Two days later I was asked to attend a meeting at Hodson’s office. Casey and Holliday were there as well. Hodson pulled out a white envelope. “This is for you.”
I put it in my pocket.
“No,” said Hodson. “Read it now.”
I opened the envelope. It contained a letter from the assistant secretary of defense. Dear Dan, On behalf of the United States, I wish to thank you for your contribution in unveiling the sale of long-range cruise missiles to Iran. Maintaining the military supremacy of the United States and disarming rogue nations guarantees our national security. Your efforts were an important step towards fulfilling that goal.
“What the hell is he talking about?” I was really surprised. “I had no connection to any information on Iranian missiles.”
“You missed a lot while you were in isolation,” said Casey. “The pieces are all falling together. Ukraine has confirmed that twelve of its cruise missiles were sold to Iran and six to China. However, when it became public, the Ukrainians claimed that the sales were unauthorized. They also claim that private businessmen sold Iran twelve X-55 cruise missiles, which are known better as Kh-55s or AS-15s.”
“With nuclear warheads?” I asked.
“No. But that’s no consolation. They have a range of eighteen hundred miles, which covers most of Russia, Japan, and of course Israel.”
“I heard that Iran was developing long-range missiles,” I said. “And that their ultimate goal is to develop transcontinental missiles with a sixty-five hundred mile range that can get to the United States. But they aren’t there yet, so that’s why they purchased ready-made ones. But what have I got to do with it?”
Hodson ignored my question and continued. “Even now, after that sale, Iran is already the third country in the world, after the U.S. and Russia, to have cruise missiles. This type has a sophisticated navigational system that corrects itself after launch by comparing the terrain it passes with photos of the target programmed into its computer.”
“But you didn’t answer my question. What have I done in this matter to deserve the letter?” I persisted.
Casey finally spelled it out. “You identified Hasan Lotfi as a potential defector. We made contact with him. He brought in the information. The Pentagon is pretty pleased. Pressure put on the Ukrainian government led to the dealers’ indictment, and the Iranians will have a difficult time getting spare parts and tech support. Without that, the missiles won’t be operational too soon.”
I folded the letter and put it back in the envelope. “My grandchildren will be proud of me,” I said with half a smile. “What about McHanna? I was sick like a dog for two days.”
Hodson briefed me on McHanna’s interrogation.
“What about the sniper?” I asked.
“Staged,” said Hodson. “We suspected from the beginning that the event was odd. A pro using a scope missed from fifty-seven yards? No sniper would miss from four times that short distance using such sophisticated equipment. The conclusion was that the shooter didn’t intend to hit McHanna.”
“He only wanted to frighten him?”
“We thought of that too. But your initial suspicion of Saida Rhaman, the receptionist, was right. We got to her, and from her to her uncle, Nikoukar Jafarzadeh. Corroborative evidence was found when we discovered that the gun was purchased in Virginia by Nikoukar Jafarzadeh. He and his niece told us that McHanna had asked them to arrange the mock shooting.”
“Did he give them a reason?”
“Yes. According to them, McHanna said that his management didn’t appreciate him and was about to fire him, which could lead to Saida’s losing her job as well. Therefore he thought that an attempt on his life would make it difficult for the company’s owners to get rid of him.”
“Did you buy that story? It doesn’t make sense.”
“Do I look like I just fell off the turnip truck?” grunted Hodson. “We’ve leads suggesting that Nikoukar Jafarzadeh was the Atashbon’s local muscle, and the shooting came as a warning to McHanna.”
“Why didn’t he take McHanna out?”
“We’ll investigate that. But personally I think that McHanna misread the Iranians. He was too valuable to them, his stealing notwithstanding. Money was not their problem at that point-you’ll soon hear why. McHanna was the only non-Iranian in the operation, and they didn’t trust him completely, but still needed a Yankee in the operation.”
“I guess they were right.” I scratched my head. “What about Reza Nazeri? He was pushed from the platform of a train to his death. Was McHanna involved?”
“McHanna confessed that he ordered his death as self-defense. Reza discovered that McHanna was stealing and threatened to turn him in.”
