The Pretender Page 16

  The first step on the way to this fully developed program had been an initiative by a few UCs in Atlanta led by Bob Bettes, a UC with extensive white-collar experience. (That would have been about five years earlier.) With his finely tailored suits, silver hair, and manicured hands, Bob played to perfection the quintessential high-level financial consultant with extensive experience laundering cash for cartel bosses and Mafia dons. As this role became his specialty, he and his partners created an ongoing Group I op—I’ll label it ATLANTA GUARANTEE—as the administrative framework with which the Bureau could provide money-laundering services for other Group I ops around the country. It worked beautifully. Say my own Eduardo Dean or any other UC alias anywhere in the country was working a subject who needed to launder cash income in order to provide a seemingly legitimate source for the proceeds of the illegal deal between the two. (I specify Eduardo as the alias because none of the characters alias Alex Perez had dealt with up to this point qualified. The denizens of RUN-DMV lived in a cash world.) Before GUARANTEE, Eduardo would have had to find a cooperative banker sympathetic to the problem, open bogus accounts, obtain indemnification agreements, and on and on. But with GUARANTEE in place, I could pick up the phone and call Bob Bettes. Then case agents Vicki or Dave would follow up with a short written request, and within days Eduardo was laundering money for his subject. Imagine how invaluable that service could be for the UC.

  And for the FBI. That first specialized UC service soon spawned the idea for the creation of a single dedicated entity to provide operational support nationwide for ongoing undercover operations. Working out of offices at FBIHQ in Washington, the new entity ultimately developed into what is today the National Backstopping Initiative. Initially headed by a fellow UC veteran Pat Geonetta, the initiative manages several regional Janus units that operate out of covert offices (the proverbial “ABC Widgets”) scattered around the country. Ironically, I later met Joe Pistone, author of Donnie Brasco, when Joe was posted to one of the Janus units and helped out with a couple of my cases.

  The agents and support personnel in the Janus offices have developed networks of contacts throughout private industry and government agencies, state and federal. If a UC needs documented prior residences in Seattle, bank accounts in Miami, an extensive history of arrests in Los Angeles, Janus can provide them. A luxury apartment, fully furnished, with each room wired for video and audio, for two or three meets? Not a problem. Janus also served as an informal resource for great retirement jobs. Case agents benefitted, and so did resourceful Janus personnel. On retirement, Pat Geonetta became Global Chief of Security for LinkedIn. A manager of Janus New York landed an equivalent job at Deutsche Bank. Janus also became a good resource for case agents looking for the right UC for their operations, complete with an off-the-record evaluation. He fits the bill, looks the part, but hard to work with, a real prima donna. Not the case with me, of course (unless you ask my colleagues in ALTERNATE BREACH, young know-it-alls with whom I disagreed about almost everything and who were ultimately responsible for converting that huge Foreign Corrupt Practices Act Group I into the UC equivalent of the Titanic. Full story to come in time).

  In the early pre–cell phone, digital beeper days, Janus Miami provided me—Alex Perez—with vital security-related assistance. Janus Miami because, for most street purposes in New York, Alex was mysteriously on the lam from that Metro-Dade region, and of course he had those cachet-loaded Metro-Dade license plates. (My old flame from my San Juan days and through much of RUN-DMV was a lovely Peruvian, an American Airlines flight attendant based in Key Biscayne. I knew Miami well and could easily pass for a longtime resident. And if Julio Dominguez or any other subject were to come up with “You’re going to Miami next week, Alex? I’ll be there, too. I know a great seafood place…” I would simply rejoinder with a new story, a sudden opportunity for some big bucks in L.A.)

  For a subject with whom I had developed a relation of trust—beyond just providing my 800 toll-free beeper number—I would provide my local number in Miami. This would show Mahmoud Noubani, for example (Holyland), that I really trusted him, that limiting our means of contact to beepers was no longer necessary. Mahmoud could call the number, which was registered to the cover company in Miami, and either Marie or Denise (sisters who worked at Janus for years) would answer. Alex isn’t around right now, I’ll have him call as soon as he gets back. They’d page me and I’d call back, and Marie, say, would patch me through to Mahmoud, whose caller ID would show the Miami number. You can’t beat that for validation of a bogus identity. Sorry, Mahmoud, I can’t meet you right away, big real-estate deal here, you know what I mean, how about next Tuesday? I have to fly up to Boston, I can stop in New York for a couple of hours.

