The Infiltrator, page 24
At the Grand Bay Hotel, over caviar and cocktails, Bilgrami explained his new plan. “My idea was that we would receive your funds and then lend them out, in your case to three or four banks with whom we would tie up…. We’ll give them the cash. There is a benefit there, that there’s no linkage at all because there is not just one institution” — making the loan. “Four different institutions are involved. One could be a Japanese bank; one could be a Swiss bank; one could be an Arab bank; and then an English situation. The advantage in this is that, number one, investment houses are not scrutinized as banks. Paperwork would be a minimum.”
In other words, they planned to confuse money movements by multiplying the number of loans against a deposit fourfold, making it that much harder for the government to follow the money. Pure genius.
“Well, how much of my clients’ money do you think you can clean in a month, let’s say?” I asked.
“There are so many ways of going about it,” Bilgrami said. “You mentioned the currency situation, so, um, currencies can be changed for commodities. You can get a currency and change it for a cash delivery in gold, and you’ve done it, the whole transaction in two seconds.”
The opportunities they were offering were unlimited — and we were on a roll. I wanted them to tell me which major players were marketing the dirtiest money of the underworld.
Citibank in Panama, they agreed. According to Awan, BCCI was “nowhere in the league of the big boys — Bank of Boston, Citibank, First Chicago, and London.”
That same day I received a devastating call from Emir.
“I just got a call from Gonzalo,” he said. “This shit is bad. He told me something bad had happened in Detroit and to stay away from those people. He warned me, ‘Don’t answer any calls from those people.’ Then I called our office and just got word. Our office in Detroit took the Giraldo brothers down. Imagine this shit. I’m learning it first from the bad guys!”
“Please tell me you’re kidding,” I said. “Don’t they know how deep we’re into these people? How small-minded can they be?”
“Don’t you get it? We are going to lose out to the theory of ‘Me, Me, and I.’ Other than Jim Glotfelty” — the case agent in Detroit — “who is an honorable man, these people don’t give a shit about us or the big picture. If they can get more stripes on their shirt because they made the biggest cocaine seizure in Detroit, they’ll sell out their mother. I just got word they got 106 kilos of cocaine. For that shit, the spotlight will be on us because they filed federal warrants to search the locations that only I and the Giraldo brothers know about, like the storage facility where they keep their dope. The affidavits filed by our own people tell the entire story about everything you and I have done for the past two years.”
Shit.
“No!” I said, still in shock. “It can’t be. How could they break their promise? What happened to the plan to stop the semi at the Georgia border? What happened to Detroit’s promise not to do anything that would expose our undercover operation?”
“Bob, our own people in Tampa blessed this thing. This one was the second biggest load of coke that Detroit had ever seen. There were too many potential promotions in Detroit to let this seizure go to the locals, who knew nothing about our operation. That would have made sense, but the bottom line is they fucked us.”
I couldn’t believe it.
“A child would know that, if people in Detroit who know about the undercover operation write affidavits exposing us, it’s only a matter of a month or two before those affidavits will probably have to be disclosed to the defense attorneys defending the Giraldo brothers.”
I called Laura Sherman. “Emir just told me what happened in Detroit. What the fuck is going on?”
“Well, Bob, the decision was made to let the truck go on to Detroit. Our people there wrote affidavits to search the home and storage area of the Giraldo brothers, and they got a lot of coke. This was blessed by Bonni.”
“How could this have been allowed to happen? Have you seen the affidavits for the search warrants? I understand they expose me and Emir.”
“Don’t worry. Detroit assures us they’ve been sealed.”
“Sealed? Sealed? Are they fucking crazy? ‘Sealed’ means some minimum-wage clerk put that affidavit in an envelope with a note that it shouldn’t be publicly filed. Moncada and Escobar control presidents of countries — a clerk is nothing!”