I wondered why Reza hadn’t just had McHanna quietly eliminated. Had he tried and failed?
“What about Nazeri’s apartment? I found it too clean.”
“We haven’t gotten to it yet, but I’m sure McHanna went there personally or sent Jafarzadeh.”
“So if we have sufficient evidence, why strike a deal?”
“McHanna told us these details in a proffer, with the understanding that there will be a plea bargain. Life without the possibility of parole. That’s a worse punishment than death.”
“What about the remaining members of Atashbon?”
“He said he has details on only six members.”
“Did he name them?”
“Yes. Kourosh, our Chameleon; Reza, aka Gonda, now deceased; and Arthur Jenkins, Timothy Williamson, Alec Simmons, Kevin DiAngelo, and Frank Gonzales. These names match the names of American men who went missing in the eighties. These six suspects changed these names to other American-sounding names immediately after they completed the first round of the scam operations. They simply used the good old throwaway cover: one alias was layered on top of another alias. That’s why we couldn’t find them- the string of aliases was abandoned, but the operatives remained here. They are all in custody. They claimed that they had severed their relationship with Iran a long time ago, and are now law-abiding citizens.”
“Though not, of course, of the U.S.” I said. “Do you believe them?”
He chuckled. “They’ll be indicted, and tried. If convicted, they’ll be deported after serving their sentences-that is, if they’re still living forty to sixty years from now. Oddly, or not so oddly, some of them claimed to be employees of a legitimate printing-press company. When we checked their story an interesting thing happened. In addition to their racketeering activity in defrauding banks and being covert operatives of Iran, they were operating a much bigger operation, which dwarfed the $300 million stolen from U.S. banks. We’re talking billions of dollars here. Three hundred million is a lot of money, but it cannot collapse the U.S. economy. But hundreds of billions could cause serious damage.”
“Billions? I saw no reference to it in the files.”
“There was no reference there,” said Hodson. “Together with U.S. Secret Ser vice we discovered that Atashbon members in the United States were running a printing press of counterfeit U.S. dollars. Iranian agents bought the printing machines from Germany and smuggled them to the U.S. in several shipments, using a front company run by Atashbon members. The sad thing is that Americans trained the Iranians to use these high-end printing presses.”
“You mean we trained them to print dollars?” asked Bob Holliday.
“Of course not,” said Hodson. “In the early 1970s the Shah of Iran asked the U.S. to help solve counterfeiting problems that threatened to undermine Iran’s currency. So we sent technical people from the Bureau of Engraving and Printing to Tehran to improve the safety of the Iranian currency.”
“The balls on them!” said Casey Bauer. “We trained them. Now we discover that they had an incredible audacity. Years later these motherfuckers were intending to collapse the U.S. economy.”
“Good thing the hundred-dollar bill was redesigned,” I said.
“There are three types of forged dollars,” explained Hodson. “Two are rather primitive and easy to detect, but the third is a real piece of art. Common forgers use offset lithography, which prints dollars that lack the feel of real currency because the ink is flat, unlike the raised ink of genuine bills. Digital forgeries are very common because anyone with a scanner and high-quality printer or a copier can become a forger. But again, unless you use the fabric of genuine dollars, the notes printed are in fact Monopoly money, particularly when they all have the same serial number. But the Iranians managed to produce high-quality notes, using the same intaglio printing presses that the Bureau of Engraving does.”
“What’s intaglio?” asked Bob.
“A press that creates miniscule ridges on cotton-linen paper by forcing it at high pressure into the ink-filled grooves of an engraved plate. Now the outcome looks-and better yet, feels-like real currency,” answered Hodson, looking at his notes.
“How did they get over the biggest obstacle, the material used for U.S. currency?” asked Holliday.
“It’s difficult but not impossible,” said Hodson. “Currency paper is composed of 25 percent linen and 75 percent cotton. Red and blue synthetic fibers of various lengths are distributed evenly throughout the paper. Governments can buy it freely, and we assume Iran had no problem acquiring it. We think they decided to print the currency in the U.S. because it’d be much easier to smuggle the fabric into the U.S. than the final product-bales of billions of forged U.S. dollars. Nonetheless, the Secret Ser vice is still investigating how the fabric entered the U.S. for the Iranians’ local printing needs.”
