White Death (10 page)

Washington, D.C., September 1969

We were on day work. The routine of petite larcenies, lost tourists, auto accidents, and a few robberies seemed somewhat predictable. Working as Acting Sergeant, I was reviewing some paperwork completed by other officers earlier when Lieutenant Dominik approached me with a sober face.

“The captain would like to see you.”

“Now?”

“Now would be fine.” I didn’t ask why because he wouldn’t say even if he knew.

Two brief knocks were answered, “Come in.

“At ease. Officer Stone, you have an appointment tomorrow at 9:00 a.m. with Inspector Schmidt of the Intelligence Division in his office. Arrive alone and don’t be late.”

“Sir, do you know what this concerns?”

“No. He led me to believe, however, you may know more than I do. Since you work for me, kindly stop by tomorrow and tell me what is going on. Dismissed.”

“Yes, sir.”

I turned on my heels and barely remember closing the door. I suddenly felt like the victim of a planned seduction. Detective Lieutenant John Roberts had mentioned that U.S. Customs seizures of cocaine had risen by more than three-hundred percent from 1967 to the middle of this year. The Narcotics Division had bumped this issue up to the Intelligence Division. On the other hand, perhaps an invisible partnership between the two divisions always existed. An inspector headed the Intelligence Division, aided by one captain, three lieutenants, and about twenty-five
men and women. No one outside the unit was sure what they did. They were deeply involved in the periodic, and large, anti-Vietnam war protests and various groups considered violent by the FBI and D.C. Police. Among the well-known names are the Black Panthers, Weather Underground, Student Non-Violent Coordinating Committee, and Students for a Democratic Society, to name a few. Their bomb-making abilities and plans for disrupting otherwise peaceful marches in the nation’s capital concerned the Intelligence Division, the FBI, and the CIA, whose involvement was an open secret.

As a member of the Civil Disturbance Unit, I received some of this information secondhand. For example, the Intelligence Division once told the Civil Disturbance Unit that they did not believe radicals would attack the South Vietnamese Embassy. Consequently, commanders assigned only six officers to guard the embassy during the protest. These groups, however, were not drug importers, just consumers. The Intelligence Division was clearly multi-mission. Their plans for me would wait until 9:00 a.m.

The Offer

“Good morning, Officer Stone. I believe you know Detective Lieutenant Roberts,” began the Inspector in charge of the Intelligence Division. “I’m Ray Schmidt, and this is my second in command, Captain Roy Wilson. I oversee a staff of about twenty-five persons. Also with us today is Floyd Wainwright, FBI Special Agent in Charge of the Miami field office.

“We would appreciate your help in eliminating the primary source of cocaine that is poisoning our city, as well as our sister cities north to Philadelphia and south to Richmond. Emergency room reports show this cocaine has caused numerous deaths because its users are not accustomed to its high purity. Like heroin, when it comes from one of the authorized distributors, it
has a brand name. In this case, it’s
Orbit
. Your friend from the rainy car chase was a secondary distributor who had not yet cut his product for resale. Equally disturbing is the rise of gangs at the low end of the distribution chain, with each gang claiming its own turf. Homicides are rising because most inter-gang disputes are settled by gunfire.”

“May I speak freely?” I began. The room, the entire staff area, was inside – windowless. Maybe the rumors about their wide-ranging and semi-legal tactics were true. The word
windowless
rattled inside my skull as I prepared to continue. “Since my conversations with Lieutenant Roberts, I speculated that I was being groomed for something, but never given a clue as to what it might be, an unusual approach in dealing with a beat cop.”

“Although necessary, we apologize, for the approach. You are no ordinary beat cop. You are college-educated, a commercial pilot, a martial arts expert, honest and, according to interviews with superiors, resourceful in dealing with difficult situations. In addition, you were honest before you married Karen. A stack of hundred dollar bills will not turn your head. Detective Lieutenant Roberts told you, the FBI, at our request, completed a full-field re-investigation, and they have granted you a national security clearance of secret. Later, there are agreements to sign. Accordingly, some of what I’m about to tell you is classified. I also want to allay a possible concern you are being railroaded into accepting any assignment. After our discussions today, you may decline the offer and return to your regular duties without prejudice. Fair enough?”

