The Pretender Read online

  After three or four months on the job, the last two UC agents, Ralph Nessman and Fatime Hajdari joined the four of us already in place. Ralph, a natural jokester, and calm, steady Fatime were welcome additions to the team. Relieved of the more arduous duties, which are always assigned to the latest newcomers by the traders, I was free to do a little exploring on the cavernous COMEX and NYMEX floor of the World Trade Center. Both exchanges shared the space, and nothing else. Already, I was losing patience with what appeared to me to be the snail’s-pace progress of the investigation. More specifically, I felt that working at Planet Oil with so many UCs was cramping my style. I started to look for another path to achieving the op’s goals, one that would not involve the cast and crew of Planet Oil.

  The break came one morning when I bumped into—literally—Joseph Bernstein, one of my closest friends in the Brooklyn DA’s office. He was no longer an ADA but had switched gears and was working as an attorney at NYMEX. The surprise in this encounter was mutual; I kept my cool, we smiled and shook hands. I hastily—and quietly—told Joseph that I could not explain my presence there at that moment, but would call him in the evening. Which was a way of communicating precisely what I was doing there, without breaking any rules. Joseph had organized my farewell dinner from the DA’s office in Brooklyn, knew full well what my new career was, and was nobody’s fool. On the contrary, he was one of the sharpest minds in our old office, and combined with his sardonic, ever-present wit, an exceptional companion. Here was a winning hand dealt by destiny, a close friend working on one of the exchanges, no doubt well connected, and perhaps willing to help.

  That evening, back in my Village apartment, I called Craig first. While he wasn’t thrilled that an unknown actor was now aware of an FBI agent’s presence on the trading floor, he gave me the green light to tell Joseph what he had no doubt already figured out. I would, of course, leave out any mention of Planet Oil or the presence of other UCs. This was followed by a long call to Joseph, then a discreet dinner the next week. Joseph explained that he had lost interest in criminal law and had been working for NYMEX for three years, looking to develop an expertise in financial markets. He knew a few traders—honest traders, I wouldn’t want to imply that all were dishonest—and he was close friends with the owner of one of the clearinghouses, the private banks which processed all the financial transactions occurring on the exchanges. And he was indeed willing to help. Uncovering corruption in the exchanges was fully consistent with his values, and he had the courage to step out on a limb to further that end.

  Now the wheels between the ears of H. Marc Renard began to spin. Would I be able to convince Mary Jane and Craig to let me divert from the “Approved at All Levels” scenario (that is, the detailed scenario as authorized all the way up to the corner offices at FBIHQ in Washington) and set off on my own in the NYMEX pits? In order to set the stage, I asked Joseph to introduce me to Steve Weinstein, the owner of the clearinghouse. In preparation, Joseph and I had concocted a story about having met ten years earlier while he was vacationing in Puerto Rico, and that we’d been close friends ever since. He explained to Weinstein that I had accumulated a fair bit of equity and was now looking to lease a seat on the NYMEX and establish myself as a Local, an independent, self-employed broker, trading in one of the pits on my own account.

  Steve was only too happy to meet a potential new client, certainly one whose bona fides were provided by Joseph. He in turn introduced me to Enzo Alioto, a Local, unaffiliated with the big brokerage houses, trading on his own account in the gold pit. Enzo was friendly and willing to act as a mentor, at Steve’s behest. Of course, neither of them knew I was an undercover agent for the FBI. In this new set-up I was developing, only Joseph knew the truth. He saw no harm in the deception—Weinstein and Alioto would be playing a role in fighting the corrupt element on the floor of the exchange, albeit unwittingly.

  From that juncture on, at every opportunity, I would wander away from the COMEX, cross the floor to the gold pit, and hang out with Enzo, my trading mentor. It was all a far cry from clerking for Tommy and the crude pit. Mary Jane and Craig had obtained approval for my new gambit. I would soon resign from Planet Oil. I was on a roll. The encounter with Joseph had opened new doors; I now had, in effect, a new assignment. And even more luck soon seemed to be enhancing my likelihood of success. On the NYMEX floor, I had noticed a senior clerk in the Goldman Sachs booth who looked familiar. He was a lithe, athletic man with a shaved head and mustache. His glances at me reflected potential mutual recognition. One day, I finally stopped him.