“The printing operation here was seized, and that’s what’s important,” concluded Casey.
Hodson nodded. “I must concede that we knew about the Iranian effort, but never made the connection to the Chameleon cases until we cracked them. As early as 1996 the General Accounting Office reported that a foreign government was sponsoring production of the ‘Superdollar’-a high-quality bill.”
“How did they distribute that volume?” asked Holliday. “You can get away with a few millions, not billions.”
“The operative word is slowly. We have evidence that bills printed in the U.S. were introduced into the circulation through their bogus charities and using criminal enterprises that usually launder drug money, to launder much bigger amounts. Some of the money printed in Iran was given to Hezbollah and Islamic Jihad to finance their operations, and they distributed it from Lebanon’s Bekaa Valley. Soon enough, the money turned up in Hong Kong, Macao, South Korea, Russia, and Latin America.”
“Has anyone assessed the actual or potential damage to the U.S. economy?” I asked.
“There are only estimates,” said Hodson. “We have no numbers to mea sure the impact, but this counterfeiting is a clear form of economic warfare that could cause serious inflation in the U.S., and undermine the world market’s confidence in U.S. currency. Now we put the lid on it.”
I was curious to hear more about the ploy we used to infiltrate me into Iran. “Did the alumni hold the reunion after all?”
“Yes, we sent Erikka back to complete the arrangements. If the reunion plans were scrapped, a suspicion could arise about whether the plan was just a cover for your activities. We wanted to keep that part of your mission clean.”
Why would we care? I thought, although I knew the answer. The reunion helped recruit new assets.
“Was the event successful?”
“From our perspective, yes. We had to close the circle.” He’d tacitly confirmed my assumption.
“Any progress in the investigation regarding my Bern hotel-room search? Do you know whodunit?” I touched my head. I’d had enough of unpleasant encounters with strangers in European hotel rooms. Couldn’t my rivals just for once send somebody nice? How come in the thriller movies there’s an attractive woman who is gently confronting the good guy, while in reality I collide with burly men with body odors?
“We have incomplete results.”
I sensed that Casey wasn’t telling me everything, but CIA guys tend to be like that.
“We didn’t clean up the world from all sorts of bad guys, but we’re trying,” he said. “The job at your hotel was carried out by people working for the Iranian security services. We think they were local burglars hired for that onetime job. The Swiss police already have a suspect. Our assumption is that they wanted to know what you found out at the bank. When we realized that, we asked Benny Friedman to find a way to alert Tempelhof Bank to increase security at its ware house. They could attempt to destroy the evidence.”
I paused. “I hate to dwell on this, but how did they find out I was coming to Switzerland and where I was staying?”
“Benny has investigated it from the direction of the bank personnel. The Mossad found a bad apple in the bank’s staff, whose duty was to alert Iran whenever there was any outside interest in their clandestine financial activities passing through the bank. That was a very smart move on the Iranians’ part, installing security on both sides of the money-laundering ring.”
“How did Benny catch the mole, without having any official or formal connection to the bank?”
“Benny never said it in so many words, but I think he pulled out an old trick for smoking out your enemy. He spread a rumor at the bank that on that very day the Swiss police were about to raid the bank seeking evidence of ‘private’ deposits made at the bank by members of the current Iranian regime. One employee was monitored leaving the bank in haste during office hours and was photographed making a call from a pay phone just outside the bank. Benny had anticipated it and bugged all public phones in the area.”
“Shrewd move,” I said in appreciation.
Just as I thought we were done, Hodson gave me a folder.
“Pack your bags, you are going to Australia to get the Chameleon.”
“Again? Why? Hasn’t the telephone number in McHanna’s address book been decoded? The Australian Federal Police can find him easily.” I just didn’t feel like leaving again.
“It was decoded. It belongs to an Australian woman. She told the police that Norman McAllister has rented a small apartment from her but took off just about the same time you gave us the number. He still owes her two months’ rent. So far, the Australian Federal Police have no clue. Since you know what the Chameleon looks like and you have the most ‘Chameleon hours,’ we thought that your presence there could help.”
