The Betrayal E-Book

Robert Mazur

• Herausgeber: Icon Books
• Kategorie: Sachliteratur, Reportagen, Biografien
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

'A thriller-like tale ... [Mazur] is a good story-teller, with a flair for details that brings the criminal and their world to life' Daily Mail 'Bob Mazur delivers again ... he artfully takes the reader through the harrowing account of life as an undercover cop embedded in the drug cartels' BRYAN CRANSTON 'A book you can't put down, nor will you' JOSEPH PISTONE, aka Donnie Brasco From the bestselling author who inspired Bryan Cranston's The Infiltrator. Three years after undercover agent Robert Mazur infiltrated Pablo Escobar's Medellín drug cartel, he re-emerged, a half-million-dollar bounty still on his head, with a new identity for a risky new sting. Deployed to Panama, he worked, travelled, partied and washed millions with Central America's criminal elite. Partnered with a DEA task force agent, Mazur slipped effortlessly into Colombia's notorious Cali drug cartel. But as his underworld reputation skyrocketed, the operation started going dangerously off the rails. Robert Mazur's riveting true story exposes the corruption at the heart of one of the most explosive undercover missions of his career. Refusing to acknowledge the danger, Mazur was obsessed with seeing the mission through to its treacherous end: expose the Cali cartel, find out who betrayed him, and escape with his life. This is his true story.

Leseprobe

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Praise forThe Betrayal

“Robert Mazur delivers again with The Betrayal. As with its predecessor, The Infiltrator, Mazur artfully takes the reader through the harrowing account of life as an undercover cop embedded in the drug cartels. In my career I take on characters in life-or-death situations, but I just can’t imagine how Mazur does it for real! Read it and find out. I highly recommend it.”

—Bryan Cranston, star of Breaking Bad and winner of Emmy, Tony, and Golden Globe Awards for best actor

“The Betrayal details the malicious world of drugs and money laundering and the danger of being a DEA undercover agent infiltrating these organizations. A book you can’t put down, nor will you.”

—Joseph Pistone a.k.a. Donnie Brasco, author of Donnie Brasco: My Undercover Life in the Mafia

“The Betrayal is a page-turning thriller about a courageous agent’s simultaneous journey through a deadly vise of internal corruption and the ruthless threat of cartel killers. This is the unfortunate reality of the underworld.”

—Michael S. Vigil, former DEA chief of international operations and author of Deal

“FATF was created to help governments follow the money and reduce the harm caused by drug traffickers and terrorists. Robert Mazur repeatedly put his life on the line to do just that. This isn’t fiction. It’s the real deal and scary as hell.”

—David Lewis, former executive secretary of the Financial Action Task Force (FATF), the global watchdog against money launderingii

“No one in law enforcement is more lethally vulnerable to the betrayal of those they depend on for support and protection than the deep-cover agent—the unarmed operative who, like human bait, places themselves into isolated situations where the only thing protecting them from an instant death is their acting ability. As opposed to what popular fiction and movies show, very few people in law enforcement actually perform this work. Some of us, like Robert Mazur and a few others whom we both know, for reasons I still don’t fully understand, like rock climbers without ropes, spent our careers challenging an instant and lonely death, over and over. And those of us who were betrayed at our most vulnerable by those we depended on for support and protection—often for political or corrupt reasons—found ourselves with no recourse other than to write. It is the story of my professional life and that of Robert’s. This book is a must-read.”

—Michael Levine, author of the New York Times bestseller Deep Cover and The Big White Lie

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In solemn remembrance of the more than twenty-two thousand US law enforcement officers who made the supreme sacrifice in the line of duty and are honored on the marble walls of the National Law Enforcement Officers Memorial in Washington, DC

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SOURCE MATERIALS

The events referenced in this book occurred. The names of several of the characters have been changed to protect their identities. While I was writing this book, many of the individuals referenced consented to interviews, and in some cases, recorded interviews. Through numerous Freedom of Information Act requests and other legal processes, I obtained copies of undercover meeting transcripts, recordings, and reports related to this story. The majority of the conversations quoted are verbatim, but in instances where the transcript dialogue rambled or I had no transcript, I took literary license and re-created conversations from my recollection, references in reports, the recollection of individuals I interviewed, and my experience as an expert in money laundering and drug trafficking.x

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DRAMATIS PERSONAE

The following are primary characters in The Betrayal.     A full glossary of all names appears after the epilogue.

Emir Abreu: US Customs special agent who was Robert Mazur’s partner in the US Customs undercover operation known as Operation C-Chase

Dominic: Italian American informant who worked undercover with DEA special agent Robert Mazur

Juaquin “Quino” Gonzalez: DEA Task Force officer assigned to work undercover with DEA special agent Robert Mazur

Jorge Krupnik: Former close associate of General Manuel Noriega and prominent businessman in Panama, involved in drug-money laundering

Rinaldo Laguna: Panamanian attorney who introduced money launderers to Robert Mazur while Mazur posed undercover as Robert Baldasarexii

Luis Fernando Latorre: Cali cartel money broker, launderer, and drug trafficker

Elvin “Al” Melendez: DEA Task Force officer who worked undercover with Robert Mazur

Steven Richards: DEA confidential source who worked at Avid Investment Group, Robert Mazur’s undercover business operated in Sarasota, Florida

Pedro Rodriguez-Castro: Bogotá-based money launderer and drug trafficker working with the Cali cartel, partner of Luis Latorre

Gilberto Rodriguez-Orejuela: Coleader of the Cali drug cartel with his brother, Miguel

Miguel Rodriguez-Orejuela: Coleader of the Cali drug cartel with his brother, Gilberto

Antonio Ruiz: Undercover identity used by DEA Task Force officer Juaquin “Quino” Gonzalez while working undercover with DEA special agent Robert Mazur

Jorge Sanz Jr.: Money launderer working with the Cali drug cartel. Son of Jorge Sanz Sr.