  “Hey, did you use to study Tae Kwon Do with Master Sun?”

  “That’s where I know you from! Wow, good to see you, man.”

  “You had a second-degree black belt and a black belt in Aikido, right?”

  We had not seen each other in thirteen years, and didn’t remember each other’s last names, conveniently … no, fortunately … no, thank the lord. I reintroduced myself as Marc Renard. He was Lester Goodwin and had been working for NYMEX brokers for over a decade. I now had another “old friend” to vouch for me on the floor.

  But then disaster struck at Planet Oil. Jim Clemente, trader-in-training and wearing the wire, was one day in the pit, crunched between the traders on either side, and on the steps above and below. E821, the trader to Jim’s left, waving and signaling with his right hand inadvertently brushed against Jim’s chest.

  “What’s that?” He stares hard at Jim, in disbelief. “Feels like a wire. A wire.”

  “Er … ah…” Jim turns around, bolts up the steps through the other traders and out of the pit. The rest of us could see him as he came over the lip of the pit, face blanched. He did not come down to the booth, but turned and trotted away from the trading area. Inside the pit there was a new buzz of conversation, centered around E821, but not the shouts and waving that accompany trading. When Jim returned from the men’s room, where he’d gone to remove the mic and wires, he was met by stares, some hostile, some merely curious. Pete and Tommy, Planet Oil’s two traders, exchanged urgent whispers with the other traders in the pit. Would a confident smile and rejoinder by Jim—something like “It’s a buzzer for signals from the booth” or “an external monitor for my pacemaker”—have worked? In any event, his rapid exit from the pit did little to assuage the suspicions already heightened by Chicago. For the rest of that day, Jim bluffed it out. The traders in the pit did not confront him, being otherwise occupied with the fluctuating market for crude.

  At the emergency meeting that night, Craig and Mary Jane decided that we would proceed as though nothing had occurred, and would all be at our jobs the next morning, minus any recording devices. At this point in COMMCORR, the six UC agents were meeting every other Wednesday evening with the entire team supporting the op, a wide range of personnel—contact agents, case agents, financial analysts, ancillary agents, and, on occasion the Assistant U.S. Attorneys assigned to handle the eventual prosecution. These meetings had a way of becoming painfully long and boring, usually due to griping by a couple of my fellow UCs. This one was even longer—but less boring than usual. There was a lot of justified speculation and concern regarding the fallout from the episode between our Jim and broker E821. Moreover, Jim had to be convinced that he needed to return to the floor. His absence now would in all likelihood be interpreted as confirmation of the traders’ suspicions and would surely doom the case. COMMCORR down the drain. Mary Jane argued effectively that these were Wall Street brokers and traders, not La Cosa Nostra. They wouldn’t put out a contract on Jim. Finally, although not fully convinced, Jim agreed to show up in the morning. The worst that might happen on Wall Street—well, it did happen, but that was later on, and … and it didn’t concern Jim.

  The following morning, trading at Planet Oil and in the crude pit resumed as normal. The traders were courteous with Jim, though distant. No more small talk. They would trade with him, as an employee of Planet Oil, and that was it. They would never know for sure, but they would not be taking
any chances. In the days to come, it was clear that the new status quo would remain the status quo. Craig briefed the CEO at Planet Oil. If the incident was raised by his traders or business associates, he would not be caught off guard. As the big boss, he would brush it off as the fruit of the paranoia inspired by Chicago. No one would argue.