“Did you try to trace the Chameleon through the $3,000 wire transfer McHanna said he made?” I asked. Maybe not all bases were covered, and I’d be spared that long haul.
“It was just another lie. There was no such transfer to anyone by that name in the past month. McHanna was bullshitting you.”
I thought it was strange. McHanna didn’t lie regarding the Chameleon’s phone number, but lied on the money transfer. I wondered why. But said nothing.
“When am I leaving?” I asked, accepting the travel folder. “To night.”
Two days later I landed at Sydney’s airport and Peter Maxwell, the curly-haired Australian federal agent, picked me up.
“Any news?” I asked anxiously as he escorted me through immigration.
“Nothing yet,” he said. “We searched his rented apartment, but nothing was found. His landlady said he was a quiet tenant and had no visitors, but he was always behind on his rent. She said he left a few short days ago without any luggage, together with two men who came with a late-model Japanese car.”
“Any more details?”
“Nothing, she just saw them from the back. All she could say was that the car was white.”
“Did you get his phone records?” I was hoping for a clue there.
“He never used the apartment’s phone for outgoing calls, only incoming. She said he had a cell phone, but she doesn’t know the number.”
“Did you trace it through other means?”
“No,” said Maxwell apologetically. “There were no listings for any of the names we had.”
“Including Norman McAllister?” I asked with a shred of hope.
“Yes, but there’s nothing. It’s quite possible he used a stolen phone or one of these ‘pay as you go’ phones that require no registration.”
I was exhausted, but after only a few hours of sleep I forced myself to start working. I’ll rest in my old age, I promised myself. I had a hunch where to start looking for the Chameleon.
I called Sheila Levi, the legal secretary that the Chameleon almost managed to marry.
She sounded very surprised, but glad to hear my voice. “I was hoping you’d call,” she said in a soft voice. “In fact I wanted to call you, but I didn’t have your number.”
“I’m here now. Is there something you wanted to tell me?” “Yes. I told you last time we met that I gave Herb Goldman jewelry I’d inherited from my grandmother.”
“Yes.” I remembered how disgusted I’d been to hear how the Chameleon, posing as Herbert Goldman, had used Sheila.
“Well. He sold them to a jewelry shop near the Rocks. About two weeks ago I looked at the window of that shop and was happy to see on display a necklace and a ring that I gave Goldman. They were not sold yet.”
“If you want to get them back, you’ll probably need a good lawyer.” I said.
“No, I didn’t mean that. I entered the shop. I know the owner. He’s a member of the Jewish community-he’s a nice person. I asked him if I could pay him over time for the necklace, hoping to retrieve at least one piece from my grandmother’s gifts to me.”
“And what did he say?”
“He agreed immediately. I’m paying him $10 a week for sixty-five weeks, and it will be mine again. He was kind to let me have the necklace immediately. The interesting thing is that he said that Goldman came by his shop last week to sell him more jewelry.”
If I was still tired, I forgot all about it. “Tell me more.”
“The reason I wanted to call you was that I knew you were looking for him. You see, the shop keep er told me that he refused Goldman’s offer to sell him that jewelry until Goldman could prove ownership. He became suspicious.”
“Why?”
“Because Goldman asked for $500 for jewelry worth at least $1,500.”
“Did Goldman tell the shop keep er he’d be back with proof?”
“I don’t know.”
I called Maxwell and gave him the information.
“It’s a start,” he said. “We have an additional lead. A person answering Goldman’s description has attempted to purchase a forged passport.”
“Any leads from there?”
“No, it was an anonymous tip to our hotline. We assumed he was unable to leave Australia because his Goldman passport became useless ever since you exposed his Goldman identity.”
I ran the facts through my mind. It was possible that the Chameleon had unilaterally severed his relationship with the Iranian intelligence services and had no way of getting another passport. Otherwise he’d have been out of there a long time ago. The fact that he’d tried to get a passport independently both locally and from McHanna only supported my hunch. Active agents of foreign countries can be sure that in time of distress, their handlers will extricate them. When that didn’t happen, the only conclusion was that the Chameleon didn’t contact the Iranians.