Jorge Sanz Sr.: Freighter captain trafficking in cocaine and laundering money on behalf of the Cali drug cartel

Gilbert Straub: High-ranking associate of Robert Vesco and US fugitive who fled to Panama and provided money-laundering services xiii

Edith Uribe: Money launderer and drug trafficker operating in New York City and Tampa

Harry Uribe: Money launderer based in Tampa

Mario Uribe: Drug trafficker based in Tampa

Jaime Vargas: Primary DEA-controlled source from Bogotá who worked undercover with DEA special agent Robert Mazur in Operation Pro-Mo

Julio Hilaro Vicuna: Money launderer for the Cali drug cartel operating houses of exchange in Houston, Texasxiv

CONTENTS

TITLE PAGEEPIGRAPHSOURCE MATERIALSDRAMATIS PERSONAEPREFACE: A BRUSH WITH DEATH 1 A NEW LIFE 2 FIREWORKS 3 BUILDING THE FRONT 4 A HOME RUN 5 REVEALING REALITIES 6 THE BOMB STARTS TICKING 7 THE REAL PANAMA 8 BAIT AND SWITCH 9 DOUBLE-CROSSED 10 A TOTAL SURPRISE 11 TRADING PLACES 12 NORIEGA’S MAN 13 RIVER OF GREEN 14 THE ROYAL SAVIOR 15 SURVIVING TREASON 16 OFFERS THEY COULDN’T REFUSE 17 THE WALLS CLOSE IN 18 FACING JUSTICE 19 THE UGLY TRUTH EPILOGUE: HOPE GLOSSARY OF NAMESAPPENDIXACKNOWLEDGMENTSPLATESABOUT THE AUTHORALSO BY ROBERT MAZURCOPYRIGHT

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PREFACE

A BRUSH WITH DEATH

Panama City, Panama September 24, 1993

A cool shower rolled in from the surrounding mountains, dousing Panama’s scorched streets. Through a mist of steam, Robert Baldasare and one of his bodyguards approached their offices at Chartered Management Group. Baldasare’s mission was to meet with Luis Latorre, a friend and launderer for the leaders of the Cali cartel. Baldasare had won Latorre’s trust nearly two years before, at a meeting in a Doral Beach Hotel penthouse when both men took the chance of revealing their secret lives. Through a dizzying maze of import/export transactions funneled through the hands of dozens of dirty bankers, Latorre managed a team of launderers that made the return of the cartel’s drug fortune into Colombia appear to be the innocent repatriation of export revenue from hundreds of front companies.2

Years of Baldasare’s enchanting the Mafias of Colombia and Panama had convinced them he was one of them, a serpentine professional feeding off the profits of the drug world. In Panama City, he shared offices and trust with Gilbert Straub, a notorious US fugitive who, with his close friend Robert Vesco, had stolen hundreds of millions from unsuspecting Americans. Straub may have fled the United States for Panama, but he took with him his relationships with Mafia royalty, drug dealers, bagmen for politicians, and even Russian KGB officers.

Baldasare ran a trade finance company with offices in Florida and Panama, a perfect cover for moving the filthy money of his Colombian clients, and the members of an army of Panama’s “professionals” were tripping over one another to help Baldasare enhance the veils of secrecy that sheltered his movement of cocaine fortunes.

As Baldasare waited in his pretentious office suite, the twin engines of a Cessna 421C Golden Eagle whined toward Punta Paitilla airport in downtown Panama City. As it passed over the tiny offshore islands topped with lush green vegetation, dozens of freighters popped up on the horizon, waiting to cross the isthmus. Latorre took a deep drag from his Marlboro, wincing past the controls as he steered the plane over the surrounding jungle mountains toward the city’s skyscrapers. Turbulence from the nearby thunderstorm scattered a line of Latorre’s cigarette ash to the cockpit floor. He gripped the yoke tightly, grimacing from the pain in his swollen joints, brought on by the lupus that ravaged his body. If it weren’t for special meds, available to him only in Colombia, lupus would destroy him.

The runway was nestled near the heart of the city. Latorre nudged the wheels down for a perfect landing. As the Cessna approached the hangar, Latorre was relieved. “There’re Raul and Santiago; let’s shut her down.” He shouted orders at a guard stationed near the plane. “Refuel her. We’re headed back to Bogotá in two hours, not a minute later.”

Latorre and his copilot joined two locals waiting in an SUV. A cache of assault weapons was strewn behind the back seat. The stocks 3of the machine guns chattered against one another as the SUV hit a bevy of potholes. Latorre noticed that one of the AK-47s was equipped with a 75-round drum magazine capable of cutting a few men in half in seconds. The bluing on the Mac-10 Ingram 9mm submachine guns was chipped from heavy use. Their fold-out metal bar stocks, two-stage suppressors, and 32-round magazines made them perfect compact, lownoise killing machines.