But it was worse than I thought. A Customs agent in Detroit not only had filed affidavits to get those 106 kilos of cocaine, violating their promise not to expose us, but the same agent had filed an affidavit four months earlier requesting authorization to tap the beeper of one of the Giraldo brothers. That affidavit had been under seal for the last four months — and no one ever told me, Emir, or anyone else whose ass was on the line.
Despite Customs’ written obligation to coordinate busts like that with DEA — the agency with primary jurisdiction for domestic drug violations — Detroit Customs never told them about the hundreds of pounds of cocaine they let walk in January, nor did they call DEA about the 106 kilos that arrived in June until the very last minute.
It would take an act of Congress to keep those affidavits closed until October. Troubling enough, but knowing that the only barrier keeping Moncada from learning that Musella and Dominguez were federal agents was a low-paid clerk wore on me.
And time was against us. If we were going to take risks, now was the time. From this moment forward, more and more people were going to learn our secret.
I called a meeting with Emir and Kathy.
“Listen, this may sound crazy,” I said to them, “but I’d like to make a pitch for authorization that we be allowed to travel undercover to Colombia. It will take time for Don Chepe to figure out that we had anything to do with the Detroit bust. If we make this trip soon, it will throw everyone off down there. If we show our faces in Medellín, they’ll never suspect we’re feds. Even if we’re only down there for a twenty-four-hour surprise visit, that would go a long way. What do you think?”
Emir nodded. “I’m ready to go now.”
“Count me in,” Kathy agreed.
I submitted a request for authorization. The response came right back — REQUEST DENIED. DEA had ruled it too risky. But as bad as Detroit had been, it was nothing compared to what was about to go down in New York.
16
THE ENEMY WITHIN
* * *
Caliber Chase Apartments, Tampa, Florida
July 12, 1988
SECURITY ALARMS WERE BLARING. The Giraldo brothers weren’t important — just mutts who knew next to nothing. The 106 kilos of cocaine didn’t matter either: $500 per kilo for the cartel to produce, so a loss of $53,000 — chicken feed. But why? The feds knew too much. The Giraldos’ downfall was no accident. Don Chepe was looking for a leak, but we kept collecting cash in Miami, Houston, New York, and Chicago, so it was clear he didn’t suspect us. In fact, we were on a roll — and then the phone rang.
“Gonzalo just called me,” Emir said. “Don Chepe’s people want us to collect $10 million in New York right away. Coño, brother, our people in New York are going to be salivating when they hear about this. We can’t afford any slip-ups now, especially after Detroit. Our people in New York are going to want to either rip some of this money off or have surveillance all over the street trying to follow the people who drop the money. If they get burned, we’re dead.”
“We need our managers to work this out with the front office in New York,” I said. “Call Steve to see what he can do, and I’m going to call Tommy Loreto” — the supervisor overseeing the New York part of the case. “Tommy and I go way back. He’s an honest guy…. I think he’ll try to help.”
I called Loreto and explained Paris and how we were on the verge of setting up a $100 million nest egg for Medellín.
“I’ll do what I can for you,” he said, “but you’ve got to realize that people who run this office want to play this thing out so we develop as much as we can for New York. They’re not used to how you’re approaching this from outside the box. I’m not sure they’d understand it. They like to do things the way everyone does it around the country: follow the mopes away in hopes of finding their stash house, search the place, seize the money, and go home. End of story.”
“I’m begging you,” I said. “Please do whatever you can to be light on the surveillance. I know you need guys on the street to keep your undercover guy safe, but if your guys get burned trying to follow these mutts that drop off the money, our undercover operation may go down in flames. The Colombians will have countersurveillance, and they’re going to be looking for guys who fit the profile of most federal agents: white guys in shape with beepers, cell phones, and probably fanny packs to hide their guns. Jeans, polo shirts, and high-end sneakers will be dead giveaways. They can’t be gawking while they’re parked in American-made sedans, and they’ve got to do something to cover up the radios, mikes, and red lights that hang from their dash. We’ve got to be sneaky.”
A long silence.
