The Last Undercover (2 page)
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s my cab honked its way along the New York City streets, I stared out the window at the crowds on the sidewalks and tried to talk down the apprehension rising inside me. Don’t get me wrong: I have known fear, and I have felt the temple-pounding rush of adrenaline pumping through my body. But this evening, a sense of anxiety enveloped me. The sensation was unlike anything I’d experienced in my more than two decades of undercover work for the FBI. This case was going to be the toughest I had ever tackled, for reasons I didn’t fully understand . . . yet.
It was a clear Friday evening, Veterans Day weekend. I was in New York to infiltrate an organization known as NAMBLA: the North American Man/Boy Love Association, a society of men who professed sexual attraction to young boys. The plan looked simple enough in the operations order but seemingly impossible to orchestrate; I would pose as an aging pedophile, work myself into a position of trust within the organization, and gain criminal admissions from its members—admissions that would lead to successful federal prosecutions.
But as the time neared for me to make my debut with NAMBLA, things were looking anything but simple. I was unable to view the group I’d be infiltrating with anything other than revulsion. How could I pretend to actually be one of them—without becoming physically ill or physically violent? I wasn’t sure I knew the answer.
During my career with the FBI, I successfully targeted some of the most treacherous criminal groups in America: La Cosa Nostra; the Russian, Sicilian, and Mexican Mafias; Asian organized crime groups; black street gangs. In the early eighties I was the undercover agent in the Los Angeles Mafia family case that resulted in the imprisonment of L.A.’s top fifteen mobsters. I had worked street gangs. Picture a white man in South Central L.A. buying rock cocaine from convicted felons and known killers. While undercover, I shot two drug dealers who attempted to turn our $400,000 cocaine transaction into a “rip.” As the undercover agent in more than twenty administratively approved operations, lasting anywhere from several days to more than three years, I have successfully posed as a drug dealer, contract killer, residential burglar, degenerate gambler, international weapons dealer, and white-collar criminal.
But tonight I was about to spend the weekend playing the role of a “boy lover,” or “BL,” as NAMBLA members refer to themselves. It was quite a journey that had brought me here, and tonight marked the next step in the FBI’s efforts to target men who preyed on boys. NAMBLA was real—much more than an episodic joke on
South Park.
The group was celebrating its twenty-fifth anniversary and I was going to be present for that celebration. After all, I was a dues-paying member.
San Diego, 1980
My tour of humanity’s dark side began in earnest back in 1980, just after I left the Marine Corps. I spent four years as a judge advocate, serving as prosecutor, defense counsel, and an appellate review attorney. Regardless of how glamorous they make the JAG corps look on TV, the military courtroom lacked the excitement I hoped it would bring. I worked on trials running the gamut from unauthorized absence to murder, but the cases were never “whodunnits.” The decision always came down to whether the confession was admissible or the search was legal. For me, the excitement waned quickly. The 150 trials in which I participated did, however, prepare me for my work in the FBI. Better than most, I knew what was necessary to get a conviction. Often those requirements had nothing to do with Bureau-imposed administrative hurdles. Following bureaucratic regulations with no evidentiary value was never my strong suit and no administrator ever accused me of being procedurally pure.
After suffering through three years of law school and four years as an attorney in the Marine Corps, I knew the courtroom was not where I wanted to be. Neither did I aspire to spending the rest of my life tethered to a desk, drafting wills, divorce decrees, or other legal documents. The FBI, known for its recruitment of lawyers and accountants, proved to be a near-perfect fit. I would be getting paid to play cops and robbers, something I did for free as a kid. Never in my twenty-six-year career did I ever question my decision to join the Bureau. Sure, I had bad days, but knowing the next call might put me on the thrill ride of a lifetime made the momentary frustrations easier to handle . . . usually.
Hollywood envisions every FBI agent assuming an undercover identity and capturing crooks with some sophisticated ruse. In fact, very few FBI agents ever remove the suit coat and loosen the tie. Today, the FBI carefully screens every agent seeking to work in an undercover capacity. Few are selected, and fewer still successfully navigate the difficult path to undercover certification. From that small number, only a handful continue to accept undercover roles throughout their careers. For those who do, it can mean the most exhilarating challenge anybody could ever hope for.
