by Marc Ruskin
Meanwhile, the UC team … well, I had plenty to keep me busy. Chris Day and Jon Sarno were my “handlers,” with Chris acting as my link to the RA, funneling all requests and scheduling all the preparatory activities, protecting me from an inundation of conflicting orders, requests, suggestions. Jon ran interference with JEH and DOJ. Michelle floated around, keeping track of what was happening all around, and keeping us up to date. In a rapidly evolving near-crisis environment, what you don’t know is the prime cause of stress—and I knew next to nothing about uranium enrichment. It was critical that Jean-Marc be familiar with the contraband to be purchased. While I did not need to be an expert on the mechanics of the tools used in the enrichment process, I would need to be sufficiently conversant with the subject matter to be a credible middleman. French intel would hardly have sent a senior officer totally non-conversant with the nuts and bolts of nuclear material to make such a purchase. On a personal but no-less-significant note, Marc Ruskin wanted to know exactly what the radiation exposure might be. Over the years, I had handled heroin, stolen cars, fraudulent documents, all variety of contraband. None of which had been carcinogenic. I would need to be pretty damn sure that whatever transpired on Friday, whatever might go wrong, I would not develop leukemia ten years down the road.
The first afternoon in Knoxville, I received a briefing from a nuclear engineer: Uranium Enrichment 101. Centrifuges for Dummies. By this point, based on Oakley’s access and the phone conversations, the pros had a pretty good idea of what he was offering for sale. They were “fuel rods … tubes and other associated hardware items … pieces of equipment known as ‘barrier’ … which play a crucial role in the production of highly enriched uranium.… through the gaseous diffusion process.” In a highly simplified manner, the engineer explained how it all worked, and why it was classified. Very classified. The technology was the product of years of very secret research, not known or shared with even the closest of allies. If this material were obtained and reverse-engineered by a foreign power, the savings would be a few hundred million dollars in research costs. I was paying Oakley $200,000, a bargain indeed.
The nuclear engineer’s agenda included reassuring me as to the de minimis risks. If the materials were unused, as Oakley claimed, they would pose absolutely no risk. Right. And if he just happened to be lying? Well then the likelihood of there being any residue was really very small. I just nodded. He wasn’t the one who would be fiddling around with the stuff. I kept asking questions.
On Monday night, dinnertime, I placed a call to Oakley’s TracFone. Jean-Marc was supposedly in New York. His superiors had agreed to Oakley’s price. I would fly down to meet with him on Friday. There was one issue. To finalize everything … they want to see pictures. He could perhaps buy a disposable camera? (The rube!)
“I’ve got a digital camera … I could put it on a floppy, and just get you the floppy, how is that?” Served me right. “How am I going to get it to you?”
“For us, thees is very easy … you put eet in an envelope … I give you a name, an American name, and you leave eet at the airport, at the Hilton Hotel and I arrange to have eet take … to have eet shipped to New York. If you can arrange to do this tomorrow or Wednesday…”
“I’ll do it … I’ll do it Wednesday, I’ll, I’ll take off early from work and do it Wednesday.”
“Yes, write Robert Ford and then write New York City. New York. Just like that, and I will arrange, uh, to have eet—how you say—Federal Express to me. You just … at the front desk, just leave it there … like you say, Wednesday.” I would call him Thursday evening to make final arrangements for Friday morning.
All in my best Inspector Clouseau.
Midafternoon on Tuesday, the tech agents were setting up the recording equipment in the hotel lobby. One stood on a ladder, attaching a camcorder to a ceiling lamp. Others installed the wiring. They were almost done—when Oakley walked through the doors and entered the lobby. He had said he’d deliver the package on Wednesday! This had been and would be a superbly run op, but it was all happening on the fly and on this second afternoon in town it could have collapsed then and there. The installation could have been executed at 2:00 a.m., rather than midday. But it wasn’t. But they got away with it. Oakley failed to notice the five “maintenance men” wearing ordinary blue-collar work clothing, blue Dickies pants and worn button-down canvas shirts—one of whom nearly fell off his ladder. Any kind of pro would have casually taken a closer look, sat in a lobby armchair and observed, sniffed a problem, turned around, and walked out. Instead, Oakley walked directly to the front desk, FedEx envelope in hand. This constituted his first overt act arising from his contacts with Jean-Marc, the intel officer representing a foreign power. Oakley was crossing a line—the line of no return. He could still turn around and walk away. And providing the motivation to do so, if he had been alert, were the five FBI tech agents just yards away. After a brief exchange with the concierge—a real one! On Wednesday there would have been a BuAgent in his place—Oakley was gone. Minus one very incriminating envelope. The photographs confirmed the engineers’ grim predictions as to the significance, the nuclear significance, of the stolen items offered for sale.
