The Infiltrator, page 29
As I left the Grand Bay Hotel, I marveled that the same international bankers orchestrating the laundering of drug fortunes were in bed with major political figures, not only helping them hide their crimes but also operating a multibillion-dollar U.S. bank chain secretly owned by powers in Saudi Arabia and Pakistan. Our allies, yes — but then why were they so deeply involved with the likes of Awan, chasing dirty money all over the world? It was more than just greed. It looked like a play for financial and political power across the globe.
Not long after, Awan made his clandestine trip to D.C. and met with subcommittee investigators, including Jack Blum. When asked if any of the bank’s clients were involved in drug dealing or money laundering, Awan said stoically, “No.”
The subcommittee thanked him for his honesty.
Now it was time to play charades with the Colombians, pretending to be on top of the fallout from Alcaíno’s arrest.
I told Tobón about my system of communicating with Gloria Alcaíno from pay phones, which enabled me to act as her lifeline. Tobón couldn’t wait to partake, so I took him and his brother-in-law, Diego Perez, to the Key Biscayne Winn-Dixie on a hot September night. Like clockwork, Gloria called. After she and I spoke, Tobón took the line. When they finished, Tobón informed me that he and Gloria had arranged future communication through one of Alcaíno’s lawyers. He’d cross the government’s radar screen if he spoke directly to Gloria, he reasoned.
Little did he know.
Tobón, Perez, and I headed back to my town house. No cover team, no gun, no badge — and no other way to proceed. Any abnormal behavior would have raised flags of alarm. At my place, the audio-video system rolling, we spent an hour going over documents I claimed my lawyers had collected about Alcaíno’s arrest.
Tobón pored over an article from the Philadelphia Daily News and a copy of the affidavit used to search Alcaíno’s New York apartment. Just as Nelson Chen had promised, not one word threw suspicion in my direction. Everything pointed to an accidental find by Customs inspectors using dogs trained to sniff out cocaine. As far as the underworld knew, I had nothing to do with it.
After carefully reading each word, Tobón explained his role to me — and my confessional was open again. He had put up money to finance the anchovy packing plant, which, four or five times, had safely moved coke to the States and Europe. References to Carlos Díaz worried him. Díaz knew him, which could spell trouble.
From my place, we headed to Tobón’s. During the drive, he confessed concerns about Alcaíno. Tobón theorized that Alcaíno was a very rich man because his partners had a habit of being mysteriously murdered. He worried that Alcaíno’s hands were covered with blood. Which of course worried me. I’d just accepted responsibility to collect debts and pay suppliers for Alcaíno. I might find myself paying unexpectedly for his sins. But there was no turning back. There was still a lot of work to do and less than a month in the hourglass.
It had occurred to me that, after everyone went off in chains, I’d be a marked man. My testimony would determine the outcome of the majority of the resulting cases. Instinct was preparing me for the worst. One of these madmen — Don Chepe, for example — would put a price on my head and force me underground. So I found a cemetery in an Italian neighborhood, walking past hundreds of headstones, looking for the perfect fit: an Italian name, an infant death, someone born the year I was. There it was. I scribbled down details and, in my spare time, began building another identity — morbid insurance for me and my family.
Back in Tampa, I prepared for a ten-day trip to Europe, during which I would meet Ziauddin Akbar at Capcom in London and tie up loose ends with Chinoy and his staff at BCCI Paris, before everyone arrived at Innisbrook Resort near Tampa for the wedding.
Against objections from the front office, Kathy and I insisted that we handle the wedding plans at the country club straight up. No one there could know we were feds. If we made those disclosures, there was no way of knowing who might catch a whisper of the truth. Wealthy members of the community sat on the club’s board, and any one of them could be one of BCCI’s clients. We set dozens of rooms aside for the dopers and bankers who had agreed that they and their families would attend our lavish outdoor celebration.