“Yes, sir.”

Of course, having gone to so much trouble, they might redefine
regular duties
as a year of picking up cigarette butts in the warehouse district while walking permanent midnights. I decided not to share my cynical thoughts.

Lieutenant Roberts began to speak. “The President recently signed what’s called a PDD, or Presidential Decision Directive,
which defines the flow of illicit drugs into this country as a threat to our national security. How efforts will be coordinated across the U.S. remains to be determined. He is, however, aware of our local problem and asked the Chief to take all necessary measures to address this regional surge in cocaine. We thought we had a victory when we tightened the laws and prescribing practices of physicians on amphetamines. Cocaine, however, quickly filled the gap, and availability grows on a daily basis. We know that the supply comes from a well-coordinated, multinational group – not a collection of amateurs smuggling in a few keys from South America. We have squeezed dry our informants and lockups.

“We think we know the following. The big boss here sends drivers to Miami, loads a truck or station wagon, and drives the cocaine to this area. We cannot stop that. Rather than bring a large load into the city, we suspect the vehicle drives to a house in a nearby, but rural, part of Virginia, or maybe Maryland. Cars with mixed plates, not all DC, come at random times to pick up their share. These are the primary dealers, who later put the Orbit sticker on their product. We did arrest one of them who made it clear that talking to us was a death sentence. We told him if he did cooperate, we would reduce charges. He hardly reacted. He said he was probably a dead man, and we could play any game we wanted. The secondary and tertiary dealers are almost as afraid. They give us a little something to ease their pain, but their information often conflicts with what we get elsewhere. In short, few facts are reliable. We do not know who is pulling the strings here. Thanks to some good work done by the FBI and CIA, however, we believe we know who the Miami connection is.”

I reacted, “Does the CIA have law enforcement authority on domestic cases?”

Inspector Schmidt breezed past the legal realities. “They do indirectly because it’s defined as a national security matter.
These drugs are not coming from within the United States.”

Roberts continued, “We believe this is the same organization that was using young women and packing them with three or four keys so they appeared very pregnant, complete with large breasts and butts. The shaping was done skillfully and successfully until an alert agent began to ask basic questions one mule couldn’t answer. She cooperated but knew nothing. The flight was from Barranquilla to Miami. Retrospective interviews of U.S. Customs agents by the Bureau of Narcotics and Dangerous Drugs, we call them the BNDD, revealed others who remembered young, pregnant women taking the same flight. This random catch told us nothing about them, but it took away their system. For now, they have adapted and are using swallowers. This is an interim method because it cuts into their volume.

“Then we got what appears to be a break. Agents from BNDD have been suspicious of Marcus Sterling for some time. Tax returns from his business did not seem to square with his wealthy lifestyle. BNDD Miami believes Marcus Sterling, a real estate agent, is the intermediary in this farm-to-arm operation. He never touches the product, but he is in charge of logistical issues, which are, in this case, getting the cocaine into the United States and ultimately into our area. At first, we focused on seaworthy ships taking the drugs from Barranquilla to a remote expanse along the coasts of Puerto Rico. There, the bad guys could lower a fast boat for a beach delivery, which puts the drugs in the United States and Customs out of the picture. This method has been used by other narco-traffickers. Problems for them include the distance and cost. From Barranquilla to Puerto Rico is seven hundred and seventy miles of open sea at maybe fifteen knots. Storms in that area can be severe. A sturdy boat would be expensive and subject to boarding by the U.S. Coast Guard and later the Customs Service.

“Finally, with the help of the FBI, we leaned on selected baggage handlers for Eastern Airlines because they had been
compromised before. We found no reason to believe commercial flights were bringing cocaine into Miami. For a while, we were stumped. A Mexican route was out of the question. In fact, they could not move product any further west than Cartagena. Agreements backed by firepower dictate which routes are open to whom.

