“Excellent,” I replied. I gave him a quick summary of my findings, and the need for more work.
“We have a meeting tomorrow morning with Robert Hodson, assistant director in charge of the FBI field office in New York,” he told me.
When I entered Hodson’s office, Casey Bauer and Bob Holliday were sitting on the leather sofa opposite Hodson’s huge desk. I joined them as Hodson dragged a chair over to sit next to us.
Holliday started. “I went through the documents that Dan brought from Switzerland, and I tend to believe that Reza Nazeri was a member of Atashbon. We don’t know exactly what role he played until 1988, but there’s no question that in 1988, and perhaps in later years, he moved millions of dollars between the U.S. and Switzerland, mostly through the notorious Al Taqwa, a known terrorist-financing institution.”
“I saw the documents and I concur with Holliday,” said Casey. “Here’s what I think we should do next: send Dan back to Switzerland to get more documents from later years. We also need to look at the transfer of documents from the other end-Al Taqwa, later named Nada Management.” He looked at Hodson. “We’ll need your staff to help us on that. We must also develop additional information as to what was done with money, or from whom it was received. We’ve just touched the tip of the iceberg.”
“That depends on the Swiss government’s willingness to cooperate. Just moving money isn’t a crime per se, but under the circumstances, it reeks of money laundering,” said Bob.
We continued analyzing the options for how to proceed, when Hodson got up.
“Well,” he said. “My legal department just told me that the documents Dan has obtained give us probable cause to seek a search warrant at McHanna Associates. That prick McHanna is in New York, so we don’t need to go far. Are we done?”
“Sit down, Bob,” suggested Casey in a soft tone. “There are a few more issues we need to cover.” Hodson sat down, visibly reluctant.
“There’s also a small matter of security leaks,” I added. “I had to leave Vienna in a rush because Casey warned me that the safe apartment used for my Iran briefings was compromised. Then the whole operation was put on hold because a Mossad agent wasn’t paying attention, and Parviz Morad, the Iranian refugee whom Benny was so proud of getting out of an Iraqi prison, managed to make an unauthorized phone call. Then after I returned from Iran, my room at a Bern hotel was searched.”
“You mean you don’t know what caused the security breach?” asked Bauer.
“Know what?” I asked, although I did know the cause for at least one security breach. Casey Bauer must have forgotten bringing me up to speed in Turkey after my escape from Iran, giving me details about how Hasan Lotfi had known who I really was.
Casey explained. “Parviz Morad called his uncle, Morteza Mughnia, whom he claimed he believed to be an Iranian dissident. But in fact the uncle was an Iranian agent posing as a dissident. The uncle was regularly reporting to Iran on the dissidents’ activities in Europe. Some of them were killed. Morteza Mughnia, who knew about Parviz Morad’s escape from the Iraqi prison from letters Parviz sent his family from Israel, asked him where he would be later on that evening, so he could come and see him. Parviz gave his uncle the address of his hotel. Morteza Mughnia suspected that the Israelis would take his nephew out of Israel only if it were an important intelligence matter, and alerted the local operatives of the Iranian security service.
“They staked out the hotel and followed Parviz to the safe house. Our security team in the building opposite the safe apartment took photos of the scouts the uncle had sent. One of the scouts was identified as a member of the Iranian Revolutionary Guards working in the Iranian Embassy as a ‘cultural attache.’ Since he had diplomatic immunity, we notified the Austrians, and he was cordially asked to pack and leave.”
“Just because of that?” I asked.
“No way. There was a whole file on him concerning undiplomatic activities.”
“So this is how I was exposed,” I said, letting the information sink in.
“Probably. They must have taken your photograph as you entered the building. Then you went to the Iranian embassy to obtain a visa and were captured by video when you entered the building, and also attached your photo to your application. The counselor, who is no doubt an intelligence officer, made the connection.”
“That means I entered Iran already exposed.”
Hodson nodded.
“Then why didn’t they arrest me immediately?”
“Either because they wanted to know whom you’d be contacting locally or because the information stopped at Hasan Lotfi’s desk.”
“So, if my identity was known to others in the security services, when Lotfi met me at the hotel and then for lunch, he doomed himself, because he was already under surveillance.”
“Exactly. But he was on the alert for a while. When he suspected that he came under suspicion he took off after contacting us, even before we concluded a deal.”
“That means I contaminated everyone else I met,” I said. “In a way, but only those that couldn’t explain. We believe that the school alumni came clean when they gave a true account of the circumstances leading to their meeting with you. Your Kurdish friends escaped to the Kurdish enclave in the north, where no Iranian policemen dare set a foot, unless they are suicidal.”
“One thing isn’t solved, though,” said Holliday. I knew what he was going to ask, and I had no answer. “Where the hell is the Chameleon? Let me remind you that he’s our prime target, and is expected to lead us to the other Atashbon members.”
“I don’t know yet,” I said candidly, “but I’m getting closer. I hope the search of McHanna’s records will tell us more. I’m not easing up the chase. Positive identification of Nazeri as Atashbon will probably bring us closer to the Chameleon and his comrades.”
I went back to my office and wrote Erikka a personal letter telling her that my publisher had put the book project on hold, and therefore her services were currently no longer needed. I attached a check drawn on a Canadian bank to cover the remainder of the period for which I’d agreed to retain her. I added a $500 bonus.
“It was a plea sure to have worked with you,” I wrote. “I hope I can complete the book project one day.” I put the letter and the check in an envelope and sent it to her through a mail-forwarding service in Toronto. I didn’t include a return address.
My phone buzzed. It was Bob. “A federal magistrate judge signed a search warrant for McHanna Associates; FBI teams are on the scene as we speak. Meet me to night at Hodson’s office.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
I arrived at the federal building in downtown Manhattan at eight P.M., but Hodson’s office was still empty. Over an hour later, at nine twenty P.M., as my nerves jangled, five FBI agents finally walked in with Hodson and Casey. Bob Holliday arrived a minute later.
“What’s in the crates I saw you carrying?” I asked the agent standing next to me.
“The last of the stuff we seized at McHanna Associates. The bulk of it was brought over a few hours ago.”
Hodson, sensing my impatience, said, “Our analysts are already starting to examine the first few cartons. I’m afraid it will take time until we have a hit.”
“Can I participate in the analysis of these documents? I know a few things about white-collar crime and money laundering.”
Hodson and Holliday exchanged looks and Holliday nodded.
“OK,” said Hodson. “Be here tomorrow at nine a.m.”
“Tomorrow? I’m not waiting until tomorrow. I want to do it right now.”
Hodson smiled and used the intercom to call his assistant. “Tom, let Dan Gordon join our analysts in cracking the material we seized from McHanna Associates.”
“Thanks,” I said, and before leaving I asked, “Was McHanna taken in?”
“No. Give me a probable cause, and he will be. So far we’ve got nothing to support an arrest warrant.”
I went two floors down. In a big room were six young men and women buried under massive stacks of paper. Open cartons were everywhere.