  I don’t think there’s any minute detail of backstopping for covert ops that the Janus wizards can’t handle, and their work only gets harder as the issues involved in backstopping, and the consequent risks of exposure to UCs, have expanded in direct proportion to the advances in technology. Two decades ago, the risk was that the mob guys or coke dealers would find my mini-Nagra and kill me. Now there are no recognizable recording devices. Any object can be a covert digital recording device, from a designer eyeglass frame to a Montblanc fountain pen. Now the greater risk is a careful Internet search that reveals a defect in an agent’s AFID. A fatal defect.

  Back to Sal Morelli and the damaged Chrysler. My Sal Morelli AFID was what we called a “shelf-ID,” acquired from Janus New York just a few weeks before I took the Chrysler in for repair. These were created by Valerie O’Connell, the Janus expert, and her colleagues with no particular UC in mind, in order to be available on short notice: fictitious identities complete with Social Security card, credit cards, wallet-stuffers such as frequent-flyer cards, and video rental cards (remember those days?). After Val and I exchanged updates on mutual acquaintances in the FBI UC community and shared the usual complaints about management interference in operational affairs, I inquired whether she had anything on the shelf with an Italian-sounding last name. She had a couple. How about Salvatore Joseph Morelli, born in 1950? Close enough. And I couldn’t have invented a better name.

  Since I was trying to build up my man Sal’s credit history, using his Visa card was the order of the day at the local gas stations and at the repair shop. And as my luck would have it, the shop’s co-owner was one Frank Lobianco. He took one look at me and my street bling, got my name—Sal—took a second look, paused, then pulled me aside, even though I was the only customer in the place. We were alone. This could be interesting, I immediately thought—and I was right. Lobianco asked if I’d like to join him in making some extra money, compliments of my insurance company. He was blunt about the proposition: He would waive my deductible and give me a couple of thousand dollars in cash if I’d leave the car with him, no questions asked. It would be repaired and ready for pick up within a week. He didn’t go into any detail about the scam, but he didn’t have to and I sure didn’t ask. As Sal Morelli, the mid-level street crook, I wouldn’t care—just like, with all my subjects, I never seemed to care where the drugs came from, how the fraudulent documents were made, how the guns were stolen. Real criminals don’t care to know what they have no business knowing and don’t need to know. No one can accuse you of disclosing information you never had. And because I had the right look, Frank Lobianco correctly assumed that I wouldn’t want to know. That I would, however, want the cash. And stealing from insurance companies? That’s just tit for tat, right? Like utilities or the phone company. Who cares? Lobianco naturally assumed he and I would share this unspoken sentiment. And as with most of my UC cases, I figured that Dave and Vicki and the team up at the Ramada Inn in New Rochelle would figure out the nuts-and-bolts of the scam and who the players were—but only in good time. Rushing the relationship with a subject is a huge mistake.

  Of course, I also had to play for time. I needed some authorization, after all. What had started out as an innocent repair call after a fender bender was suddenl
y showing promise as an unexpected insurance fraud sting.

  “Let me think about it.”

  “No problem, Sal.”

  Twenty minutes later, when I walked into Craig’s office at the Ramada, our ASAC happened to be on hand, visiting from the big office in Manhattan. I told them what had just happened and asked if I could strap on the Nagra and return to the scene and try to maneuver Frank into repeating his proposition. Let me see, Frank, I want to be sure I’ve got this straight, you said I’ll get two grand.… The brass said sure, go ahead, give it a shot. No written proposal. No opinion handed down by the lawyers. No background checks on Frank Lobianco. No Dun & Bradstreet verdict on the body shop. New Rochelle was a satellite office in what I could call the “Old Bureau.” It couldn’t happen like that today. Today, I would be back at the shop two or three weeks later with my still unrepaired car, Frank wouldn’t feel safe giving me the time of day and the opportunity for a big insurance fraud case, and its consequential positive impact would have evaporated. All the paperwork would be complete, the appropriate officials notified, the various authorizations obtained—the only thing missing would be a workable case. It’s impossible to calculate all the missed opportunities in the New-Era Bureau, even more difficult to document and publicize them. The zeal to regulate has had unintended consequences.