Laura Sherman had learned that Rudy Armbrecht had come to the FBI’s attention. An undercover Bureau agent in Tennessee had been posing as an airplane broker, confirming Colombian informant reports that Armbrecht had already bought twenty Rockwell Commanders for the cartel. But rather than strike, they let Armbrecht buy plane after plane, installing satellite tracking systems in each one. In time, D.C. could monitor the entire Medellín cartel fleet and identify every single secret airstrip the planes visited and each time any plane tried to return to the U.S. with its narcotic payload.
FBI Agent Brian Loader in Washington oversaw this sting, Operation Star Watch. A friend of mine, previously stationed in Tampa as a supervisor, he had tried to recruit me to join the FBI, but I turned him down in favor of Customs.
“I’m all for your operational plan,” I told him, “but I’m the tail of the dog. You’ll have to convince Customs that what you intend to do is so important that our operation shouldn’t be taken down. Something unsaid is driving this beast to end in October, but if you can get them to prolong it, I think we can maintain credibility with the underworld and run it for another couple of months.”
“Okay,” he said. “We’ll make that play from headquarters. Being able to track the cartel’s air force would be a coup. I can’t imagine your people wouldn’t understand that.”
I couldn’t imagine a lot of things my people did, I thought.
Just before Kathy and I left for Europe, we hit the Tampa office to review our itinerary with Steve Cook. As we were talking, a clerk interrupted with an intercom message, “Steve, Ira Silverman is on line two.”
Cook picked up and started talking as Kathy’s eyes grew big as saucers.
“Do you know Silverman?” she whispered to me.
I didn’t.
“He’s a lead producer with NBC News.”
“What?! That can’t be. What the hell are you saying?”
It was Steve’s turn in the confessional. When he got off the phone, nothing could hold me back. “What the fuck is going on? Why the hell are you talking to the head of NBC News?”
“Kathy, let me talk to Bob for a minute,” Cook said sheepishly.
“I didn’t say anything,” he said, looking beaten, after Kathy left, “because this isn’t my plan, man. This is Tischler’s thing. I’ve fought this every inch of the way, and I had no idea it was going on until a couple of weeks ago, when Tischler dragged me to D.C. All I knew was, we were supposed to give a briefing about the case. She sat my ass outside Bill Rosenblatt’s office” — the assistant commissioner of enforcement for Customs — “in the morning, and I sat there waiting all day. Then she and Rosenblatt dragged me to the Four Seasons Hotel in Georgetown. When we got to the dining room, two guys from NBC News were at the table waiting for us to arrive, Ira Silverman, a producer, and Brian Ross, an investigative reporter.
“Tischler and Rosenblatt gave them a general idea about our undercover operation and then directed me to offer up details about everyone you’ve dealt with undercover for the past two years. They said I shouldn’t be concerned about talking openly because they had dealt with Silverman for years, and he had given them great publicity. I told them to go to hell, and I wouldn’t give them one name. It made for a very tense dinner. When it was over, Tischler told me my career was over. They’re gunning for me now. It’s only a matter of time. I didn’t say anything to you because I didn’t want you to explode. I’m sorry.”
“We’ve got three more weeks of this undercover operation.” I was seething. “Any of the assholes we’re dealing with on the street would whack us in a heartbeat if they thought we were federal agents! How could our own people do this to us? I can’t believe we’ve been putting our asses on the line while leaks to the press have been going on for weeks!”
“There’s an agenda here,” Cook said calmly. “I think Tischler, Rosenblatt, and von Raab see this as a stepping stone for their futures. The more publicity they get when this case goes down, the more likely von Raab will become the first drug czar. Tischler and Rosenblatt are on his coattails, and they’ll be pulled along. Nobody told me that, but that’s what I and Joe Ladow” — assistant special agent in charge — “read between the lines.”
Customs officials later disclosed that Commissioner von Raab’s rabbi was North Carolina Republican senator Jesse Helms. Helms had told von Raab almost a year prior that his days as commissioner were numbered. As soon as the election was over, Treasury secretary James Baker, who hated the commissioner, said that von Raab was out. But if von Raab wanted to move to another department and become the first drug czar, Helms already had twenty or so senators to support his appointment. If von Raab had a media splash demonstrating that he had the skill to lead the War on Drugs — well, that would make the appointment that much easier.