Latorre rode in silence and shot an icy stare out the window. His team exchanged quick looks of wonder as the SUV rumbled through the streets. The driver couldn’t help but glance every few seconds in his rearview mirror, wondering when Latorre would unfreeze. They parked a block from Baldasare’s office. The driver couldn’t wait any longer. “Luis, Luis … we’re here.”

Latorre’s head slowly turned to the driver. In a cold monotone, with a calm that said he had done this before, he spoke. “Gentlemen, I have pictures for all three of you. This is Baldasare. His office is on the sixth floor, suite 6B. If I’m not back here thirty-five minutes after I enter the building, you need to storm the office and get me the hell out of there. If I’m late, it’s because he betrayed us. If you have to come to get me, make sure you take out Baldasare and anyone else in that office. We need to be in the air before anyone finds the bodies.”

Latorre exited the air-conditioned SUV into a bolt of Panama’s steam. As he approached the building, his calm melted away, and his steely eyes darted around in lonely looks of caution. As he approached suite 6B, he took a deep breath and reluctantly turned the knob with the care of a bomb-disposal expert, his fear of the worst driving him to paranoia. He forced a smile at the receptionist and announced his purpose.

The secretary opened Baldasare’s office door. “Mr. Latorre is here to see you.”

Baldasare smiled. “Show him in.”

Latorre looked pale as a ghost. His eyes burned through every detail of Baldasare’s bodyguard, who doubled as a manager of cash pickups for 4the cartel in the States, nervously cataloging the bodyguard’s ponytail and flashy gold jewelry. Unlike the upper-echelon players like Latorre, the bodyguard wasn’t wearing a suit or tie—a clear breach of cartel protocol. Baldasare could feel Latorre’s unease but couldn’t let on. That would only push Latorre’s caution button harder.

“Luis, welcome to Panama. Let me introduce you to Alberto, my man who does everything that Antonio Ruiz used to handle for me.” Baldasare was distracted by Latorre’s nonverbal cues of tension. He was white-knuckling his mobile phone; his eyes flashed in a new direction every few seconds; and his breathing was quick and heavy. As he leaned back in his chair, small beads of sweat appeared on his forehead, despite the roaring air-conditioning, and his foot twitched uncontrollably. Baldasare tried to calm him. “Luis, how about some water, or maybe a Bloody Mary to start the day?”

Latorre didn’t return Baldasare’s smile as he offered a quick no and glanced at his watch.

“Luis, I have three million dollars in the US that I need converted to Colombian pesos. Can you put it through your system and deliver it to my client in Colombia? I need a good rate.”

“Bob, before we can do business again, there’s something I need to know.” Latorre’s eyes drove like an arrow into Baldasare’s head. The silence was deafening. “I need to know if I can trust you with my life, because if there are any more mistakes with our business, I won’t be given another chance to explain. As you know, there were mistakes in the past, the cause of which was never settled. I won’t be given another pass.”

Baldasare matched Latorre’s focus. “I assure you, Luis, there will be no mistakes on my end. I know what that would bring my way. But if you have any doubts, I suggest we simply remain friends and not take the risk of resuming business.”

As though the ice in his veins had melted, Latorre’s expression slowly grew into a big smile. He laughed and declared, “Okay, let’s do 5it. Todo está bien [Everything is good].” But as their conversation wore on, Latorre kept glancing at his watch. Now, something else was wrong.

Baldasare could feel it. “Luis, I’m hosting a dinner-cabaret in Sarasota for about fifty important friends. I’d like you to join us so you can meet some people on my team. I’ll cover all your expenses.”

“Thank you,” he said, taking the glossy brochure, which shook slightly in his clammy hands. “Let me see if I can work it into my schedule. I’ve been very busy.”

On the street below, the killers, clutching their death machines, sat like statues, avoiding movement so as not to draw attention behind the SUV’s heavily tinted windows. The driver whispered, “When we get close to the door of the office, put your ski masks on, and we’ll break in. Here, look at Baldasare’s picture one last time. I’ll take him out. You take out anyone else in the room with Luis. Let’s go.”

As they jumped from the SUV, their guayabera shirts stuck to their backs with sweat. While the Sicarios hustled and entered the lobby, a couple in quiet, close discussion looked up, sensing that these were more than just well-armed security guards, which were common in Panama at the time. They scattered quickly, and the assassins moved to the elevator. As the elevator doors parted, they nearly charged into Latorre on his way out. He looked past them and whispered, “Let’s go. It’s off.”

They hurried back to the SUV. The sicarios tossed their weapons behind the back seat and jumped in. A second later, the vehicle screeched away from the office complex and sped toward Punta Paitilla airport. Baldasare didn’t know it yet, but if the meeting with Latorre had lasted a few minutes longer, those men would have stormed his office and blown his head off.

As they approached the plane, Latorre revealed his deepest secret. “That motherfucker Baldasare is a fucking DEA agent. I know it, but I can’t say why. The next time we meet him will be his last day on Earth.”