  Thus began INFRACEL, a fluke that had fallen into my lap. The investigation ended up targeting a number of body shops in the NYC metro area and the insurance adjusters, who are the key component in this racket. They’re the ones who have to submit and get approval for the grossly inflated estimates for repair jobs.

  It was a strange life—two lives—sometimes three lives—but just the one desk in the office in the Ramada Inn in New Rochelle. Typically, in my desk drawer could be found at least three wallets—one each for alias Alex Perez, alias Eduardo Dean, and alias Sal Morelli. At one point, due to budget issues, I had one SkyPager beeper for both the RUN-DMV subjects, with whom I was Alex, and the INFRACEL subjects, with whom I was Sal. The beeper featured an 800 number, so subjects could call toll-free from the then ubiquitous pay phones. Also, a local area code would not have fit Alex’s South Florida persona.

  One afternoon, the pager went off, displaying an unfamiliar number. I attached my portable cassette recorder with handset suction-cup mic to the squad’s Hello Phone—the BuName for the covert phone maintained by each squad for calls to and from informants and subjects. Whoever answered a call would typically say “hello” (hence the nickname) and take a message. I called the unfamiliar number and, not surprisingly, did not recognize the voice. Kind of a street sound, though.

  “Hey. You just beep me?”

  “Who’s this?”

  I could be permissibly evasive, as a real criminal would be suspicious of an unknown number. In my case, not knowing if the beep was intended for Alex or Sal, or conceivably Eduardo, I had no choice.

  “I’m the guy you just beeped.”

  This went back and forth for a bit longer, then finally:

  “This Alex?”

  Okay. This is better. At least now I knew what case number to write on the cassette. I had to be careful.

  “Yeah, who’s this?”

  “Miguel. I’m a friend of Julio Dominguez…”

  I was all ears. Maybe Miguel wanted to go to prison. In the end, maybe he did.

  Three wallets not to lose, three lives to keep track of, and as for the cameo jobs that came along more and more frequently, I couldn’t count all of them over the years. Dozens. A hundred? I never kept track. I was somewhat in demand because I spoke Spanish and French and could pass for all kinds of ethnicities. I was adept at, and had experience with, white- as well as blue-collar impersonations.

  * * *

  Not a waste of time in the one-off category was a bittersweet-favorite episode in Tampa Bay, where the agents working an industrial-espionage case needed a French-speaking UC to meet with two suspects on very short notice. Like the following day. I was busy with RUN-DMV and INFRACEL, but Alicia chipped in with logistical help and I landed in Tampa Bay twelve hours after I got the phone call. The case agent briefed me as we drove to the Marriott or whatever it was, something in that business-class category. The Bu typically reimburses at government per-diem rates unless an upscale abode is pertinent to the UC scenario, which the Bu might spring for, given correct paperwork.

  For this and most of the other cameos, I didn’t need an elaborate false identity. My AFID could be one of the off-the-shelf, ready-to-go packages. In this instance, Janus Miami fixed me up as Pierre (I’ve forgotten the last name), a French expatriate living in Miami—a straightforward character for me to assume.

  The targets were two Belgians, an executive, Stephane, and his partner, Eduard, with the exec claiming to be from one of the largest European fiberglass manufacturers, with valuable trade secrets for sale. I was going to broker this corrupt deal with Owens-Corning, the largest American competitor (and the largest fiberglass company in the world). My corrupt percentage would come out of the half million dollars the Belgians anticipated receiving for their merchandise. The main trick for me as the UC was to get my hands on the actual secrets—an attaché case full of paper documents, apparently—and to get the thieves to tell me how they’d stolen these documents.

