Chemical Cowboys

by Lisa Sweetingham

  The lawyer continued his cloak-and-dagger routine, telling Eshed that Baruch could provide him with “the real big building.”

  “Listen,” Eshed said, “you want big buildings, short buildings, small buildings—are we talking about Ze'ev Rosenstein?”

  Baruch's attorney smiled proudly but would not repeat the name. Eshed cut to the chase.

  “I know you're a very important and busy attorney and I don't want to waste your time,” Eshed said. “My answer is no.”

  Shaking off the sting of insult, the lawyer suggested to Eshed that he take the offer to his boss before making any hasty decisions.

  “Ah, but in this case I'm the boss. No deal.”

  It was hard to say no to intelligence. The pressure to strike Rosen-stein's organization was overwhelming and the press was getting nasty. A columnist for Yedioth Ahronoth began badgering Eshed by name, claiming he had fabricated the case against Rosenstein in order to foster his international connections and take trips, “Eshed Tours,” to the United States.

  Tel Aviv district commander Yosef Sedbon retired in 2004 after thirty-one years on the force. His stint at the Central Unit had begun with a terrorist bomb blast and ended with the criminal terror bomb blast at the change shop. Eshed and Noyman's new boss, David Tsur, would inherit the negative press over the Rosenstein investigations. Tsur, who looked more at home in a leather jacket on top of a motorcycle than in his starched blue police uniform behind a desk, had a long history of crime fighting under his belt. A major general, from 1992 to 1995 he had commanded Israel's elite civilian counterterror-ism unit, the Yehidat Mishtara Meyuhedet or Yamam, a paramilitary force renowned for hostage rescue, SWAT operations, and undercover police work. In 1996, he spent a year in Atlanta, Georgia, as a consultant on counterterrorism and security during the Olympic games. He came home to more high-ranking police positions.

  As commander of the Tel Aviv district, Tsur was aware that organized crime represented an infinitesimal percentage of INP's caseload. Car thefts and robberies were the crimes that affected people's daily lives. But the crime families had become so powerful that the press was reporting on Rosenstein's every move and the Tel Aviv district was spending a disproportionate amount of time and resources watching mob bosses. Tsur understood that the media needed to sell papers, but he abhorred the romanticization of Ze'ev Rosenstein.

  Tsur was attacked by some reporters for giving Eshed his full support. He was even told by one newspaper publisher that it was a career-ending move to go after Rosenstein. The barbs seemed relentless and came at a time when Tsur was dealing with his own personal struggles, watching his beloved wife battle terminal cancer. Still, he stood by Eshed.

  110 FOUR DAYS IN FLORIDA

  IN SEPTEMBER 2004, Gadi Eshed flew to Florida for the Ecstasy trial of Shemtov Michtavi. Authorities in the Southern District of Florida had built strong cases against the traffickers involved in the Battery Park seizure and almost every one of the defendants had pleaded guilty—including Roash, Ashkenazi, and Mordechai “Flaco” Cohen. But Shemtov Michtavi took a gamble and took his case to trial. The wry con man was so certain he would be found innocent, he told Eshed when he saw him in the courtroom that they should shake hands.

  “In a few days, you will see that I will be free,” Michtavi said. He told Eshed that he was a man of God, and that God would help him.

  “If you trust God,” Eshed said, “I think in this case you will be disappointed.”

  Flaco was a powerful witness against Michtavi, describing the pill deals, the $40,000 he received for the hit men, and his own fears of a bloody retaliation for his missteps in the deal. But the real showstop-per was Shemtov Michtavi, who delivered fantastic, overarching dramatics on the witness stand.

  Michtavi insisted he had never been involved in Ecstasy smuggling and he reimagined the entire hit-man plot, starring Shemtov Michtavi as the hero. The way Michtavi told it, Flaco's infamous coke-dealing father, Elias Cohen, was the one who had hired the Colombian hit men in a conspiracy to kill the Wolf. Michtavi said he sent Flaco the $40,000 to call off the hit men, establish a truce, and save his good friend Ze'ev Rosenstein. The jury wasn't convinced. After a four-day trial the panel found Shemtov Michtavi guilty. He was sentenced to twenty years. Another piece of Eshed and Noy-man's plan had been sliced up and carried out.