But in 1980, receiving an undercover assignment was as easy as raising a hand. I was looking for excitement, variety, and, above all, a way to avoid being tied to a desk. Undercover work seemed the perfect means to all my ends. I wanted to enter the world of Serpico; I wanted the thrill of the chase and the satisfaction of the hard-earned collar at the end. I was fortunate enough to have a supervisor who encouraged me to pursue my dreams. And so it was, in 1980, after about six months in the Bureau, I found myself on my way to meet Dave, my first undercover target.
As the time for the meeting neared, my heart was pounding and my knees were shaking—less from fear than excitement. Still, I knew I needed to get my emotions under control; Dave was an accomplished criminal, and if he spotted the knees, my undercover career would be short-lived.
The San Diego office identified Dave as a subject through wiretap surveillance and an informant’s tip. We were investigating an art theft ring and Dave was a major player with connections to the Bonanno crime family in Arizona. As is often the case in undercover work, Dave would end up taking us in directions we never anticipated.
My cover was pretty weak and not at all well thought out: I would be Bob Bourne. I kept my real first name, but took the last name of the character from Robert Ludlum’s famous novels. My persona was that of a nouveau riche high roller. I would let Dave know I had made a bundle in real estate and was looking to invest in Western art, which we knew from surveillance to be his specialty. Dave would have bargains to offer simply because his inventory was hotter than the proverbial two-dollar pistol.
Dave was lean and athletic; he trained as a long-distance runner. His training served him well, since one of his favorite MOs involved escaping on foot from snatch-and-grab jewelry heists. He would research the shooting policies of local police departments to determine whether they were authorized to shoot a fleeing felon. After selecting his target area, he would fly into town, wearing a three-piece suit and carrying a ring with an empty setting. He would locate a jewelry store near the airport and wave the ring at the unsuspecting sales staff, asking to see stones that fit the setting. As soon as the clerk set a case of stones in front of him, Dave would grab the case and run, knowing police weren’t likely to shoot. By the time a patrol unit arrived on the scene, he was back at the airport waiting for his return flight, now holding a pocketful of diamonds.
We set up an office front in San Diego’s Sorrento Valley, a commercial/industrial area north of the city. It was the perfect ruse. The tech agents divided the oversized office into two separate units; a sliding bookshelf straight out of a Hollywood movie scene concealed the hidden room where my backup agents operated the audio and video recording equipment that monitored every meeting. Comfortable deep rich leather furniture, a fully stocked wet bar, and walls adorned with Western art prints provided a relaxed atmosphere in which to conduct business. Dave and his confederates never displayed much curiosity about what I did at the office, but several of my fellow tenants complained to the building manager that something suspicious was occurring on the second floor. I’m not sure if they were alarmed because I really sold myself as a criminal, or if I was just sloppy. In any event, I successfully lured Dave and his associates to the office, and as I waited for him to arrive for our first meeting—my first face-to-face experience undercover—I took deep breaths, said a couple of prayers, and tried to control the riptide of emotions surging through me.
As it turned out, the meeting was short and rather uneventful. Dave never noticed my knees and we actually hit it off. Our conversation was rather innocuous, but the important thing was Dave left believing I had money and was willing to buy at a five-finger discount. I came away with a stress headache and a lingering adrenaline jag. What a thrill to have successfully completed my first undercover meet! The target believed me—and I believed myself! I was a junky for the jazzed-up feeling, and I continued to chase that buzz throughout my career. I was invincible, or at least so I thought, and during that abbreviated meeting, I realized I had found my niche in the law enforcement world.
In reality, Dave and I had a lot in common: he neither drank nor smoked; he exercised regularly and was in great shape. I was an experienced runner having had competed in over a half-dozen marathons, completing several in less than three hours. Dave wasn’t much of a talker, so running dominated much of the discussion during the several months I spent targeting him and his associates.