“The Chameleon must still be around,” I said.
“The Chameleon?” asked Maxwell in surprise.
“Yes, that’s the name I gave him.” I went on to give him the limited scope of information about the Chameleon’s ties to Iran I was authorized by Holliday to divulge to the Australians. “I think that even while still in the U.S., the Chameleon panicked and was sure that the FBI was on to him. He needed to escape. Of course, if he’d asked to be returned to Tehran, they would have smuggled him back. But since he didn’t, and based on our interrogation of another suspect in the U.S., I think the Chameleon had decided on going in de pen dent, without telling the Iranians. He simply obtained a false passport under the name of Herbert Goldman, a thirteenth alias, and decided to go to Australia, hoping that the FBI wouldn’t trace him and that Tehran would ultimately forget about him. That by itself is a cause for concern for any intelligence service, because independents try to market the goods they have to anyone that will buy them-in this case, information about his previous employer.”
“We know about the Iranians’ reaction in these instances,” said Maxwell without elaborating.
“I’m sure the Chameleon obviously knew of the Iranian intelligence services’ policy to save on pension payments to self-declared retirees, by moving to entitle their families to some death benefits instead. We suspect he went in de pen dent in Australia, because he called a contact in New York seeking a passport and money. The man who’d conned millions out of banks and investors remained penniless. He had to resort to petty crime and defrauded Sheila Levi, that poor secretary he’d promised to marry. He hinted to his New York contact that the FBI may have received information from the Australian Federal Police that had traced him in Australia.”
“It could be just disinformation the Chameleon was giving that person in New York, probably to obtain his cooperation,” said Maxwell dismissively.
“You are right,” I answered. I couldn’t tell Maxwell that McHanna had a direct interest in keeping the Chameleon quiet. Temporarily or permanently.
I felt tired. The twenty-four-hour travel between the U.S. and Australia had taken it’s toll on me. I returned to my hotel. When I woke up there was a coded message from Hodson on my laptop. The following is additional information obtained from McHanna during his interrogation; be aware that it has not been corroborated. McHanna alleged that the Chameleon had told him during the telephone conversation that was earlier disclosed to you, that he (the Chameleon) had a lot of money hidden in Switzerland, probably a commission he paid himself each time he stole on behalf of the Iranians. McHanna also said that the Chameleon couldn’t get to his money, because it was kept in cash in safe-deposit boxes in Switzerland. That made wiring the money impossible.
That’s very interesting, I thought. McHanna lied to me regarding the wire transfer to the Chameleon and now he tells the FBI that the Chameleon has a safe-deposit box in Switzerland? That wasn’t earth-shattering news. The Chameleon had to keep his money somewhere. For me, the things that the Chameleon didn’t say in that connection were far more interesting. My conclusion from McHanna’s statement was that the Chameleon was totally dependent on him. I was sure that McHanna couldn’t risk the Chameleon talking. That would endanger McHanna’s freedom if the FBI found out what he did, or his life, if the Iranians discovered he’d betrayed them and killed their agent. No, I concluded. McHanna doesn’t want us to find the Chameleon alive.
I called Peter Maxwell and discussed my conclusion with him. “Can you get your people in the street to listen to vibrations? I think the Chameleon’s life is in danger.”
“We already have all our intelligence sniffers on the alert,” he said.
I sent Hodson a coded message. I have a problem with McHanna’s story. Did he really have that conversation with the Chameleon? And if he did talk to him, did the Chameleon request help? If so, did he give McHanna his location? How was McHanna supposed to send money or a passport without an address? The Chameleon obviously knew that McHanna also worked for the Iranians. Wasn’t he afraid that McHanna would turn him in? A few hours later I received Hodson’s coded answer. We asked him these questions. McHanna said the Chameleon threatened him that if he went down, he’d take McHanna with him. Apparently the Chameleon knew about the private nest McHanna was building for himself using the Iranians’ money. But we don’t know if the call actually happened. I sent Hodson another coded message. Please interrogate McHanna regarding an attempt on the Chameleon’s life. My suspicion is that if the Chameleon betrayed the Iranians and killed Nazeri, he’d have no qualms in betraying McHanna. Therefore, I think McHanna would have him killed before we could get to him. McHanna’s giving us the Chameleon’s telephone number was probably meant to be used as a future alibi. If accused of arranging the Chameleon’s assassination, he could deny it by asking why would he give us a clue where the Chameleon was hiding, if he wanted him dead rather than alive and talking?
