The order contained additional conditions and details, but I was already celebrating in my heart. I had managed to make another small step forward.
I called Dr. Liechtenstein in Zurich and asked to arrange my visit to inspect the documents.
“I’ve already talked to them. It will have to be at their storage facility,” he said. “I’m sorry-they tell me that the physical conditions there aren’t so good.”
Five days later I was in Zurich, my court-authorized appointments and travel documents having been fully vetted. “You never know with the Swiss authorities,” Bob Holliday had said. “They’re extremely fussy when U.S. government agents visit their country, even when the visit complies with a Swiss court’s order.”
I met Dr. Liechtenstein with the bank’s lawyer, and we traveled to Bern’s Manheim Document Storage company. There were an hour and a half of formalities, which included my execution of a confidentiality agreement, in case during the course of my search I was exposed to documents unrelated to Mr. Montreau, and therefore not included in the court’s order. I signed. Why should I care if I stumbled on secret deposits of this dictator or that thug? I raced through the formalities. I had one agenda: Chameleon and his Atashbon cohorts. I wouldn’t be distracted, not even by the bureaucratic hurdles put up by the young blond man who was assigned by the bank to help me. I knew he was in there to make sure I wasn’t sidestepping my court-approved gangway, which was like the one used to herd cattle to the slaughter. My gangway here was fitted with virtual sides, railings, and other means of protection, to prevent me from looking at any other documents. Here, I thought, I was the cattle.
I’d come prepared. Before leaving New York I had met with Special Agent Matt Kilburn of the FBI’s Counterterrorism Unit, whom I’d first met at the conference in Giverny, France. Matt had been working on the investigation of Nada Management, previously known as Al Taqwa, and provided me with excellent written and oral reports on the methods of its operation.
Heinrich Andrist, my chaperone, appointed by Tempelhof Bank, was a gentle person with a very polite demeanor.
“OK,” I said as all the lawyers left. “Let’s start with 1981. Can you tell me how these cartons are cata loged?”
“By account number and by our client number index.”
“Can I see the index?”
“I’m sorry, you can’t. It contains names and details of the bank’s customers, and that is protected by Swiss law.”
“Of course. Let’s look up by name. The decedent’s name was Christopher Gonda, and then Philip Montreau. He may have also used Reza Nazeri.”
“Of course, Herr Gordon,” he said patiently. He went to the third row of the eight-foot-tall heavy metal shelves, climbed a small stepladder, and pulled out a carton case.
“That’s Mr. Gonda’s file for 1981.”
I chose that year to begin my search, although I was almost certain I’d find nothing. But just in case, I wanted to make sure I wouldn’t miss anything.
I quickly ran my eyes over the yellowing documents. There were bank statements and deposit slips, telegraphic transfers and other documents. But there was nothing to quench my thirst or satisfy my hunger for pertinent facts. They were just old papers, seemingly irrelevant to my subject of interest. I need to see the buzzword Al Taqwa, or other similarly exciting leads telling me where the money went. An hour later I closed the box and shook my head.
“Nothing here,” I said. “Please bring the next box.”
Heinrich brought me 1982, then every year through 1987. Nothing. The documents represented typical bank accounts of a businessman who liked to travel and buy expensive gifts for himself. There were many transfers or withdrawals, but with all deposits made in cash, it was impossible to trace their origin or the source of his income. I made a record of significant outgoing transfers, all of them to other banks in Europe and the U.S. Hours went by. Heinrich looked at his watch; it was four thirty p.m. But he still said nothing.
“Please get me the 1988 box, and we’ll call it a day,” I said. He seemed relieved.
That box was bigger than the rest. As the flying dust reached my nose, I sneezed, and then, getting a better look, restrained myself from crying aloud. Lying atop the pile was a printed envelope of Al Taqwa. Inside were copies of seven wire transfers made from an Al Taqwa account in Lugano, Switzerland, through Tempelhof Bank to a McHanna Associates account at Manufacturers Hanover bank in New York. I quickly added up the amounts. They totaled approximately $7 million. The transfer orders were signed by Gonda. That was a strong indication that he had signature rights at Al Taqwa to move funds around.
I frantically leafed though the other documents in the box and felt like Ali Baba in the children’s story, breaking into the cave of the forty thieves and finding heaps of silver and gold, bales of silk and fine carpets. An inch deeper into the box, I found additional documents showing wire transfers from Gonda to Al Taqwa and from them to McHanna Associates, using Tempelhof Bank as a correspondent bank. Heinrich made me copies of the documents I selected. I signed a receipt and left.
“I’ll see you tomorrow at eleven A.M.,” he said.
I returned to my hotel, ordered room service, and concentrated on reading the documents.
An alarm bell sounded. “ Feuer, evakuieren Sie bitte alle Raume…
Fire, please evacuate all rooms.” I opened my room door. People were running in the hallway. I didn’t see or smell fire or smoke. I looked out the window: there was no fire engine or any special activity in the street.
“Another fire drill,” I muttered. I’d already been through one in Islamabad-I should have been considered exempt. I was in shorts and a T-shirt and didn’t feel like leaving my room again. I had no intention of playing. I closed the door. Seconds later came a series of strong bangs on my door. I opened it.
A man with a flashlight and fireman’s hat said in a thick German accent, “You must to leave now.”
“What?” I asked, pretending not to understand.
“You must to leave,” he repeated.
Reluctantly I stepped into my pants, took my laptop and my personal documents, and went to the door. I stopped, turned around, and took the copies of the bank documents I’d had made at the storage facility. Maybe I could find a corner to go over them while this stupid, untimely drill was going on. The elevator door was blocked, and I had to use the stairs.
About a hundred people were in the lobby, some in night clothing and some wrapped in blankets. Twenty minutes later I heard, “Falsche Warnung” -false alarm, said the guy who had ousted me earlier from my room, as he entered the lobby. “Somebody pressed the alarm button. We shall report this to the police. It’s illegal to do that,” he announced in German, then repeated it in English. I had no patience or interest to hear the rest of the things he had to say and ran first to the elevator.
I opened my door and took a step back. My room had been ransacked-every drawer thrown open, the suitcase shaken out. I opened the door wide, placed a shoe to stop it from shutting, and gingerly walked inside. If the intruder was still inside my room, I didn’t want to be locked in with him. He could be armed, and there could be more than one intruder. I checked the bathroom and the closet. They were empty. I looked around. The bed linens were thrown on the floor, and my clothes in the closet were piled up in the corner. Somebody had pressed the fire-alarm button to get me out of my room.
I called security. The same “fireman” came over. He must have been their jack-of-all-trades. “Mein Gott,” he exclaimed when he saw the mess. “Is anything missing?”
“I don’t know,” I said. I was still holding my laptop computer and the stack of documents. “Please check to see if other guests were victimized as well,” I said. If I was the only one, then the conclusion would be clear: I’d been singled out. Someone wanted something I had. And the only things I had were the papers and my laptop. It wasn’t my fashionable attire.