  Not long after the near debacle with Jim, I had a new idea and called Craig, asking for a meeting with him and Mary Jane—alone, without the other UCs. This wasn’t kosher, but he was curious and amenable, probably because he and everyone else now had to consider COMMCORR as in some jeopardy. My proposal, a long shot just a couple of weeks earlier, was now a lifeboat for a ship that was slowly sinking. I suggested that once I had established myself as a licensed local trader in the NYMEX, with a leased or purchased seat, I could in turn sponsor some of my fellow Planet Oil UCs. Jim was irrevocably tainted, and Ben as well, by association. Their reputations would follow them on the floor. But the others still had a chance. Shortly after the private meeting, Craig and Mary Jane signed onto my scheme, got their approvals, and within a week I resigned from Planet Oil. Good riddance as far as I was concerned. I could come and go as I pleased and develop relationships as I saw fit. I spent as much time as appeared appropriate in the gold pit, without taxing Enzo Alioto’s goodwill. From Steve Weinstein, I ascertained all the requirements, financial and otherwise, for leasing a seat and qualifying for a NYMEX broker’s license. Co-case agent Ed Cugell obtained the funds for deposit to my Banco Popular account, subsequently transferred to the Chase account. Along with some other assets, that sum—half a million dollars—would buttress my financial bona fides and establish my capability to lease a seat. But first I would need to complete the lengthy and thorough NYMEX application. Any spare time I could find was dedicated to preparing for the next hurdle, the written and practical licensing exams. It was not uncommon for clerks with ten years on the floor to fail this test. I had been there six months.

  For me, at least, COMMCORR was going pretty well, and maybe my progress would save a good portion of the rest of the operation. That was the hope—that was my hope—and in a few weeks I would have passed the exams and leased my seat on the exchange. I’d be in business, trading in gold contracts for my own account, preferably making money for the operation rather than losing it. Once the necessary relationships were in place, I would finally start recording incriminating conversations to prove our insider-trading cases. Altogether, we—the FBI and I—had about a year and half invested in this COMMCORR operation. It was a lesson learned for me: there’s a lot of delayed gratification in most long-term UC ops.

  And, yes, I was dreaming of glory. Out of the six of us who’d started undercover at COMEX, I was probably the only one still with a chance to convert investigation into prosecution. All the others, still clerks at Planet, were tainted by Jim’s episode. It would be a major story, even bigger than the bust three years earlier in Chicago. New York is New York. New York is Wall Street. My name wouldn’t be in the stories, much less the headlines, but those stories would prominently feature an unnamed UC agent who had saved the case, and everyone in the Bureau would know. My first Group I UC operation would be a career-maker, a dream come true. I was feeling pretty good.

  Then the phone rang. It was a Friday morning. I was sitting in my apartment in the Village, studying a text about advanced trading, as it happened. (As a prospective independent floor broker on the verge of leasing his seat, I could come and go as I pleased.) Earlier in the week, I had passed the exams for the broker’s license, but I was still studying in order to enhance my proficiency as a professional commodities broker. The specific subject of study that morning was the tricky butterfly trade, wherein a trader buys a number of contracts for a particular month while simultaneously selling a number of contracts for a different month, hedging his exposure and playing off the varying maturity dates. A year earlier, it would all have been gibberish. By now, it made some sense. I put the book aside and answered the ring. On the line was the secretary for Sara Hendriks, the NYMEX General Counsel.

  “Mr. Renard, can you hold the phone for Ms. Hendriks?”

  I had never met Sara Hendriks, but I did know who she was. She came on the line and immediately asked if I could drop by her office later in the day. Sure, I said, no problem. I assumed she had some question concerning the extensive paperwork backing up my application for my seat, and I had full confidence in my backstopping. At this point, a problem in this area didn’t even cross my mind.

  That afternoon, I walked into Hendriks’s office. After the usual courtesies, she got right to the point.

  “Mr. Renard, referring to your application, we’re having some problems.”

  That was a gulp moment, no doubt about it.

  “Really? Well, we can work them out. Is it references? Bank accounts?”

  “It’s not quite like that. We have reason to believe your entire application, including your name, is a fabrication.”

