necessarily with charitable causes on their minds,” I concluded.
Aha, my friend, I thought. I’m on my way to get you.
“And where did the cash come from?” asked one analyst. “I don’t know,” I said. “The money went out of McHanna’s account, there’s no question about it. But did the payments ever make their way to any charity here? Is it possible that McHanna simply churned the accounts by moving money back and forth, each time leaving 8 percent to institutions outside the U.S. and away from our reach? Or that he sent the money out to somebody somewhere for an unknown reason or purpose, but on the books it appeared as if the charities received the money? That’s an ingenious plan, whether McHanna planned it or was just used as a facilitator.”
“But why?” asked Mel. “They didn’t want to leave a paper trail in the U.S.? There couldn’t be a tax reason. All these charities are tax-exempt anyway.”
“As I said, I don’t think these charities ever got the money, or maybe just a fraction of it. But if they did receive cash, we must conclude that its source was meant to be hidden from some eyes, maybe the FBI’s counterterrorism unit.”
“Just because the receiving institutions have Islamic and Arabic names doesn’t automatically mean that they’re supporting terrorism,” said Mel.
“True…” I said in a level tone.
“I’m a Muslim,” he went on. “And in my neighborhood in Brooklyn there are several Islamic charities that do holy work for the sick and needy. I don’t think they have anything to do with terrorism.”
There was no point in arguing with him. Who knew?-these charities’ names could have just been used by McHanna without their knowledge. But there were also charities that were raided by the FBI, suspected of being a hub of money laundering for Islamic terrorist groups in the Middle East. So I only added, “What we need to check first is the legitimacy of the institutions listed in McHanna’s records. We can check if they received any money from McHanna and if they’re for real.”
I relayed the same suggestion to Hodson.
Two days later, almost-identical responses came from FBI field offices throughout the country. A typical example read, The charity in question doesn’t maintain a valid office or employ any staff. A principal who was interviewed claimed that they’re saving costs and directing all donors’ contributions to the needy in their community. There were no organized records showing names of recipients of support from the charity. We didn’t identify any records showing they received money through McHanna Associates. We didn’t get an answer to our query why money was sent from their communities to McHanna instead of using it locally. We recommend a thorough inquiry and audit. Since donations made to the charity interviewed are tax-exempt, an IRS audit is necessary to ascertain compliance with the rules.
Well, it was time to meet with my old friend Timothy B. McHanna. Would he be happy to see me? I had no doubt I’d give him heartburn-but then again, who cares?
Unannounced, I went to his office. The door was open. I didn’t see any staff, and the office was in complete disarray. Empty files and papers were strewn on the floor. Drawers were half open. Not such a clean job by our men, I supposed. With no one to stop me, I went directly through the reception area to McHanna’s private office. He was standing looking helplessly at the mess.
“Hello, Mr. McHanna.”
“Hi,” he said, a bit startled to see me.
“Remember me?”
He nodded hesitantly, looking down at the papers on the floor.
“I need to know only one thing. Where is Albert Ward?” Going straight to the jugular wasn’t a friendly approach, but it was justified under the circumstances. McHanna had already lost his “virginity”-the FBI had already raided his office, and there was no time or cause for sweet talk.
“I already told the FBI. I don’t know who that is.” He nervously walked toward his desk. As he sat down in his chair I heard the familiar hissing sound of a bullet. If I still remembered its unique shoosh, it was a 7.62 millimeter. It smashed the window and went just over McHanna’s head, hitting the opposite wall. I thought of Dave, my Mossad Academy guns instructor, who’d said with half a smile, “Remember, if the enemy is within range, so are you.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
I dove to the floor and yelled at McHanna, “Get down, get down!” He fell on the carpet and crawled under his desk. I edged to the window to peep outside. I saw a gunman on the roof of the adjacent building aiming at our window with his scope-mounted gun.
“Don’t get up,” I said. “There’s a sniper on the roof of the next building.”
“Some crazy guy,” said McHanna. “This never happens in South Dakota. But then again, South Dakota is much smaller.”
What was wrong with him? Somebody shoots at him, and his immediate reaction is a statistical comparison?
“Do you know why he’s trying to kill you?” I asked, still lying on the carpet wondering what the sniper would do next.
McHanna didn’t answer. He’d just broken the rule I learned during my military service: don’t draw fire-it irritates the people around you. I was clearly in the shooter’s range, and could take a bullet if I got up.
“Stay where you are,” I said. “There could be additional snipers.” I crawled toward the entrance door. Another bullet hit the door just inches above my head.
Son of a bitch. I had no gun, no backup, and no idea how many shooters there were. I saw one, but there could have been more. I couldn’t risk exiting through the door because it’d put me directly in the line of fire.
I dialed Hodson’s office from my mobile phone. After two rings I heard Hodson’s secretary announce, “Mr. Hodson’s office.”
As I responded, “Julie, this is Dan Gordon,” she said, “Hold on,” and put me on hold. I anxiously looked at the battery bars on my phone. I was left with only a few more minutes of power. I couldn’t take the risk. I disconnected and dialed 911. The operator came on.
“What is your emergency?”
“Shots fired at me by a sniper,” I said, but realized I was talking to myself. The phone was dead. Battery empty. I crawled toward the desk and tried to reach the telephone. Another shot shattered the mirrored display cabinet next to the desk, covering me and the floor around me with broken glass. I pulled down the telephone cord and grabbed the receiver. There was no dial tone.
“McHanna,” I said. “Do I need to dial 9 or something to get an outside line?”
“No, just press any button on the right.”
I pulled the phone to the carpet and tried them all, but the phone was dead. I checked the cord. It was still hooked to the wall, but the phone was still dead.
“We should leave immediately,” I said. “Is there another exit?”
“You mean from my office?”
“Yes.”
“Only the door you came in through.”
“How about your office suite? Does it have a back door?”
“Just the one front door.”
I crawled back toward the windows, groping for the curtain cords. I managed to close the heavy curtains on two of the three windows. Another bullet went through one of the curtains and into the opposite wall.
Damn. The shooter had time and ammunition, just the things I was hoping he’d be short of. If I identified correctly based on my military training, the sniper was using a U.S.-made USMC-series gun, which has a magazine capacity of five rounds and an effective range of one thousand yards. We were only fifty to seventy-five yards away. He had already used four rounds. I tried to push the heavy desk toward the window to block some of the shooter’s view, but even with McHanna pushing from underneath, we couldn’t move it. The desk was too heavy.