  111 “I SEE YOU FOLLOW ME?”

  A FEW WEEKS AFTER the trial, Gadi Eshed was sitting on a lounge chair inside the Habanos Brill Cigar shop on Dizengoff Street, a cozy nook with a floor-to-ceiling selection of eclectic tobaccos and Cuban cigars. It was early afternoon, and Eshed was having an espresso and working on a cheap Dutch cigarillo—a small respite before heading back to the office. Shemtov Michtavi's conviction was heavy on his mind. He and Noyman were at a crucial juncture in their plan to catch Rosenstein, but it was still too soon to move. There was one more piece.

  From Eshed's seat near the cigar shop window, he saw the convoy pulling up. There was always a sense of foreboding when the Wolf was on the streets. Crowds parted from his path as if bombs could go off at any minute and he'd be the only one left standing.

  Rosenstein and his entourage walked right past the cigar shop and into the pharmacy next door. On his way back, Rosenstein saw Eshed through the shop window and made a detour to say hello to his antagonist. He walked up to Eshed and put out his hand. They shook. Eshed didn't get up.

  “So. This is the place where you have a drink and smoke a cigar?” Rosenstein said as he looked around the shop.

  “Yes,” Eshed said. He gestured to the pharmacy next door. “And this is the place where you get your medicines for your problems with your stomach?”

  “I see you follow me?” Rosenstein said. “It seems to me,” Eshed replied, “that you follow me.” Rosenstein laughed as he walked out, his lackeys trailing behind. In the time they had been talking, the cigar shop had quietly cleared out.

  112 THE LAST SLICE

  IN OCTOBER 2004, the district court in Tel Aviv sentenced Baruch Dadush to twenty years—eighteen for the drug charges and two for tax evasion. His brother, Ilan, received the same. It was more than Eshed and Noyman had expected and it positioned them exactly where they needed to be when Baruch Dadush's lawyer came calling again.

  Baruch was still a young man, just thirty-six. Ilan was twenty-nine. They had wives and children at home who needed their fathers. Baruch sent his attorney to try to hammer out a trade—intelligence for benefits, maybe more vacation time. Eshed welcomed the attorney into his office at INP, said he'd been planning to call him.

  The attorney opened the negotiations by making the same demure suggestions that Baruch had valuable information that Eshed and Noyman would be very interested in—information about a weapons stockpile that might belong to “someone.”

  The attorney was about to feel the knife of the salami system. The pieces had been cut just so. Baruch was the last slice.

  “First of all, as to your proposal,” Eshed said, “my answer is, no way. We don't need any intelligence against your big building Rosen-stein. But I am happy you are here.”

  Eshed handed the defense attorney a business card for Ben Green-berg, an AUSA in the Southern District of Florida.

  “Please call this prosecutor,” Eshed said. “He will explain that your client is going to face a new case, an American case, and we are ready to arrest him for extradition.”

  Eshed added up the bill: Baruch was looking at eighteen years in Israel for the drug charges, plus another two years on tax evasion, and—if Shemtov Michtavi's trial was any measure—another twenty years for the American drug case.

  “I believe that in forty years, your client will be free,” Eshed said.

  Baruch's lawyer was speechless. These were the new rules of the game. The Americans would no longer stand by as Ecstasy traffickers conspired to bring drugs to the United States, and the Israelis were ready to work with their American counterparts if it meant bringing their own crime bosses to justice.

&
nbsp; Eshed told Baruch's attorney he didn't need any big buildings. He said he wanted “the whole neighborhood.”

  113 THE AMERICANS

  MAKE AN OFFER

  AFTER FLACO, MICHTAVI, and all the others, now it was Baruch Dadush's turn. For the first time he realized he was going to suffer. Michtavi had gotten twenty years in federal prison—the price for keeping his mouth shut about Rosenstein. Baruch was angry about being backed into a corner. He arranged to meet with Eshed face-to-face.

  “What, are you crazy?” he asked Eshed. “Is twenty years here not enough?”

  He wanted more time to think things through. The police wanted him to turn against a man who had been his boss and mentor for years. A man he knew was capable of murder.