Starting out as a young agent was a blessing rather than a curse. I had yet to pick up the cop lingo. Cops said, “Have a good one.” Bad guys said, “Later.” I also didn’t have the J. Edgar Hoover, everything-is-either-black-or-white mindset. As I learned throughout my career, the skills needed to successfully work undercover were self-taught, consisting mostly of common sense seasoned with lessons from the street. No school could adequately prepare you for the job—at least no school sponsored by the FBI. In fact, I tried to avoid such schools and seminars. Too often, I found that the rules promulgated by the various departments and agencies boxed you into a specific type of character that could easily be detected by the bad guys. My unorthodoxy proved valuable throughout my career as I negotiated with criminals from every culture and economic stratum. My best teachers were the informants I interacted with and the bad guys I arrested.
Shortly after meeting Dave, I saw the investigation hit pay dirt: he had a painting he had recently “acquired” and was looking to quietly dispose of it at a price well below its true market value. Just like something out of a TV crime drama, Dave showed up at the office with the painting, valued at more than fifty thousand dollars, and we negotiated a “fair” price, all on surveillance video. It was as simple as that. The Bureau put up the funds and with sufficient green, I became Dave’s new best friend.
LIVING IN THE SHADOW WORLD
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orking undercover means more than donning a wig or growing a moustache. Despite what many FBI administrators think, it’s not just a name change, a phony driver’s license, and an untraceable credit card. The small cadre of successful undercover police officers and federal agents know it means being “one of them” without becoming one of them. It’s one thing to immerse yourself in a character; it’s another to be consumed by a criminal persona. Operating undercover means living with duality and praying you will recognize the ambiguous line between who you really are and the imposter you have become. It means adopting an alter ego antithetical to the real you and exploring the darkest side of humanity. It means being an actor in the ultimate reality show: one where there are no retakes—a drama where a botched line, a missed mark, or a dropped cue could mean instant death.
The FBI didn’t instill a warrior ethos in its undercover agents. There was no secret handshake or written code of conduct. Heck, I’m still waiting for my secret decoder ring. We were part of a very loose brotherhood of single-minded individuals who seldom came together as a team. On only a few occasions did I work with another undercover agent posing as my confederate. More often than not I worked the high wire alone. Success depended upon individual ability, not the strength of teammates.
Much of my strength came from my family. I have been blessed with an understanding wife and two supportive children who have seen me through the difficult assignments. We often joke that I’ve been married to the same sweet, wonderful person for more than thirty years, yet she’s tolerated life with a half-dozen personality changes and a variety of shady characters.
So who would choose such a life? It’s not for everyone. The risks are enormous, physically and psychologically. The rewards are only personal, certainly not monetary; the pay’s the same with or without a disguise. This life can mean wildly unpredictable working hours and bizarre assignments that interfere with any sense of normalcy. The skills are typically intuited rather than acquired through training. You need to be autonomous and creative, yet remain a Bureau team player. Stress comes from all sides: from the FBI as well as the bad guys. Both sometimes make demands almost impossible to fulfill. For most of us who’ve lived in the shadow world, the primary motivation for working undercover is a sense of purpose—a strong, unyielding belief in right and wrong, a belief that the personal rewards and the sense of accomplishment far outweigh the risks. But regardless of the motive, there’s a collateral benefit only an undercover agent can appreciate: when you have placed your life in harm’s way and have successfully convinced the bad guys you
are
one of them, you experience a high few other experiences can top. I know of no comparable thrill.
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fter my first successful purchase, Dave became even more open about his activities. After all, he had just sold me a painting he stole from a Scottsdale, Arizona, art gallery and the police never pounced. What was not to like?
One afternoon, I met Dave for lunch at an ocean-side bistro. He brought along one of his associates, a penny stock manipulator from Salt Lake City. Although Dave and I had engaged in several criminal deals, Dave never asked me my last name and I never offered it. When his friend asked the question, I played the typical crook game and avoided an answer. Many times in my dealings with the bad guys, even in cases lasting months or more, we never exchanged last names. Criminals figure the less the other guy knows, the less chance he’ll have of ratting you out if he gets snatched.