  What?!! Forget the gulp. This was serious. I wasn’t expecting anything like this blanket indictment, and I had to figure out my next move, quickly. My brain was suddenly in high gear, aided by a jolt of adrenaline, and I made the instantaneous decision to dig in my heels. What was my choice? I wasn’t going to concede without a fight, so I became the very picture of confusion but civility, a man of means courteously and patiently tolerating incompetence by the staff.

  “What are you talking about? I’m not Henri Marc Renard? I guess this would surprise my parents. There’s been some huge mistake. I don’t even know what to say. This is ridiculous.”

  I don’t remember the exact words I used, but those are close. I thought I did a pretty good job of carrying off the charade. Now it was Sara Hendriks’s turn to be flustered. I think she had expected me to fold my cards and admit then and there that I was running some kind of scam, and she’d then call security and two burly guys would haul me away and grill me for hours. Or simply toss me out of the building. Instead, here I was, puzzled and maybe a little offended. She asked if I could come back in half an hour. Sure, I said, absolutely, I’ll come back and we’ll straighten this out and we can get going with my application.

  “I don’t know how to prove I am who I am, but we’ll work through this. It’s obviously a huge mistake. I’m Marc Renard. Who else would I be? Why?”

  She had some doubts now. But this was clearly a crisis in the making. I had to call Craig, but we didn’t have cell phones in those days, so I had to find a pay phone. I went down the escalator into that huge labyrinthine shopping mall that used to be under the World Trade Center. But I was also a little paranoid now, so I had to dry-clean myself. Thanks to my assignment in Puerto Rico, I’d had a lot of training in this procedure, the equivalent of the ploys used while driving a car, as previously described. If you’re on foot, stop suddenly, look at your watch, pretend to remember something, make a quick U-turn while keeping an eye out for equivalent behavior. Or turn down a corridor, pause for reflection, go through your pants pockets like you’ve forgotten something, then turn around and check for anyone else hesitating and turning around. All basic stuff, but it works.

  No one was following me. I found a pay phone, called Craig, and told him what had happened and what I wanted to do: return to Sara Hendriks’s office and continue the bluff. Craig, a total professional and veteran of the UC wars, did not hesitate. He immediately agreed that I had to go back and carry on. Meanwhile, he’d call the civilians on my backstopping list and put them on red alert so they wouldn’t hesitate vouching for me, if they got a call. The list was short: two people at my fictitious alma mater, three people in Puerto Rico. Any snoopers at the exchange would have no access to the clerks in the various government offices that had set up my fake IDs (impossible), and everyone else on my paperwork, including the New York real-estate and bank people, knew me as Marc Renard.

  I returned to Hendriks’s office, where James Johnson was now also present. I’d never met him. I knew only who he was: Executive
Vice President of NYMEX. Johnson now took control of the interview and repeated his colleague’s allegation about my fabricated identity and added a new one: the exchange had reason to believe I was a former assistant DA in Brooklyn, now an agent for the FBI.

  Now I knew that a third party had probably recognized me, which was bad enough, and that they might well know that I used to be Marc Ruskin. But what could I do but get back on my high horse? I said, “This is the strangest thing I’ve ever heard of. What in the world could be going on? Let’s see what you need to fill in any gaps in the paperwork.”

  I was really pumping, not thinking at all, just talking as fast and convincingly as I could as Marc Renard. One ploy I didn’t try was mentioning my friend Joseph to vouch for me. I wasn’t going to put his job in jeopardy.

  “Or maybe someone has confused me with someone else. Could you maybe bring in whoever it is? We could straighten this out now. Let’s try to do it today. When he sees me close up, he’ll realize he’s made a mistake. A big mistake.”

  Perhaps picking up a little confidence, as they seemed to be buying into my act, I now allowed a little annoyance to creep into my voice. Now Johnson was a little flustered. I think he, like Hendriks in the first meeting, had expected me to throw up my hands and concede defeat. He apologized for any inconvenience, but the person was unavailable. Could I return on Monday, when the individual would be on hand, and we could straighten everything out and I could proceed with my application?