  An American law enforcement delegation—including DEA agent John McKenna and AUSA Ben Greenberg—was swiftly dispatched to Tel Aviv to meet with Baruch, his lawyer, the district attorney, and Ministry of Justice lawyers to iron out the details. They laid down the specifics for Baruch: He was facing serious drug conspiracy charges in Florida and he was still wanted on the 1992 New York case of conspiracy to export stolen vehicles. He was looking at a good twenty years if convicted. They wanted his full cooperation in the American drug case against Ze'ev Rosenstein.

  Baruch was facing tremendous pressure. The Americans made an offer to Baruch and his brother to try to sweeten the deal: upon release, they'd be admitted into the Federal Witness Protection Program with their families. But it would mean leaving the motherland forever, as there was no way to guarantee their protection from retaliation if they remained in Israel.

  After several weeks of negotiating on the parts of the two governments—and soul-searching for the Dadush brothers—Baruch agreed to cooperate. But the families decided they could not live under the confines of the Witness Protection Program. The Americans would have to find another way.

  114 PROTECT EVERYONE

  ISRAELI POLICE HAD TO get the Dadush brothers and their families out of the country—and fast. The moment Rosenstein learned that Baruch was on Team America, revenge would be certain. The logistics to secure their safety required dizzyingly precise maneuvering.

  The families were moved first, swept out of Israel on a commercial flight to Ft. Lauderdale, Florida. It was an emotional transition. None of the Dadush kin spoke English. John McKenna and his team ended up babysitting the wives and their children in a hotel in Ft. Lauderdale. It was a chaotic and cramped existence for the families until the agents could help them find new homes. DEA helped them obtain S-visas, special visas granted only to aliens who help U.S. law enforcement to investigate and prosecute crimes and terrorist activities.

  Rosenstein's safety also became a major element in the covert choreography. His prime rival, mob boss Itzhak Abergil, was reportedly crazed over the public's adoration of the Wolf. Secret sources told INP that Abergil wanted to be number one and would do anything to achieve that position. While Eshed and Noyman carefully protected Baruch and Ilan, who were still in jail, officers on the street secretly watched Rosenstein to make sure he didn't flee the country or get killed. District commander Tsur feared that if Rosenstein was assassinated at the height of his popularity—before they could bring him to justice—he would be lionized as the golden Mafia hero who'd never been caught. Noyman lay awake at night, sleepless with worry. They were so close, a few documents, a few signatures away.

  In early November 2004, Baruch and his brother were quietly flown out of Israel, escorted by INP officers, and taken into custody by DEA agents the minute they touched ground in Florida. The provisional arrest warrant for Ze'ev Rosenstein on the American drug charges had been signed and submitted. It was time to collect the Wolf.

  115 “WHAT ARE YOU

  DOING HERE?”

  A PHONE CALL CAME in at the INP press center a little before midnight on November 7, 2004, the eve of the INP's secretly planned arrest operation. The journalist on the line said he was writing a story for the next morning's paper—a tip had come in that the police were about to arrest Rosenstein for extradition to the United States on drug charges. He wanted a comment. What he got instead was a reminder that a court order prohibited the press from publishing any information that might jeopardize the case.

  Avi Noyman knew that if just one reporter was aware of their plans, then Rosenstein was minutes from discovering it. Sources had earlier confirmed to police that Rosenstein was persistently snooping to find out if Baruch Dadush was talking about him. They couldn't take any chances; they would arrest Rosenstein that night.

  A surveillance team had been following the Wolf twenty-four hours a day, protecting him from potential assassins, and the unit leader called Noyman a little after midnight to report Rosenstein's position. He had just entered a small hotel in Tel Aviv with a pretty nineteen-year-old girl. They would report back the minute he left the hotel.

  At about 2:30 a.m., Noyman got the call: Rosenstein just walked out. He looks tired but happy.

  “Follow him,” Noyman ordered. They were ready.

  The surveillance unit watched as Rosenstein's armored convoy rolled down Ben-Gurion Street toward Dizengoff. As the black Mercedes approached the intersection, it was held back in a dead-stop traffic jam. Rosenstein looked out his window to see a police blockade along the entire intersection. He had a bored expression on his face, as if he had registered the annoying holdup as another routine traffic checkpoint. But then he saw Noyman approaching his car window.