  Initially, the subjects had contacted a local private investigator of French origin, Jean-Claude. He was either honest or realized that this was out of his league, a case with the potential for disastrous consequences, so he had declined the middleman job and tipped off the Bureau. In Tampa Bay, my initial (and presumably only) rendezvous with the subjects, following a referral by Jean-Claude, would be late the next morning. Before then, though, at my request, I met with Jean-Claude and the case agent in my hotel room in Tampa Bay. I wanted to obtain this private eye’s impression of the two subjects firsthand, not diluted through the local agents. Heavyset and gruff, with a thick French accent, Gauloise cigarette dangling perilously from the corner of his mouth, Jean-Claude was the French police inspector from central casting. He described the two Europeans succinctly: “Amateurs.” Low-hanging fruit.

  Early on the next morning’s agenda was the meeting with the local Reactive Squad at the FBI office. These particular reactors struck me as an unusually fit seniors club: a dozen white men in their fifties, most wearing Bermuda shorts on this Saturday morning. (Footnote: In any federal building, you see four or five middle-aged men waiting for an elevator, all of whom look like athletes, or at least former athletes, it’s a pretty good bet that they are FBI special agents. Four or five middle-aged men from Social Security or any other agency, one will be obese, one will be a toothpick, two will have potbellies.) Oh, yes, and one lone Hispanic female was on hand, just in case the white guys needed someone to ignore. As it turned out, I knew Carmen, who had been an agent in San Juan, where we had overlapped for my last year. She had married another agent down there, and they had lucked out with a transfer to Tampa. Small world, and now I felt somewhat bad for her: the few times she opened her mouth to make a suggestion, she may as well have been talking to a wall. I hasten to add that this had nothing to do with her being female, or Hispanic. It had everything to do with her having less than 5 years in the Bu, trapped with a group each of whom had at least 20 years on the payroll. There must have been 250 years of combined FBI experience in that room. Including Carmen, make that 254.

  The prep I received from the local squad was thorough, and I felt pretty comfortable when I met with the two subjects in a room at a hotel. Jean-Claude had told them that I, Pierre, had rented the room for the discreet transaction. I was carrying a satchel with $200,000 cash, show money that was never going to leave my sight. The agents had wired this room with video and audio, and now they were on the other side of the door connecting to the next room, manning the equipment and providing backup, though I had no real concern in that regard. These subjects had just flown in from Europe. They weren’t going to have guns on such short notice, and anyway it j
ust wasn’t that kind of crime.

  Stephane looked the part of a European senior manager: tall and trim, silver hair brushed back, refined. Eduard was his old friend who had his own private investigative business in Brussels; he was short, a bit stocky, owlish eyes behind large black glasses. The moment I met these guys I knew immediately I had yet another major advantage here. They didn’t speak a word of English beyond “hello” and “okay,” so they were visibly relieved to learn that their contact and broker in the states was this French expat living in Miami, shady as he may have appeared. (I may have been Pierre to them, but it was still the Alex Perez look: ponytail, sufficient bling.) After some initial rapport building, I simply showed the two men the money and said that I had a representative from Owens-Corning on his way over to consummate the deal. This businessman—another UC, of course—arrived in appropriately professional attire shortly afterward. With myself acting as interpreter, he told the two that he had an Owens research engineer with him, waiting in an alcove of the hotel lobby. The engineer would need to look at a sample of the documents to establish their authenticity and value. With the engineer’s approval, I would turn over the cash. This was a fair, even mandatory request and procedure, and the Belgians handed over the attaché case without compunctions.

  My amazement at what had just transpired was difficult to conceal. These guys had just allowed the entire case of documents, the totality of their merchandise, to walk out of the room in the arms of a man they had just met. Had I really been the broker of the stolen property that they believed me to be, I would have made a quick exit, with all my cash, and before they had grasped what was happening they’d have found themselves alone in their hotel room, with no merchandise and no cash and no way to get either one. A clean rip-off by alias Pierre. They would have returned to Belgium empty-handed, but having learned a valuable lesson concerning the risks and consequences of venturing into the dark side. Unfortunately for them, I wasn’t a real broker and the consequences of their mistake were to be even worse.