“No, no,” he protested. “Look in my personal address book. Your men seized it when I was brought here.”
I remembered looking through it and not seeing any reference to Goldman. “Under what name did you list his number?”
“Norman McAllister.”
“And the number is in the address book? Is there an address as well?”
“No, just the phone number. It’s in code. You have to add numbers to get the correct telephone number.”
“What’s the code?”
“Add one to the first number, two to the second number, three to the third, and so on.”
“Tell me when you spoke with him last.”
“A week ago.”
“What did he tell you?”
“He wanted me to send him money and a passport.”
“Did you?”
“Yes, I wired him $3,000 through Western Union. I had no way of getting him a passport.” McHanna buried his head between his soiled hands. “I want a lawyer,” he repeated faintly.
“Do you want to make a deal? Is that it?”
“Maybe.”
“I’ll get you a lawyer.” I left the room, and asked the agent to assume control. I went to the men’s room to wash up. There wasn’t much I could do. I used the industrial-strength soap and water to wash my hands and my face and the stains off my clothes, but the soap smell just got mixed with the sour smell of McHanna’s vomit.
I returned to Hodson’s office. They were still sitting there when I entered, together with the jet stream of smell, courtesy of McHanna.
“What happened? You smell like shit,” said Holliday, stepping a safe distance away from me.
“McHanna doesn’t seem to like the menu here,” I said wryly. “And I took his complaint.” I went on, “He wants a lawyer, probably to make a deal.”
“What does he have to offer?”
“You’d better watch the video. For one thing, he didn’t flatout deny my theory that he was heading the financial arm of an Iranian clandestine operation here, moving millions to finance terror. Next, he conceded that Ward, Farhadi, Whitney-Davis and Goldman-our Chameleon-were the same person. Look in his address book under Norman McAllister for the Chameleon’s number.” I gave them the code.
“I’m sure more details will come in McHanna’s full account,” I continued. “It’s looking like he wants a plea bargain. Between all this and Reza’s statements, he’ll be locked up forever.”
“What statements?” Hodson sounded surprised.
“Reza sent his mother three letters and asked her to keep them in a safe place. She kept the letters in an envelope together with other personal stuff he had left behind. She showed me the envelope, and there I found the first lead to Reza’s connection to Al Taqwa. I borrowed the letters and had them translated.”
“Borrowed?” asked Holliday, catching the word immediately. “You said they were personal. Did his mother let you take them?”
He knew me well. “Well, she showed them to me, and I borrowed them.”
“Without letting her know?” asked Bob.
“I’ll return them,” I promised. “But anyway, Reza wrote to his mother that McHanna, the head of a financial institution in New York where Reza had been working, was stealing from the company, and when Reza confronted him, McHanna threatened his life. Apparently McHanna kept his promise, although he didn’t confess doing it yet.”
Holliday told me what they’d learned after sending “Dan Gordon’s law partner” to look for additional documents in the Swiss bank archives. “We found documents establishing that Nazeri was a member of Atashbon. He’d first used Christopher Gonda’s name, and as of 1988 used the name Philip Manteau. He was actually functioning as McHanna’s boss, but disguised as an employee.”
“Were all three letters saying the same thing?” asked Hodson. “Only two. The third one hinted about the possible fate of the Chameleon. It only said that McHanna was nervous about recent developments, and that he even told his employees that if they ever reported on him, he would get them. I think Reza sent these letters to his mother as an insurance policy. Maybe he didn’t trust Atashbon command’s protection that much.”
I got up. “I’m going home to wash up. Even I can’t stand myself any longer.”
Back home, my happiness at the developments couldn’t distract me from how ill I felt. Was it the vomit that McHanna dribbled on me? I checked my temperature-it was 101.9°F. I took two Tylenols and fell on my bed. I slept on and off for eighteen hours until the fever subsided, but I was still aching. All of the travel and adventure was catching up to me. I remembered my mother saying that after a certain age, if you don’t wake up aching in every joint, you are probably dead.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
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.”