One minute later, I received another coded message written and sent before my last message to Hodson went out. Dan, we have another development. McHanna has confessed to ordering Ms. Otis clipped. He said that Otis was married to the Chameleon and he may have told her something damaging. McHanna confessed that he knew that she had already exposed the Chameleon as Ward and Goldman to the Sydney rabbi. That was enough, even if she didn’t know about the Chameleon’s Whitney-Davis identity or the Chameleon’s covert activities and his real name. If the Chameleon were apprehended, then the shit would hit the fan and the way to McHanna would be short. The Chameleon’s identity exposure was not just a matter between the rabbi in Australia and Loretta Otis in the United States, two private individuals. McHanna told us that the Chameleon called months ago telling him that his identity as Goldman was blown. No further security infraction was necessary to convince anyone in the loop that Otis had to be eliminated.
So Hodson had reached the same conclusion as I had. The Chameleon’s life was short unless we got to him first.
I deleted the messages.
I went to meet Peter Maxwell. He came with a tall, slim, blonde woman in her midtwenties. “This is Gilian Caldwell. She’s a member of my team.” We shook hands. “Tell him,” urged Peter.
“There’s word on the street that anyone identifying Norman McAllister could make $1,000,” said Gilian.
“Any credence?” I asked.
“Yes, pretty much. We spread that rumor.” She chuckled. “A petty thief came forward and told us that Mr. McAllister has bought stolen jewelry from him for $150.”
“The same jewelry the Chameleon tried to sell to the jewelry shop?”
“Probably. The thief became scared when he heard there was a bounty on McAllister’s head. He told us he was afraid of getting accused or involved in this matter. He was out of his league.”
“Of course the $1,000 reward was also a consideration,” said Maxwell.
“Did he tell you where to find McAllister?” I asked. Peter’s phone vibrated. “Maxwell,” he answered. He listened for a minute and told us in a hurried voice, “Let’s go, a contact has been made.”
When Gilian heard the address from Maxwell she said coolly, “That’s the same address the petty thief gave us.”
We jumped into their unmarked police car and Maxwell drove us to Bondi Junction, an eastern suburb of Sydney four miles east of the Sydney central business district. When we arrived, the area was buzzing with police activity. A uniformed officer approached Peter. “Sir, there’s a person who has barricaded himself on the second floor of the house.” He pointed his hand toward a two-story apartment building.
“Any demands?”
“No. We think he was probably held hostage, but his captors escaped when we arrived. The neighbors called us when they heard screams coming out of the house.”
“If the captors left, why is the person barricading himself?” asked Peter, and my hope that we were going to find the Chameleon died. This didn’t seem to be related to our case, so I just stood there letting Peter and Gilian do their job.
A few minutes later Peter came over to me. “We think the Chameleon is inside the house. A next-door neighbor gave us a description that meets the Chameleon’s physical description. We need to convince him that we are the police and that he can leave safely.”
“Is he armed?” I asked, wondering why the police didn’t storm the house.
“No, but he shouted that he’s holding a can of benzene and a lighter. He promised to burn anyone getting close. We want to resolve this without anyone getting hurt.”
A policeman came over. “Mr. Maxwell?”
Peter turned to him. “We have a visual from another building. We can see that he’s holding a tin can that is normally used to store petrol, but we don’t know if it’s full or not. His face seems burned or injured. His demeanor seems as if he is badly shaken; his hands are trembling and his speech is blurred. He could be deranged.”
“For how long did the neighbors hear the screaming?”
“A whole night. At the beginning they thought it was just a domestic quarrel, but then realized they were screams of pain, so they called the police.”