Latorre was right. Robert Baldasare was actually me, Robert Mazur, an undercover DEA agent. But how did he know? To figure it out, I 6needed to retrace my every step over the past five years. In that span, I had ended my last undercover assignment as Pablo Escobar’s money launderer, Robert Musella, and been reincarnated as Robert Baldasare, a man who earned the right to become a launderer for Escobar’s nemesis, the Cali cartel.

And it all began with a snifter of cognac.

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A NEW LIFE

June–October 1991

My first day on the new job, I was early, dressed in my best suit and tie. It screamed rookie, but it wasn’t like this was an entirely new world for me. I’d already spent twenty years as a fed in two other agencies, but this was my first day as a special agent with the Drug Enforcement Administration (DEA). I thought my reputation would precede me and I’d get the red-carpet treatment—no way. I was a beginner in the eyes of my DEA peers.

“Who are you?” I was asked from behind the bulletproof glass at the reception area.

“I’m Bob Mazur. I’m reporting for duty.”

“Have a seat.” Eventually the receptionist returned. “Oh, okay. You’re the guy from Customs. You’re a little earlier than most of our staff. Things don’t generally get moving here until sometime after nine 8thirty a.m. When the boss is in, we’ll let you know.” That hour passed slower than any before in my life.

This wasn’t what I expected, and I was anxious. Anxious to leave behind what had become a grueling episode in my life at Customs. I had completed a marathon of two years undercover as Bob Musella, working as a launderer for the Medellín cartel. Then I spent the last two years preparing for and testifying in trials around the world, where my every move was protected by SWAT teams looking for the hitmen witnesses swore were dispatched to whack me before I could reveal the secrets I’d learned about some of Pablo Escobar’s most important men.

It was true; I had pissed off the brass at Customs, but that was because I blew the whistle about an inexplicable effort by the front office to derail the operation. I was outraged that they pulled resources and personnel that dead-ended the development of cases against some very powerful people.

Once the DEA office started to fill, I was introduced to the agents. Things were abuzz. A major case was about to go down.

“So, when do I get my credentials, equipment, and weapons?”

The answer: “When you complete your four months of training at Quantico. Until that day, you’re nothing. If you flunk out, you’ll be terminated.”

“Really? So, in the meantime, do I pull duty at the copy machine, or run out for coffee?”

Mike Powers, the boss of the entire office, was a legend in the agency and a veteran of the Marines and CIA. Well known for his bravery, ability, and relentless desire to make a difference, Powers was a no-nonsense guy with an obsession to make sure his team had everything necessary to make big cases. He’d earned the respect of every real leader in the agency. Those incapable of effectively leading had one of two choices—either get out of his way, or be prepared to get run over. For Mike Powers, failure was not an option.9

Thankfully, he made me feel at home. “Listen, Mazur, we have a major operation going down tonight, and I’m going to make an exception.” He threw me a .357 Magnum. “Be at the briefing at one p.m. Listen, we offered you a slot here because we want you to do another long-term UC Op [undercover operation]. Don’t fuck up at the Academy, and you’ll get your chance to do something bigger and better than what you did at Customs.”

At the briefing, it was clear that this was serious. A DEA undercover agent had orchestrated a 350-kilogram delivery of cocaine. There would be half a dozen dopers at the meet, so in step with DEA protocol, we would have them outnumbered by no less than four to one. I was the new face on the block. The DEA agents and local law enforcement teams had done this drill several times a month. But here I was, no credentials, no body armor, and no raid jacket to identify me as one of the good guys. All I had was a handgun. Worse yet, not everyone was at the briefing, so raid-team members who missed the meeting might not recognize my face as a “good guy.”

When we got to the takedown site, I was coupled with a rookie Tampa cop, and our turn on the eyeball (watching from our car for the takedown sign by the undercover agent) was the difference between life and death for the undercover agent who signaled for the bust to begin. We called it out to the entire team. Within seconds, dozens of cop cars and a constellation of red and blue flashing lights came to a screeching halt at every critical point of escape. It took only a second for the screams. “Police, get on the fucking ground or I’ll fucking kill you. Down, get down. Get the fuck down or you’re dead.”

As the dopers’ cars were searched, an arsenal was laid out on the ground. They had come to kill. Another agent and I took down the buyer, a yuppie whose restaurant and mortgage business had seen bad times. This drug buy was his hope for survival.

We forced him facedown in the gravel parking lot, cuffed him, and threw him in the back seat of our car. I could see his heart pounding 10under his Grateful Dead T-shirt. Sweat poured from his body, and his face was covered with dirt, cuts, and blood from our struggle to get him under control. Then, the smell and sound were unmistakable: he pissed himself, shaking as though he had been hit by a Taser. His eyes were the size of saucers, and he couldn’t speak. He was in shock.

At that unforgettable moment, I learned the DEA version of the Miranda warning. Instead of “You have the right to remain silent,” one of my new colleagues spouted, “I have two or three words of wisdom for you. You’re going to get a lawyer who will soak you and tell you not to talk, ’cause he wants your money. Or, you can work with us, starting now, and we’ll help you. It’s your decision, pal. We can be your friends, or we can make your life more miserable than you could ever imagine. Without our help, you’ll become a love doll in every prison you call home for the next twenty years.”

It took him about five seconds to think it over. “I’m with you. I’ll do everything I can for you if you’ll do the same for me.”

My partner answered, “Listen, the only guarantee I’m giving you is that if you don’t go all the way for us, you’re fucked.”