“We know what we’re doing here,” Loreto said. “We’re not going to fuck this up. I’ll run as much interference for you as I can, but I can’t promise you anything.”
In too many cities I’d seen the same thing a hundred times over. All agents on the street — even those with the smallest roles — had to resist business as usual and stow their machismo. Loreto had a good heart and was trying to do the right thing, but he couldn’t buck the system alone. Even with pressure from Tampa and Washington, New York would probably conduct business as usual.
It took a day to coordinate all the necessary approvals, and by then Mora had bad news for Emir. “Four of the $10 million has already been taken by someone else. There’s only $6 million left.”
“Mr. Bob asked how much of this money will go into an investment,” Emir said.
“No one has said anything about that,” Mora replied.
Time to call Armbrecht and lean on our friendship.
“Rudy, I need your help,” I said. “We were offered ten big ones in the Towers, and when we called to get details four of the ten went to someone else. Now I’m being told that, of the remaining six, none of it is slated for investment. Can you call your people and get this resolved? If they won’t budge on this, I’d rather cut my losses and move on.”
Armbrecht would try to straighten things out in Medellín the following week. He didn’t want to call Don Chepe immediately, for fear of looking biased and losing his ability to help.
The next day, Marta, a Colombian in New York City coordinating money movements for Don Chepe, arranged for some of her people to drop off half a million to an agent posing as one of Emir’s workers in downtown Manhattan.
At the same time, Awan and Bilgrami were moving money around the world and into Don Chepe’s accounts. During a break in the action, over drinks at the Hyatt Regency in Miami, our conversation turned to Ziauddin Akbar, founder of Capcom.
“I just said I had certain customers,” Awan explained, “who might like to bring cash to be deposited in various banks…. He said he can’t do it regularly, but he can do it on a, you know, once-a-month basis or something like that.”
Good news. All we had to do was deliver the cash to Akbar in London. No problem, since Don Chepe and Alcaíno were selling tons of cocaine in Europe. When I asked how much Akbar could take a month, Awan glanced around the room to make sure no one was listening before he answered quietly, “Maybe ten.”
Not only could Akbar take $10 million a month in cash, he could also arrange unlimited transfers disguised as loan proceeds. My mind raced. Awan was surely making this same pitch to his other “special” clients, including Noriega. I had to meet Akbar, establish a relationship, and get him on tape. We’d find Noriega’s fortune at his doorstep.
When the conversation turned to Panama, Awan said, “Well, put it this way. In Panama, I mean, we have no qualms about doing anything because the laws of the land allow us to do it. Anyone can walk in and deposit $10 million in cash — fine. We take it. That’s the business we’re in. The U.S. may call it laundering, they may call it whatever they may call it, but Citibank does it, Bank of America does it, they all do it. We do it in probably a smaller way, but every bank does it.”
BCCI was ready, willing, and able — just like every other bank — to take as much dirty money in Panama as we could give them, and Awan would introduce me to the right people in those other banks who would take whatever BCCI couldn’t handle.
The next day, Don Chepe’s people passed another $1.5 million to us on the streets of Manhattan. Money was moving so quickly that Mora needed more checks in Medellín and Armbrecht wanted the balance of the documents to satisfy Don Chepe that the account in Paris was safe. That paperwork needed to get to Medellín, but mailing it was too risky. It might be intercepted and seized. Alcaíno offered to hand-carry everything on his next trip, but he was delayed and so suggested I hire Tuto Zabala to smuggle the documents down.
“Tuto,” I said, coaching him, “give these four envelopes only to Gonzalo. They contain checks I’ve pre-signed on accounts and some other papers. Hide them as best you can, but if you’re stopped give them my name, and tell them I asked you to drop this envelope off to a name we’ll make up — let’s say Rudolph Dominguez. Tell them you did this for me as a favor and you don’t know what the envelope contains. I’ll handle any fallout. Here’s a first-class round-trip ticket and $500 for travel expenses. I’ll take care of you when you get back.”