“BNDD continued to investigate. A fair number of persons who purchased Sterling homes had been in and out of prison for drug-related charges. In addition, he corresponds with another Cuban in Coleman Prison, in central Florida. As you may know, prison staff opens all correspondence before being passed onto, or from, any inmate. BNDD had asked for copies of the correspondence between Sterling and Jesus Ramirez, doing federal time for drug trafficking. Until recently, the letters talked about old times and seemed harmless. Last month, however, Sterling said he had sold property to some orange and fruit growers who needed agricultural pilots. Maybe they could talk about it further. Sterling’s real-estate transactions do not include any agricultural businesses. He is seeking pilots. You can tell where this is going. Do you want out or do we continue?”

I was curious. They had a plan, but it wasn’t ‘Drug dealer needs pilots’ in some help-wanted ad.

“Go on,” I said.

Roberts continued with the lead. “We believe they are using general aviation aircraft to fly the drugs from Barranquilla to Miami.”

“Whoa,” I reacted. “That’s probably over one-thousand miles if you cut across the center of Cuban airspace. I don’t think so.”

“We know,” said Captain Roy Wilson who spoke for the first time. “I flew F-4 Phantoms for a year in ‘Nam before taking this job. We are quite sure they pass through the Windward Passage between Gitmo on the west, and Haiti on the east to refuel somewhere in the Bahamas. Among the seven hundred Bahamian islands, a few have airports with fuel. This is a sketchy
picture because they run a tight ship, with everything on a need-to-know basis and employee loyalty beyond question. With the exception of Sterling, we do not know any of the other principals and are relying on informed conjecture – which is an oxymoron. I suspect they have been using ex-Batista pilots, some of whom have not flown for nine years. Such a limited pool may be the reason they are looking for younger, better-trained American pilots who can be trusted.

“We want you to fly for Sterling.”

They said it! Fear and excitement mingled together, creating a powerful turmoil within me. This was mad, yet heady stuff. I felt a visceral pull to be in the middle of it. Maybe the deaths of Carol, the swallower, and many unknown to me were not in vain. Others could fill out dog-bite reports.

“We, and the agencies we work with,” began Inspector Schmidt, “have the resources to place you deep undercover, with a new identity as a pilot who was busted on federal charges for flying marijuana from Mexico into Texas. The cover includes having served most of your four-year sentence in El Reno prison in Oklahoma. Afterward, the Bureau of Prisons transferred you to Coleman prison in central Florida prior to release on parole. You requested Florida because you want to live with your half-sister in Miami as part of the pre-release plan while you look for work. Your half-sister is an undercover FBI agent working on another assignment. Her name, for this operation, is Jamie Hudson. She will be your liaison with us and the FBI, as well as helping you regarding any needs you may have.”

“Will I actually be imprisoned in Coleman? How do I meet this Jesus guy? What can I tell my wife about this?”

“Yes,” continued Schmidt. “You enter Colman as a regular inmate for one month. Only the warden will know your identity, and you will share a cell with Ramirez. We can say little to Mrs. Stone for the protection of both of you. Captain Wilson plans to visit her, emphasizing the importance of this unique assignment
and the necessary isolation. He will give her his direct phone number, although he cannot say much except that we are in contact and you are okay.

“Doing time requires specific skills to maintain your cover. All inmates can smell a
fish
or new inmate a mile away. Having served more than three years in El Reno, you must act like this is only a transfer. Each federal prison has a thirty-to forty-page
Admission and Orientation Handbook
for inmates. We will give you one for El Reno and one for Coleman, along with some other reading material written by former inmates and guards. After you have read all this thoroughly, a veteran federal prison guard will coach you for a few days here in a D.C. hotel. He has done this before for federal agents, and the process includes some realistic role-playing.”

I began to feel overwhelmed. So much for heady stuff. I can’t be made as a fish because that blows my cover – a death sentence for an undercover cop in prison.

Lieutenant Roberts spoke, “There’s a little more about the admission process you need to understand. Each prison has two types of Special Housing Units, better known as
the hole
. They are for administrative or disciplinary segregation from the general population. They all look similar: an eight by ten feet concrete cell, with bunk beds, one metal desk, and sink-toilet combination. Food is bad and comes in on a tray pushed through a slot in the door. We cannot break procedure. You will spend four or five days there until they decide what to do with you. That, of course, will be to bunk with Ramirez on the low-security side of the complex. The hole can be profoundly stressful. The guard will teach you some methods to help manage those few days better.”