I was the only cop with a pen and paper, my anal-retentive way of approaching policing. I read the yuppie his rights and wrote down every word of his confession. He had no way of turning back.

As things were wrapping up, I met Juaquin “Quino”(key-no) Gonzalez, the young undercover agent who, with the help of an informant in Colombia, had put this operation together. Quino was a DEA Task Force officer, a detective on loan to us from the Tampa Police Department. At thirty-one, he was already seen as a superstar by DEA leadership. Although he was Puerto Rican, dopers often mistook him for Colombian. He had a stable of Colombian informants from Medellín, all members of the Uribe family, who educated him about the drug world. His lead mentor was Mario Uribe, a guy with arrests for handing out near-fatal beatings, kidnapping, possession of a concealed weapon, and attempted murder. Uribe and his siblings had a sound knowledge 11of the drug world, and some considered them to be the biggest dealers in the Tampa Bay area.

Quino had the right look: tall, thin, dark hair, olive skin, upscale Rado watch, clothes that fit the part, and a vocabulary that included key words and accents unique to a Paisa, someone from the region of Antioquia, Colombia. Some saw his air of superiority as the defense mechanism of a guy who was in over his head, but I didn’t see it that way. Quino was one of very few Hispanics in a city police department that had a history, at that time, of not being inclusive. I got the sense that he felt slighted, unrecognized for his accomplishments. As he walked through the carnage of the takedown, it seemed he was enjoying a victory lap—a rooster in a yard of hens he controlled. A lot of those with badges thought Quino was at the head of his class, but there were whispers to the contrary. It confused me.

A week later, at 5:00 a.m. on a sweltering Florida morning, it was time to join my new colleagues on another raid. By now, I was able to scrounge up a raid jacket, so at least the players could outwardly see which team I was on. This time we hit a nasty group that ran a crack-cocaine factory in Bradenton, Florida. After we got control of the house and the half dozen monsters that ran the operation with no respect for the lives of others, a search uncovered the special tools of their trade—a twin-barrel high-powered Gatling machine gun that could fire a thousand rounds per minute, Mac-10 submachine guns outfitted with silencers, sawed-off shotguns, an AK-47 machine gun, and a sniper rifle.

Later the same day, the seized crack, cash, and weapons were displayed for the media. A naive young reporter made the mistake of asking me a dumb question: “How do you know these weapons were intended for street violence?” He pointed to a silencer. “What’s this?”

I couldn’t resist. “Oh, the silencer is for deer hunting, so other deer won’t get scared when the first one goes down.” I’m not sure my sarcasm registered with him. He never blinked.12

Like all wannabe DEA agents who were hired but hadn’t graduated from the Academy, I wouldn’t be paid for overtime. I got straight salary for eight-hour days that usually lasted twelve hours, but that didn’t matter to me. I was now on the front lines of a war that was assaulting America in more ways than one, doing what I wanted to do for the rest of my career. There was no place I would rather be.

In between raids, I started building a new false identity, one I could use to pose as a money launderer for the leaders of Colombia’s Cali cartel, the targets of our future UC Op. Before I could start, I needed to build this mythical but verifiable businessman and his businesses. I had a few very close and trusted friends who worked in the financial markets, one of whom had a mortgage business and an insurance company that had been active in prior years but were now dormant. They would be perfect to buy, on paper, and revive. They had history.

Two other sources were senior officers at international banks. They could create the paperwork and vouch for me as having worked as their personal financial adviser for years. I’d also need my trusted friend Bill King, former prosecutor and now attorney in a major law firm, to have one of his colleagues pose as my attorney and draw up the appropriate documents for these acquisitions.

When all else failed, I knew headquarters personnel could open doors with the State Department and other agencies to get me a passport, driver’s license, Social Security card, and other ID. My instincts shied away from using headquarters, but given the warp speed at which I was asked to put this facade together, with some documents I had no choice.

Then there were my contacts in local financial institutions who would open personal and business accounts, lines of credit, and credit cards.

Before I could turn to my sources for help, I needed a name. Who would I be? It was time for another walk in a Staten Island cemetery, full of grave sites of Italian Americans. I’d done this several times over the years and knew exactly what I was looking for. There it was: Robert 13Baldasare. Born nine months before I was, he passed away as a young child. I had my starting point.

With only a few weeks before I had to report to the Academy at Quantico, and knowing it always takes the government twice as long as it should to do anything, I filled out all the paperwork to get an undercover passport, driver’s license, and Social Security card. I needed these documents in place when I returned, so I could finish building the myth of Robert Baldasare.

Before I left, I checked in with Emir Abreu, my old partner at Customs. He and I had traveled the world together during Operation C-Chase, our prior journey undercover. Abreu could be described in two words: honorable and talented. Unlike too many other undercover agents, he had the ability to push his ego aside for the good of the team. When I played the “Mr. Big” role of Robert Musella, Abreu was the wind beneath my wings, an unwavering ally who ran street operations for our organization. Robert Musella would never have made it to first base without Abreu’s support. You can count on one hand the federal undercover agents with his integrity and abilities. He was the barometer that kept me out of trouble. “How you doing, brother?”

“I’m good, Bob. They’ve got me back undercover. I’m running a money-service business in Tampa, operating in the Colombian community. We’re targeting a jewelry store run by a family we’re convinced are big-time dopers, the Uribe clan. The Uribes are bad news, especially the middle brother, Mario.”