Zabala obeyed like a puppy. “When I get back,” he said, “I’d like to talk with you about doing some business.”
Fine with me. Our new arrangement earned me the right to pick his brain later about the services he had to offer. One or two good conversations on tape would help prove his involvement with Alcaíno in moving thousands of kilos of cocaine.
The relationship among Armbrecht, BCCI, and Alcaíno was progressing quickly, but there was still Juan Tobón, the Santería devotee. We knew only that he frequently visited the home of his santero in Sweetwater, a lower-class suburb of Miami inhabited mostly by Nicaraguan immigrants. Kathy had dropped off a thank-you note for Tobón, but he hadn’t responded. Emir cautioned me to stay away from the santero — too risky. If the priest got bad vibes, it would queer Tobón and therefore cause problems with Alcaíno. But we were running out of time, so we took the risk, and Kathy went first.
Antiburglary bars secured the doors and windows. A woman named Cookie welcomed her and explained that Tobón frequented her house in order to meet her godfather, Fonseca, whom everyone called Padrino. While Kathy spoke with Cookie in the kitchen, four men arrived, including Fonseca. Two of the men ran a florist’s shop and were wedding coordinators, a lucky coincidence that allowed Kathy to discuss the October wedding.
By the time I got there, the Tobón family had also arrived, as well as some of Fonseca’s other followers, who met with him separately in a private room. Always a pro, Kathy had everyone at ease.
“It is very important to me,” Tobón said, taking me aside, “that Padrino meet you. When everyone is gone, I’d like to introduce you to him.”
“No problem. It would be my pleasure,” I said, noticing a library table by the front door littered with seashells, coconuts, nuts, vegetables, religious statues, and other gifts to the spirits.
Tobón escorted me down a dark hall toward a door that was slightly ajar. As it creaked open, a wall of heat from lit candles hit me in the face and pushed me back. Fonseca, an unassuming little man wearing a warm smile, beckoned me in. Behind him, a wall filled with shelves, configured like an altar, held a hoard of candles, dolls, snail shells, china filled with herbs, statues, and all sorts of second-hand knickknacks. The room oozed a strange odor — burnt herbs and dried blood from the sacrifice of countless chickens and other animals.
Tobón introduced me as Fonseca approached, extending his hand. We each looked straight into each other’s eyes as I told him, “It is a great pleasure to meet you, Padrino. Juan has told me so many wonderful things about you. Thank you for accepting me into your home.” After a few pleasantries, Fonseca turned back to the altar, and Tobón escorted me back to the living room before rejoining the santero.
Clara Tobón had invited Kathy to a dressmaker to pick out a wedding gown, and Cookie offered to have her friends print invitations and provide flowers. The Tobóns had already accepted Kathy’s wedding invitation, and they offered to cover the tab for the flowers as part of their gift.
Tobón emerged from the hallway, smiling. “Padrino tells me that you are a good and honorable man who keeps his word. We will do business.”
Tobón sat on the couch with me and opened up. He and Alcaíno had done a deal a few months earlier. The dope went to Europe from Argentina, but it had been seized. And there were other problems. DEA had also seized his Cessna Citation, and the owners of the cash he’d used to buy it — upset because he wasn’t contesting the seizure — were threatening him and his family. Despite all that, he wanted very much to do business. There was no sense in complicating his life until his problems were resolved, I told him, but when he was ready I would be happy to listen to what he had to offer.
Tobón claimed to have well-placed friends in Medellín, including José Gonzalo Rodríguez Gacha, a sitting member of the cartel and Tobón’s wife’s uncle. Tobón also worked closely with John Nasser, a man he described as one of the most powerful people in the drug business, a notorious money launderer and drug dealer working with the cartel.
After warm goodbyes, we stepped into the stifling Miami night. The car’s air conditioning blasted the putrid smell of Fonseca’s altar from my nose.
“Well,” I said to Kathy, putting the car into gear, “when this goes down, I’m afraid they’re going to yank Padrino’s santero license.”
