’t they have their own version of Tibor who could manufacture genuine-looking passports?” Benny and I knew well the Mossad’s Hungarian-born document artist.
“I’m sure they do. But why forge and risk detection, when you can use the real thing? National passports are becoming more and more difficult to forge, because they don’t know what hidden markers are included in the passport. Besides, maybe in this case whoever took the passport needed not only the passport, but the identity.”
Benny had unwittingly just supported my earlier suspicion. And the real Ward-where was he? I had an idea, but wasn’t in the mood to dwell on it just then. I wondered why he had brought up the passport issue when, on its face, it had no connection to Ward’s case. Was he subtly trying to send me a message?
“Dan, let’s meet tomorrow. I’ve got some ideas,” said Benny, suddenly breaking my train of thought.
“Sure. Want to come to my hotel at one o’clock?”
The next day, Benny arrived unusually late. “You’ll have to excuse me, I had a small emergency,” he said as we sat at the restaurant downstairs.
“As always,” I teased him.
Benny glared at me and got to the point. “I have more information on Nada Management. Although they were shut down, the money-laundering activity continues. Terror organizations need money, and if you dry up one swamp to keep the mosquitoes away, another one will pop up in no time.
“On April 19, 2002, the U.S. government blocked all assets of Youssef Nada and Bank Al Taqwa, both of which were designated as terrorist financiers by the Department of Treasury on November 7, 2001.”
Benny pulled out a document from his briefcase and leafed through the pages. “Here it is.” On the same date, the U.S. Treasury also named four additional individuals as terrorist financiers connected to Al Taqwa: Zeinab Mansour-Fattouh, Mohamed Mansour, Albert Friedrich Armand Huber, and Ali Ghaleb Himmat. The Al Taqwa group has long acted as financial advisor to Al-Qaeda, with offices in the Ca rib be an, Italy, Liechtenstein, and Switzerland. Ahmed Idris Nasreddin and Youssef Nada are both founders and directors of Bank Al Taqwa. Osama bin Laden and his Al-Qaeda organization received financial assistance from Youssef Nada. Al Taqwa provides investment advice and cash-transfer mechanisms for Al-Qaeda and other radical Islamic groups.
“Fine,” I said. “So they’re probably having a good time somewhere in the Middle East, or they’ve dug in a hole in Afghanistan enjoying the company of seventy virgins, without even having to blow themselves up.”
Benny smiled. “Maybe. But they left a job half done.” “Meaning?” I was wondering why Benny, an Israeli Mossad executive, was reading out U.S. government material to me. “How does it help my case?” I asked pointedly.
“There’s a need for their services. Now, when they go under, who’ll take care of the financially orphaned terrorist organizations? Where will they go?” he said in a mockingly sorrowful voice. Then his tone changed. “Listen, unless we’re ready for them, we’ll lose the war on terrorism, and our only option is going to be choosing the magnitude of our humiliation.”
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.”
“Just like that?” I asked in disbelief.
“No basis to hold him,” Benny said. He was right. The third witness had probably assessed his diminishing survival options after hearing that the two others had gone missing.
I was fuming. “I can’t believe this bullshit,” I grumbled. Even if he wasn’t Ward, even if there hadn’t been local fraud charges, they could have held him on immigration charges. He entered Australia with a false passport. What kind of idiots were running the force there?
“They dropped the ball,” said Benny. He had had his time for rage and was merely calm. “By the time the Australian police rushed to get a new warrant, the guy was released.”
I paused to rearrange my thoughts. It was too much of a revelation to digest immediately.
“Chameleon-that’s what I’ve been calling this guy in my head. And I was right.” I scanned through my trip to Pakistan, trying to reread things with the knowledge I had just acquired. “So Khan’s agenda…He gave me those half-truths to get more money?”
Benny shook his head. “He did have an agenda, but not the one you think.” Benny-good friend, or not-had a way of being cryptic that sometimes got on my nerves. It was as if he were Socrates, and I, one of his pupils. I wished he would get to the point more quickly, but I knew damn well that wasn’t going to happen.
“What was it, then? It seemed pretty clear that his story about Al Taqwa trying to reverse the charge and get their money back from Ward’s account was bogus,” I said.
“What made you think that? You’re right, by the way,” asked Benny.
“This is home turf for me. It’s just not the way banks work. They don’t put in a lot of effort to get a measly $2,000 back three years later. Khan made it up because he thought I was losing interest.”
“Or,” said Benny, “he was trying to lure you to Iran, probably under instructions from Tehran. They told him they were sure you were an American agent. And they were interested in your Ward investigation.”
“So if the guy in the hospital bed wasn’t Ward or Goldman, who is he? Who’s the Iranian agent?”
“We don’t know yet,” he admitted. “It’s not going to be easy. Even the wife he married in Kentucky believed he was Ward.”
“I need to digest what you’ve just told me,” I said. “Anyway, it occurs to me one good thing has come out of this conversation.”
“What?”
“If you own Tempelhof Bank, can you tell me more about what kind of relationship McHanna has with it?” It wasn’t too late to score some points at home by unveiling a money-laundering operation in New York.
“Who?”
“You mean you don’t know him?” Benny shook his head. “He was a manager at the South Dakota bank that the Chameleon conned. Now he runs a financial-services company in New York, and I think he still is in contact with the Chameleon. I’ve got a piece of information linking him, using an alias, to Tempelhof Bank.”
“Let me find out,” said Benny. “But aside from that, I think we can agree to cooperate in finding the Chameleon.”
“Helping you out is a decision made above my head.” “You never had to ask permission before.”
“That’s true. But working for you without getting my superiors’ consent is a violation of my oath.”
“Hey, I didn’t say work for me,” he said defensively. “I said work together.”
“Like I said, I need to get permission.”
“You’ll get it.” He sounded alarmingly sure of himself. “What are you saying? That you already made a request through the proper channels?” His face confirmed that I was right. “Thanks for asking my opinion first,” I grumbled.
“Don’t give me that act, Dan. We both know that when we worked together the last couple of times, things worked out as they should have.”
“You could have at least asked me.”
“I was protecting you,” he said. “An official request by the Mossad to the U.S. government to cooperate is standard procedure. Talking to you first before asking your government would have complicated things. You’ve just confirmed that.”
I left it at that. “So what did my bosses have to say?” How odd that a foreign intelligence service would know about my forthcoming instructions before me. But pressing him further was not going to be fruitful; it would only make him dig in his heels that much more.
“We’re still waiting. American bureaucracy, you know.”
“Right. Well, let me see what my boss tells me. We’ve got a conference scheduled.”
Later that day, after Benny and I had parted, I got a call from the U.S. Embassy. “A cable came in for you.”
I was sure it was one of those routine memos circulated that the ever-helpful Esther kept sending me even when I was away.
“Can you deliver it to my hotel?” I had already taken off my shoes, stretched on the couch, and started reading the newspaper. The last thing I wanted to do was head to the embassy.
“Sorry, no. This is classified material that cannot leave this room.”
Why would I get that sort of document? I was investigating money launderers and white-collar criminals. Communications about them are sensitive, but not secret. They’re frequently called “sensitive but unclassified” (SBU), containing data that isn’t related to national security, but where their disclosure to the public could cause damage. My curiosity exceeded my laziness.
“I’ll be right over.”