In his undercover persona, Abreu was getting himself established and earning credibility in the Latin community. He was moving money for some Cali traffickers out of New York and Miami, but he had kind words about what he felt his UC Op was missing. “Bob, I wish you hadn’t pulled the plug here at Customs. We could have done another one of these together. How is life at DEA?”

“Better than walking around at Customs with a bull’s-eye on my back. They would never have let me go back under. You saw it. When 14our operation ended, they gave me every lackey job in the office, including getting the boss’s car washed and ferrying it from the airport to her house. It was only a matter of time before they would have transferred me to Pembina [North Dakota]. I leave for Quantico next week. It was a long time ago that I was in army boot camp, but they tell me this will be similar. Once I get back, I’m slated to go under. I’m supposed to have offices in Florida and Panama. Let’s stay in touch, brother.”

Before I headed to the Academy, it was time to say goodbye to Evelyn and the kids—again. No matter how many times we’d done that, throughout my career, it never got easy. Scott was now seventeen. He had to take on the role of the man of the house. He had a driver’s license, so he could share the load of helping Andrea, now fourteen, get to and from gymnastics practice and meets. They were both competing on a national level, so there was a lot of travel. Ev was still devoted to first graders as a teacher and mentor.

As I held her, Ev whispered her goodbye. “Bob, I know this is what you want to do. I’ve always tried not to step in the way of the career path you’ve chosen. We’ve faced every challenge together since high school. I know how badly you want to do this. It’s not my first choice, but like Richard Marx’s ‘Right Here Waiting,’ that’s where I’ll be.”

On the flight from Tampa to DC, I could see Ev in my mind’s eye and hear the start of Marx’s song. “Oceans apart, day after day, and I slowly go insane.” The lyrics speak to Ev’s sacrifice. It hadn’t been long since it looked like my career decisions might end our marriage, but we were now stronger than ever. This is the path traveled by many spouses of law enforcement officers, but I don’t think anyone has endured that journey with more grace, love, and thoughtfulness than Ev. If not for her, I would be a very lonely man today. She not only kept us together, but she did it while raising two beautiful children and achieving recognition as an outstanding educator.

The bumpy landing at Reagan International jarred me back to reality. It was time to take the forty-minute cab ride to the DEA Academy 15at the Quantico Marine Corps Base. As I struggled with my bags toward the main building, a DEA class rhythmically trotted by in formation, chanting. They were dressed in black fatigues. No smiles or chatter, just discipline, a flashback to Fort Leonard Wood, site of my basic training in the US Army.

But the scene inside the building confused me. There seemed to be two worlds coexisting under one roof. Although DEA trainees projected military discipline, even as they walked the halls, other young men and women were dressed in baby-blue collared pullover shirts with beige khaki pants. Most wore their collars pulled up, a look that was popular among preppies. To say they were casual, compared to the DEA recruits, is an understatement. I soon learned that the DEA and FBI Academies shared the same buildings. The “Febies,” as we called them, carried themselves like they were frats on a college campus, while the DEA recruits were all military.

My class coordinator, Van Quarles, was hard as nails, but he cared a hell of a lot about each and every one of his “basic agent trainees.” We had no right to do anything other than what we were told to do, when we were told to do it. That message was delivered by our class coordinators, who often yelled at us, nose to nose. Eventually, we understood that the training approach of the DEA staff was serious for a very good reason. It was their goal to open each trainee’s eyes and mind to the fact that when we left the Academy, we would be members of a team, a team that often faced death. They wanted survival to become our sixth sense, so we could go home to our families at the end of an operation. Everything was structured to help us realize that we had to fight to live and to help our fellow agents survive. We were now part of a special force, dedicated and prepared to do whatever was necessary to make sure no one was left behind.

As in all DEA basic training classes, we were asked to elect a trainee to be our class representative, a liaison between class members and our coordinator and counselors. My fellow trainees chose me, an honor I 16took as seriously as a father speaking for his children. Although I just wanted to be one of them, they were closer to my son’s age than mine, some nearly twenty years younger than I was.

Living quarters were bare bones: two of us to a small room, each bathroom shared by four trainees. We were up by 5:30 a.m. every day, and most mornings our training started by 7:15 a.m. Our daily morning uniform consisted of combat boots, black fatigue pants, a medium-gray collared pullover with black “DEA” lettering over the left breast, and a black ball cap with gray “DEA” letters on the front. Needless to say, no one pulled their collar up. If they had, they would have been doing extra push-ups all day. We had to run everywhere we went, and the DEA class counselors patterned themselves after drill sergeants as they led us in cadence.

The first half of each day usually found us either in the gym or on the firing range. Daily workouts generally involved one thousand sit-ups, five hundred push-ups, a 6.2-mile run, and ninety minutes of hand-to-hand combat. Push-ups were often dished out at the rate of twenty-five every five minutes in the gym, although the last set had to continue until we collapsed. In the first five weeks, we fired ten thousand rounds at the outdoor range, usually in ninety-degree heat. Academics started every day at 1:00 p.m. and often went until about 8:00 p.m., sometimes later.