“Maybe someone was torturing him,” I suggested, and Peter didn’t seem to reject the idea.
“There’s a crisis-management psychologist on the way,” he said. “Maybe he can talk him out of it.”
The next thing I saw and then heard was the sound of a bullet, followed by a fiery explosion that shattered windows in our vicinity, then sent a shock wave. A black cloud of smoke emerged from the house where the Chameleon had barricaded himself.
“Shit,” said Maxwell, expressing my thoughts as well. Police forces rushed into the building together with firemen and medics. I stayed behind. I knew already what they’d discover when they entered the house. The Chameleon had perished.
Maxwell joined me twenty minutes later. “The petrol tank held by the Chameleon was directly hit by a bullet and exploded. The Chameleon died instantly.”
McHanna or the Iranians got him first, I thought. That means that the Australians have an Atashbon of their own.
After hearing more details from Maxwell, I returned to my hotel.
As I took off my clothes, I smelled the smoke, although I was standing two hundred feet away. I sent a message to Hodson, Casey, and Holliday reporting the Chameleon’s demise. Then I crashed.
When I woke up I received a one sentence response. “Return home.”
On the plane ride home, I was thinking what Goldilocks once said referring to that bowl of porridge: This is just right. After thumbing his nose at the law for so long, pay time for the Chameleon had come.
After getting over the jet lag, I went to see Hodson. Holliday and Casey were there as well.
“Did McHanna say anything about the Chameleon’s death?” I asked.
Hodson smiled. “We forgot to tell him. Instead, we suggested that the Chameleon was arrested and was cooperating, putting all the blame on McHanna.”
“And what was McHanna’s reaction?” I asked in an amused tone.
“He threw everything back at the Chameleon and, in fact, filled in all the missing blanks.”
“Didn’t he suspect that you were pulling an interrogation trick on him? After all, he’s a sly fox.”
“We thought of that. But when we gave him details of where the Chameleon was hiding, he was convinced that we got him,” said Casey.
“Does he know the truth now?” I was curious.
“Yes. Under the same plea we reached earlier, he confessed to sending a hit man to kill the Chameleon. He will be locked up forever.”
“Was terminating the Chameleon McHanna’s idea or Iran’s order?”
“McHanna says Iran told him. Obviously we can’t ask Tehran for comment. That leaves us with McHanna to face murder charges. As a lawyer, you know it makes no difference if he had him killed under orders from Tehran or on his own initiative. It’s still murder,” concluded Casey.
“It’s all over but for the shouting,” Hodson said. “Iran’s most dangerous spy ring operating in the U.S. has been eliminated.”
“Are you sure?” I insisted. I had the clear impression that Bauer, Hodson, and maybe even Holliday were looking to wind it down. But I still had unanswered questions.
“I am.”
“Well, I’m not. If I were you I wouldn’t ring the gong. I think we should continue digging. There were about eighteen members of Atashbon, and we’ve accounted for only eleven.”
“We have accounted for all of them,” Hodson said, beginning to lose his patience. He looked at Holliday and Casey, who shrugged their shoulders.
“That’s Dan Gordon,” said Bob Holliday. “You have to take him the way he is.”
Hodson smiled. “You may not know this, but Dan and I have worked together before. I’ve had enough ‘Dan hours’ to teach me that he’s relentless and cannot be stopped.”
Holliday said in an amused tone, “My predecessor, David Stone, called him a pit bull who never lets go.”
“I’m blushing,” I said. “Stop.” But in my heart I hoped they wouldn’t. Admissions of imperfection? Not right now, and not from yours truly.
“I have to admit I was wrong,” I said suddenly in a futile effort to improve off my image.
“That’s a first,” said Casey. “Enlighten us.”
“I labeled him a chameleon because he caught his prey with his tongue and changed his skin each time he changed location. But apparently in nature, chameleons don’t change their color to blend in with their environment. In fact, they mostly change their color when faced with imminent danger, or when their mood changes.”
So the lid was finally put on the Chameleon and his comrades, although belatedly, I thought as I walked out the door. The forces of karma might have a good sense of justice, maybe even a sense of humor, but certainly a bad sense of timing.