Mystery of the October cutoff solved.
“You have to do what you can to keep this under control,” I told Cook, “while Kathy and I make this run to Europe. When we get back, there’ll be about ten days before it’s over. We all need to keep this thing together and make sure nobody gets hurt.”
“Mazur, I’m doing everything I can to keep these idiots in check. They’re out of control. But I promise you I’m doing everything I can.” There wasn’t time to get into details about what the front office was planning for the takedown. We’d talk about that later.
Then Steve dropped a bombshell. The front office wanted the $5 million flash roll back — the same $5 million I’d deposited with BCCI and Capcom — in their hands by the time of the takedown.
“You need to come up with something believable to get that done,” Cook said.
“They’ve got to be kidding,” I snorted. “Isn’t it more important for us to lure these people back to Tampa so they can be arrested? Pulling all that money out of accounts at the same time we’re trying to convince them to come to the States is asking too much. It could spook them. When this case goes down, there’ll be plenty of time for prosecutors to recover the money from BCCI and Capcom.”
“I’m just passing on the orders. That five million was borrowed from the U.S. Treasury, and it has to be returned by September thirtieth, the end of the fiscal year.”
I couldn’t believe it, but I’d get it done.
The Concorde to Heathrow was fast, but not fast enough to clear my mind of Cook’s confession about disclosures to NBC. Not his fault, but the lives of undercover agents counted less than someone’s obsession with political power. It was disgusting. I would have walked away from it all, but I, too, had my agenda. My unique placement in the underworld — a position I thought no one else would ever see again — obsessed me. It could have cost me my career, my family, or my life — it didn’t matter. My own blind ambition was pushing me.
In a sense, the unmovable October wall saved me. I would have ridden the case longer and deeper than I should have — like a compulsive gambler not knowing when to walk away. But I had much more to lose than money.
When we landed in London, Kathy and I joined separate lines in Immigration. I handed my passport to an inspector who looked at each page, wrinkled his brow, then looked more closely. Time came to a screeching halt.
What’s going on? Why is he staring so intently?
“Where’d you get the phony chops, mate?” he asked after what felt like a lifetime. I looked at him quizzically. “I said, Where’d you get the phony stamps, mate?”
“Excuse me, sir? I don’t understand what you mean,” I managed.
“What I mean, sir, is that one of these U.K. stamps is a phony. You see, every two years we change the emblem on our stamp, and the date in the middle of this stamp doesn’t match the emblem.”
“Sir, I don’t know what to say,” I said, breaking into a cold sweat. “Every time I come to someone like you, I hand them my passport, they stamp it, and I move on. I don’t know who stamped that.”
“Is that the best you can do, mate? Let me tell you something. Here’s a consent form for a body-cavity search. You can either tell me how this phony stamp got in your passport, or you’re off to the clink, and our people will have fun checking you inside and out, if you get what I mean.”
My mind reeled. The FBI lab had promised the stamps were perfect. Joe Hinton’s warning echoed in my head. Don’t let Washington make documents for you that you can otherwise get on your own. You never know if they’ll make a mistake or compromise you.
Joe was right.
“I don’t know what to say, sir,” I said quietly.
“Take this guy to secondary,” he said smiling to another officer. “He needs a thorough search, inside and out.”
19
LOOSE ENDS
* * *
Heathrow International Airport, London
September 18, 1988
THIS TIME MY ASS WAS REALLY ON THE LINE.
Her Majesty’s Customs and Excise had escorted us to an investigation room. They held every piece of clothing in my bags up to bright lights to detect contraband sewn into the material. Then one of them escorted me to an enclosed examination room for a strip search. As I stood there, naked and mortified, an officer wearing surgical gloves told me to turn my back to him and bend over.
Oh God, I thought. British Customs is about to give me a prostate exam.
“Okay, mate,” he said, scanning my rear end, “everything looks good here.”
“Of course,” I wisecracked. “I hear that a lot when people look at me that way.”
Bad idea. The joke didn’t land any laughs, just more determination to tear through my bags. After I put my clothes on and walked out of the examining room, one of the officers was inspecting my briefcase.