And then there were the occasional “special events.” My favorite was “bull in the ring.” The class was divided into two equal groups on opposite sides of the gym. We donned boxing gloves and headgear; then we each had a turn surrounded by twenty-two or so of our classmates, who came separately at the trainee in the middle trying to kick his or her ass for twenty seconds as the trainee tried to fight back, until the entire class had pummeled the student in the middle for a total of about seven minutes. I had a slight advantage. My dad had been a boxer in the US Navy and had taught me how to throw a dart of a jab and a good left hook after I came home complaining that the infamous 17grammar-school bully was beating me up day after day. I never forgot his lessons. “Bull in the ring” taught us to find strength to fight harder than we had ever thought we could. No one quit.

On weekends, the most popular pastime was the movie house on the base. It was generally packed with twenty-year-old Marines, along with us and the Febies in their baby-blue shirts. The other major nonwork event was meals in the cafeteria. The food sucked, but I never ate so much in my life. Despite that, by the time I left Quantico, I’d lost fifteen pounds and probably added that much in muscle mass.

Six weeks into training, I received a call from Nancy Worthington, who identified herself as the deputy assistant secretary of enforcement at the Department of the Treasury. She wanted a few hours of my time to question me about my role in the US Customs investigation that had led to the prosecution of senior officials at the Bank of Credit & Commerce International (BCCI).

“Ms. Worthington, have you read my resignation letter? I think that spells everything out. I’m here at the DEA Academy, trying to move on.”

She wasn’t impressed. According to her, this had to be a face-to-face interview, and although she had read my resignation letter, the issues she wanted to discuss went beyond it. I wrote a memo detailing my call with Worthington and gave it to both the assistant special agent in charge of the Academy, Tony Wilson, and the head of our Tampa office, Mike Powers. Each of them said I could invite her to the Academy, and they would pull me out of class to answer her questions. Wilson offered advice. “Just don’t do anything to embarrass our agency. As long as you carried yourself honorably at Customs, everything will be fine.”

Before Worthington and her group visited me, I got another call. This time it was Michael Isikoff, a renowned investigative reporter with the Washington Post. “Mr. Mazur, I’ve read the resignation letter you wrote to the commissioner of Customs, and I’ve been following the BCCI affair since your undercover operation broke in 1988. Customs says you’re just a disgruntled employee. I’d like to hear your side.”18

I politely referred him to the DEA public affairs officer and told him I couldn’t speak without approval from the Department of Justice. This was getting serious. What was brewing?

Then came the call from Ev. “Bob, I don’t want to create pressure for you, but I don’t want you hearing this from anyone else. I’m looking at a big article in the New York Times by a reporter named Dean Baquet. I looked him up, and he’s big-time, a Pulitzer Prize winner. The headline is ‘Bureaucratic Snags Blocked BCCI Inquiry in 1988.’ When this guy references you, he wrote, ‘The debate within the bureaucracy became so rancorous that Robert Mazur, the Customs Service agent, quit.’ He wrote that you’re in training at Quantico, and he apparently has your letter of resignation, because he quoted it: ‘The Tampa case could have had far greater results if there had been more resources placed on the case.’ Bob, are we going to be all right?”

“Don’t worry, Ev. We have the truth on our side, and I have enough friends back at Customs who will refuse to lie for the front office. I just want to get this all behind us and start this new career. I’m fine as long as I have you.”

All of a sudden it seemed like members of Congress were coming out of the woodwork, asking to speak with me. Chuck Schumer of the House Judiciary Committee asked for time, followed by the House Banking Committee, then Senator John Kerry’s Senate Subcommittee on Terrorism, Narcotics, and International Operations, then the Senate Subcommittee on Government Affairs and Investigations, then the Senate Judiciary Committee headed by Senator Orrin Hatch, then the Senate Banking Committee, and finally Special Counsel for Assistant Attorney General Robert Mueller.

Although this had nothing to do with DEA, the attention wasn’t helping my new career. This wasn’t a time when I could afford to be seen as anything other than a team player, regardless of the issues. Beyond that, I needed to demonstrate to DEA that I knew my place, a newbie trying to earn his stripes.19

Eventually, I got a call from a couple of staffers on one of the Senate committees. “Listen, Bob. There’s a plan at the Treasury to discredit you because of your resignation letter. You accused your bosses of intentionally taking the case down prematurely, and then withdrawing resources from one of the country’s most important investigations in decades, all for political reasons. They’re pissed. They are going to try to turn the tables on you. They’re going to claim that you failed to ask for resources that they were ready, willing, and able to provide. They’re going to claim that you were unstable as a result of your undercover work, and that because you were a loose cannon, they had no choice but to take the case down when they did.”

“That’s horseshit,” I replied. “I wrote a dozen memos begging for more resources and spelling out the consequences of their repeatedly taking personnel off the case. What they probably don’t realize is that, thanks to my anal-retentive compulsion, I have copies of all of those memos in a safe place. When I’m interviewed by the dozens of subcommittee members who have asked to speak with me, I’ll be happy to give them copies. Plus, at the end of the operation, I was debriefed by a psychologist engaged by Customs, and I have a copy of his report. He gave me a clean bill of health.”

