“Abdullah will come to your hotel to bring you over in thirty minutes,” promised Ned.
Abdullah was as good as Ned’s word. I was in Applebee’s office in less than an hour.
“Any success?” he asked, though somehow he didn’t sound too interested.
“The person I’m looking for left Pakistan twenty years ago with more than $500-probably around $2,000-deposited in his bank account, and never returned. Before leaving he bought $200 in Iranian currency. A source told me he was allegedly invited to Iran by a German archaeological team, which paid him $500 in advance for one month of photography work, and he vanished. Several years later, a bank attempted to reverse the transfer, saying that it had discovered during an audit that a predecessor bank made the transfer as a result of fraud and wanted the money back. The Pakistani bank refused.”
“Interesting,” he said, looking out his window. He couldn’t have been less interested.
“I’m told that the institution that wanted the money back is located in Lugano, Switzerland.”
“The fact that it’s in Switzerland doesn’t by itself guarantee integrity. Crooks are everywhere.”
“I agree, but these guys are big-time.”
“Who?”
“Al Taqwa.”
Applebee sat up in his chair. At last I had his attention. “Nada Management? Are you sure?”
“No, I said Al Taqwa.”
“I know that. But they’ve been known as Nada Management since 2001.”
“I’m sure I heard my man say Al Taqwa Management, but remember, it came from a single source, uncorroborated, and I didn’t see any documents. Why? Do you know them?”
“They’re backing terror organizations. If you missed reading the intelligence reports about their role, you may have read about them in newspapers.”
Now I remembered where I’d heard the name.
“I need to get the Agency involved,” he said, meaning the CIA. “The information you get here can be important.”
I had been there before. When my findings had touched on matters of national security and I’d brought it to the attention of the CIA, they’d taken control over my case immediately, making my own job assignment secondary. I didn’t mind, except it was time-consuming, and interfered with my own case. However, my job performance at the Department of Justice is measured by results; any distraction means fewer or delayed favorable results. Due to the ultrasecret nature of my time-consuming involvement with the CIA, it isn’t reflected in my personnel file, which is brought up for periodic evaluation at the Department of Justice, so I risked looking like I was under-performing. But I had no choice. The result is that I appear to be performing less effectively than others in my department. Obviously, David Stone knew about my occasional side activities, and authorized them. A cautious man, David knew we both played for the same team, and therefore he was covering for me. But he was about to retire, so what was next? I’d have to explain to the new director. His name had already been announced-Robert Holliday, who had served as David’s deputy for the past six months.
Half an hour later, a man in his early fifties came into Ned’s office. He was of medium build, balding, with a goatee and piercing, ice blue eyes. “Hi, I’m Phil Boyd. Tell me what you have.”
I repeated my story and Boyd took notes. “Are you planning to do anything with that information?” he asked.
“Well, I need to find Ward and the $300 million and change it looks like he stole. Seems like he had a string of aliases and stole from government-insured banks and private investors. Am I stepping on something?”
“Maybe. Nada Management, or Al Taqwa, is on the watch list of every intelligence service in the West.”
“Why?”
“Terror financing. These guys were catering mostly to Muslim clients, and were known for their hawala exchange system. Small amounts, from $500 to $1,000, are transferred to other hawala in different locations.”
“I know the custom,” I said. “You meet one of their representatives in Europe, give him $500, and another person in the Middle East will deliver the money to the designated recipient. It’s just like Western Union.”
“Yes,” he agreed. “But with one huge exception. Western Union isn’t involved in money laundering for terror.”
I knew what he meant. A few hundred dollars, multiplied by thousands, added up to significant amounts, without any written evidence. The Western world was unaware of the hidden potential in the hawala system. Rooted in deep religious convictions, the system provides services based on personal relationships and trust. Usually there’s no collateral, and Western-style accounting is a luxury often done without. Not all the money transferred finances terror. Far from it. The original intention of the founders of the custom was to collect money for legitimate Islamic religious and charitable purposes.
“And Nada?”
“How would you label an organization that takes money from Muslims in Europe, gives no receipt, creates no paper trail of its transactions-which are based on trust and the use of telephone messages-and sends money into the hands of terror organizations? Some of it might go into the hands of innocent people, but we have ample reason to believe that these transactions funnel millions of dollars to terrorist organizations to finance terror.”
“I need to talk to my director at the Justice Department,” I said. “Can I use a secure phone?”
Ned pointed to the room next door. “There, you can use that phone. Just dial the number as if you were in the U.S.”
David picked up the phone. “Hi, Dan. How is Pakistan treating you?”
“Everything’s fine. I’m at the embassy calling you on a secure phone.” I reported my findings and asked permission to go to Lugano, to see what I could find about Nada Management’s connection to my case.
“The operation was shut down a year or two ago,” said David. Apparently he was more informed than I was. “What can you find there?”
“David, I went to Pakistan on a twenty-year-old lead and developed promising information, so maybe working on an organization that was recently closed won’t be that difficult. Anyway, I want to stop by in Israel for a few days. Switzerland is just in the neighborhood.”
“If you call countries two thousand miles apart ‘in the neighborhood,’ ” said David amusedly. “Let me run it by some people first. Call me later.”
Abdullah drove me back to my hotel. As I was looking aimlessly through the car windows, a motorcycle passed us on my right and the rider glanced through my window. I couldn’t see his face through his helmet. A minute later, another motorcycle passed us on our left, and the rider also looked directly into our car.
“Turn the car back,” I ordered Abdullah.
“What happened?”
“I forgot some papers at the embassy,” I said, raising my voice just a tad. “Just turn back.”
Abdullah turned the car around and headed back to the embassy compound. I saw the two motorcycles again. This was no coincidence; they didn’t even make an effort to hide. It looked as though they were even trying to be visible.
I couldn’t take any chances. I remembered well the story of Daniel Pearl, a Wall Street Journal reporter, who was murdered execution style after he was abducted in Karachi.
As we approached the main-compound wall, where I could already see the employee parking area at the corner of University Avenue, a truck blocked our way. I saw the driver just sitting there, with no attempt to turn or park.
“It’s a trap,” I yelled at Abdullah. “Turn around and go to the main gate!”
There was no need for my advice: Abdullah was already doing just that. With screeching tires, he backed up our car. I saw the two motorcycles again at our side, one cyclist holding a gun. I bent down on my seat to avoid an expected barrage of bullets. But none came. One motorcyclist tried to block our car from backing away, while the other, holding the gun, motioned to Abdullah to stop the car. “They’re trying to kidnap us,” I shouted. “Don’t stop.”