There’s an $8,000 Nagra recorder hidden inside the lid, I thought frantically as my mind raced for a way out.
The officer’s eyes popped as he felt a slight bulge along the top of the case. He started ripping at the lid like a bulldog — it was only a matter of time before the Velcro seals gave way and he spotted the recorder.
“Excuse me, sir,” I said to the officer and his partner, the only other two in the room, “but I have something I’d like to share with you. I’m a U.S. Customs agent working undercover on a case with your office here in London, and I’d appreciate it if you’d let me show you how to access the hidden recorder in the lid of that briefcase. Otherwise I’m afraid you might damage it, and on my salary it would take me a year to pay for that.”
They stopped, frozen, exchanging eye contact and smirks. “That’s the best one I’ve ever heard,” one said to the other. Then to me: “We’re not buying your story. Just keep quiet.”
“No, honestly,” I protested, “I’m an undercover agent with the U.S. government. I can give you the name of my contact at the U.S. embassy, and you can call him to verify what I’m telling you. Please, you’ve got to believe me.”
“I’ll take the name and number you have to offer,” said one of the men, budging. “If that name isn’t on the list of employees at the U.S. embassy, don’t open your mouth again.”
“His name is John Luksic,” I said, relieved, “and here’s his number.”
They delivered me to the cell holding Kathy and an Australian aborigine. Time crawled. Kathy and the aborigine started playing charades. He didn’t know very many American TV shows or movies — she beat him hands down.
Eventually the lockup door opened and Luksic appeared.
“Come on,” he said. “Let’s get out of here. I’ve taken care of everything.”
With my briefcase intact but my ego bruised, we left the airport as Luksic explained that all reports of our detention had been destroyed. Turned out that recent Korean espionage in the U.K. had led to a heightened alert about phony passports. Wrong place, wrong time, botched passport.
“Thanks for your help, John,” I said, grateful that we weren’t traveling with any targets, which would have blown the operation.
“No problem,” Luksic said. “Let’s plan on meeting for a late breakfast tomorrow morning to go over your schedule for the next few days. The lead officer in British Customs working on the London side of this case will be there. He’ll have some questions. They’ve got a surveillance post set up across the street from Capcom, and they’ll probably be on your tail most of the time you’re here.”
“We’re in tight with these people,” I said, “so it would be great if you could run interference with the Brits and ask them to take it easy on the surveillance. We can’t afford any suspicion on the part of our targets at this stage. In two weeks, we want them to show up in Tampa.”
Bruce Letheran, lead U.K. Customs officer on the case, understood and promised to keep all surveillance low-profile.
That night, Ziauddin Akbar met us at the Dorchester Hotel and whisked us to an upscale Japanese restaurant for dinner. We joined Sushma Puri, wife of the president of Capcom, who was representing her husband. No talk of drugs, Colombians, or anything sensitive, but Akbar couldn’t wait to extol the advantages of business with Capcom. During the past six months, the company he had founded had conducted over $80 billion in precious metals and currency transactions, quite the camouflage for our needs. Before starting Capcom, he had spent thirteen years with BCCI, rising ultimately to treasurer of the bank.
The next day, Kathy and I visited Akbar at the London office of Financial Advisory Services, a Capcom affiliate. He treated us like royalty. While Sushma Puri had one of her assistants give Kathy a tour of the London diamond market, Akbar and I got down to business in the company conference room, where he started selling himself with the secrets of the big guns behind his operation.
He had spent the last two years of his tenure at BCCI in Oman. He had founded BCCI’s treasury division and managed $5.5 billion of the bank’s assets. His high position allowed him to meet many of the shareholders of the bank who had pumped money into Capcom. He rattled off the names of U.S. – based megamillionaires behind the bank and his company: Robert Magness, chairman of Tele-Communications, Inc.; Larry Romrell, another executive with the same communications giant; Robert Powell, a senior executive of a U.S. company with contracts servicing U.S. military aircraft; and Kerry Fox of Rockwell International, which was involved in the manufacturing of missiles. All four had business ties to the Middle East.