During my last few weeks at the Academy, I spent more time in conference rooms, answering questions posed by Congressional staffers and Treasury officials, than I did in class. In the end, the truth prevailed. I eventually testified before the Senate Subcommittee on Terrorism, Narcotics, and International Operations. The chairman, Senator John Kerry, publicly proclaimed, “Customs management placed at potential risk a critically important investigation and possibly the lives of the agents involved, for the purpose of obtaining favorable publicity … [Mazur’s] willingness to press on in the face of threats to his life gave the US government the evidence necessary to begin the prosecution of BCCI and highly placed Colombian drug lords, and money launderers … I wish to express my personal admiration for Robert Mazur, who 20not only took the lead undercover role, but fought valiantly against the bureaucratic difficulties which he found were undermining his ability to make the kind of case against BCCI he wanted to make, and wish him good luck in further endeavors.”

When it came time for our graduation ceremony, as the class representative, I was given the privilege of addressing my fellow trainees, their family members, and DEA staff, including the head of the agency. As I looked out at the beaming faces of my colleagues, I wanted to underscore the importance of what we’d endured together over the prior four months.

“It’s not an easy life we have chosen,” I said. “There will be substantial sacrifices we will have to endure together in the future. There will be many missed birthday parties, many lonely nights away from home, many long phone calls in the middle of the night to the people we love most, many cups of coffee while on twenty-four-hour surveillances, and many potential threats to our lives. But despite these sacrifices, we will prevail, because we have each other”—I paused, looking over the families and then directly at Ev—“and your relentless support.”

It was time to go home to Tampa and finish building the new undercover operation, but what I came home to was nothing like what I had expected. Instead, my close friend Emir Abreu had been arrested.

21

2

FIREWORKS

October 1991–January 1992

As he strutted into the Club Colombia de Tampa, a mecca for many of the movers and shakers in Tampa’s Hispanic community, Francisco Suarez was on the hunt. He knew this was one of the Uribe brothers’ favorite hangouts. The Uribes were major players in Tampa’s drug world, and Suarez wanted to work himself close to them. He knew he could deliver what the Uribes needed, a business that could clean their dirty money. When Mario Uribe saw Suarez head for the men’s room, Mario followed. Of all the Uribe brothers, Mario had the most power. He had doubts about Suarez, and a plan to test him. As Suarez stood at a urinal, Mario washed his hands and laid a line of white powder. When Suarez came to the sinks, Mario threw his curve.

“Hey, Mr. Suarez, this one’s on me.”

Suarez smiled and shook his head. “No, I ain’t doing this shit here.”22

With a wary glare, Mario let Suarez know he’d failed. “You know what, you really have some big balls for coming to this party at the club. I know who you are.”

Mario had finally taken notice of him, but was it for good or bad? He would soon learn.

The caravan of marked Tampa police cars pulled into the strip mall and filled the parking spots in front of Envios Servicios Monetarios, the small money-service business that served the Hispanic community. The locals knew Envios provided a reliable service, sending money to foreign countries, especially Colombia, at a reasonable cost. Special people in Tampa’s underworld also knew that it was a good place to have dirty money laundered. The owner, Francisco Suarez, was a player, a guy at home on the dark side. His Spanish was far better than his English, and he was stoic—nothing shook him. He had massive wrists, a thick neck, and a matching physique. His eyes looked through people, and he reeked of Don’t fuck with me.

Suarez wasn’t in the store when the four uniformed cops arrived. As the officers entered, they revealed their purpose to Suarez’s assistant. “We need to speak with Francisco Suarez.”

“I’m sorry, sir, but he’s not here today. He’s in New York until tomorrow.”

The lead cop shook his head in frustration, his face flushed and neck veins pulsing. “Which of these is his office?”

Suarez’s assistant slowly raised his hand and offered a meek gesture in the direction of the large corner room. The sergeant turned to the other officers and gave the order: “Toss it.” As they scrambled to Suarez’s office, the sergeant offered the humble assistant some advice. “I think it would be smart for you to stay here with me, my friend. They need to make sure Mr. Suarez isn’t hiding under his desk.”

The sound of drawers opening and closing rang out for a few minutes, during which the sergeant fixed a constant cold smile toward Suarez’s assistant. These cops had clearly fallen asleep during their 23Academy class on lawful searches and seizures. Regardless, after a few minutes, they emerged from the office empty-handed. The sergeant stared at Suarez’s man. “Tell Mr. Suarez we’re sorry we missed him, but we’ll be back.”

The next day, as Suarez sat in his office working the phones, his door flew open. The cops had returned. “Mr. Suarez, we’re investigating a burglary, and your business card was found at the crime scene, an apartment on West Kansas Avenue in Tampa.”

Suarez furrowed his brow in disbelief. “I don’t even know where that is. I haven’t robbed anyone.”

Incredulous, the officer delivered a second barrel of accusation. “What makes matters worse, I ran your name in our system, and it looks like there is a warrant outstanding for a Francisco Suarez in Miami. Mr. Suarez, I need you to face the wall and put your hands behind your back.”

In seconds, Suarez was wearing a new set of bracelets and was being escorted from his office. Since both cops were gringos, he felt safe giving his assistant a quick instruction in Spanish. “Llame a la oficina y hágales saber lo que pasó, pero dígales que me dejen correr con esto.” (“Call the office and let them know what happened, but tell them to let me run with this.”)

Before he knew it, Suarez was in the back seat of the marked car. He leaned forward, struggling to get comfortable with his hands cuffed behind his back. No one spoke in the car, but increasingly intense stares were exchanged in the rearview mirror.