  “Noyman,” Rosenstein called out. “What are you doing here?”

  Rosenstein knew Noyman was a high-ranking officer, not the kind of cop who would be out after midnight on traffic patrol.

  “Rosenstein, this is it,” Noyman said. “It's done.”

  The Wolf had been through the cop-stop routine before. But when he looked at Noyman, he must have known this time was different. He had one question.

  “The Americans are involved?”

  “Yes,” Noyman said.

  Rosenstein turned pale; the color completely left his face. Noyman, without thinking, reached down and pinched Rosenstein's cheek, as one would with a sad child. Later at the police station, as Rosenstein was being processed, he told Noyman that the one thing he would regret was missing his son's bar mitzvah.

  “When is the date?” Noyman asked.

  “Four months from now.”

  Rosenstein was in the prime of his career—a cocky, gum-chewing forty-nine-year-old boss who hadn't been in prison for almost three decades and had never been held in police custody for longer than a week or two. He knew he had been caught. Noyman felt sorry for him for the first time. Just for a moment.

  At a press conference the next day, Gadi Eshed revealed the details of the case against Rosenstein, which had been shrouded in secrecy up until his arrest.

  “This is the result of extraordinary American and Israeli cooperation,” Eshed said. “It's only the first piece in the puzzle. The next one will be the extradition and the final piece will be his conviction.”

  The Israeli media was unaware of the extensive behind-the-scenes casework between the two countries and a reporter made the swipe that INP couldn't catch their own Israeli Gotti—they had to call the Americans to do the job.

  “I'm willing to cooperate with the Chinese, with the Iraqi police—I just want him to stay in jail,” Avi Noyman said. “I don't care who is involved and who took part in this investigation. The only important, significant fact for me was that the name Rosenstein will be no more in the headlines.”

  After the conference, the officers moved into a separate room and pulled out a couple of bottles of champagne they had been holding on to for several years. They didn't notice the cameraman shooting them. The next day's news featured footage of Eshed and Noyman and their colleagues smiling, corks exploding, and cheers all around as TV reporters gave their own take on the Wolf's arrest: Police have already opened the champagne bottles, but Rosenstein will be released as usual and Gadi Eshed and his team will regr
et this early champagne celebration.

  “What do you think about this behavior?” a reporter later asked district commander David Tsur. “Isn't it too early to be celebrating when Ze'ev always gets out?”

  “Yes, I called Gadi personally and told him I was very disappointed,” Tsur said. “I told him, ‘How do you dare to arrange this ceremony and forget to invite me?’ “

  Tsur arranged a second celebration and brought top-quality whiskey. He chided his officers for drinking cheap champagne.

  116 A CAGED WOLF

  ZE'EV ROSENSTEIN WAS EXTRADITED to the Southern District of Florida on March 6, 2006. He was charged with two counts of conspiracy to import and distribute Ecstasy in the United States, based on the 700,000-pill bust in Battery Park City. He faced a maximum of forty years in prison.

  “Rosenstein has orchestrated the delivery of hundreds of thousands of Ecstasy tablets into American neighborhoods,” DEA administrator Karen Tandy said in a statement. “Today, we answer his crime with the consequence criminals fear most: extradition to the United States. DEA stands firmly with our Israeli partners in this battle against drugs, and we will not relent until drug traffickers, from the kingpins to the street dealers, are behind bars.”

  As the Wolf paced in his cage, his former lieutenant, Baruch Dadush, sealed his fate. In his intelligence debriefings with Gadi Eshed, Dadush revealed the genesis of Ze'ev Rosenstein's foray into Ecstasy, a partnership officially struck in 1999 when Dadush and Rosenstein met with Zvi Fogel at a hotel on the beach in Tel Aviv. The Ecstasy trade had become competitive and vicious and Fogel realized he could no longer be an independent trafficker. Fogel made a proposal to Rosenstein that day: “If you invest the money and give me your name as protection, I will be responsible for the way”—for the transportation of the drugs from Holland to the United States.