Many had wondered, after the collapse of the Soviet Union, how it was possible that better care had not been taken to keep track and safeguard the building blocks of doomsday machines. Yet here in East Tennessee … but for the FBI’s widespread criminal information-gathering network and efficiency, the disappearance of the “hardware items” would have gone unnoticed. The Department of Energy would have to revamp and revise its security protocols—in an ideal world. In all likelihood, in the tradition of large bureaucracies worldwide, the DOE probably pinned the fault on one or two mid-level managers, fired them, and moved on.
While the tech agents at the airport hotel were busy almost blowing the entire operation, Chris took me on a shopping trip. Oak Ridge having a limited supply of French haberdashers, we had to make do with J. C. Penney. I had been uncompromising: I would not wear any of my own clothes to the meet. Chris had checked with the HAZMAT team—they would be briefing me on Thursday—and they had concurred with my caution. Anything worn by Jean-Marc would be checked with a Geiger counter, bagged, and incinerated. The clothing chosen was generic, dark slacks, a Polo shirt, three-quarter-length lightweight blue wool coat, driving gloves—to be worn as an extra-layer of protection, direct from the nuclear-testing labs at Totes—Fruit of the Loom undergarments (Oakley was not likely to be reading the labels). Astonishingly, we found a French-style short-brimmed cap, the sort that Jean-Paul Belmondo would wear pulled down to his brows. Chris then paid for my classy new wardrobe and passed it along to the tech agents, who would make the alterations necessary to secrete the audio and video recording devices. This was not Holyland or Mount Vernon or Tampa. There would by multiple layers of review. The equipment would be tested and retested by the tech SAs, then by myself, with Chris, on Thursday evening. Everyone understood that any equipment failures traceable to human error would be dimly received.
Chris had, in his role as point man, effectively communicated my not insignificant safety concerns to management, and the HAZMAT briefing was meticulously prepared. Hal Levine, top HAZMAT engineer/supervisory special agent and two of his engineers had flown in from Quantico to direct the effort. Short and stout, Hal’s demeanor projected bulldog assuredness, rather than any softness of character. I had met him in the course of my frequent visits to Quantico while stationed at Safeguard. His credibility was already established, now what mattered was the substance. While Hal’s responsibilities at Oak Ridge were broad, this particular briefing was strictly focused on Jean-Marc. My interest in what exposure, if any, existed to the population at large, what containment protocols and evacuation procedures needed to be established, was peripheral at best. My tunnel vision limited the breadth of interest to number one.
Hal and two assistants spread the equipment on the conference-room table. There were two plastic items t
he size and weight of key fobs. Passive radiation detectors to be carried in my pockets, they would be analyzed later—and would Lord willing provide negative results. A device that appeared to be a post-shampoo blow-dryer was an ultrasensitive Geiger counter. With which Jean-Marc would scan Oakley and his merchandise—a reasonable enough demand, considering the singular nature of the contraband.
On the table were also three plastic-enclosed coins, the size of silver dollars, spaced two feet apart. Hal turned on the faux blow-dryer and pointed it at the first coin, about six inches distant. One slow click. So you know that it’s working. Then, he moved to the second coin. A medium response.… click … click. Mildly radioactive, he explained, no risk. Then to the third coin. An explosion of loud, rapid click click clicking.
“Gamma rays. Very hazardous.”
“Right. And if I hear that clicking, then what?”
The briefing had thus far served to inform me that I would be carrying a machine that would let me know I was being poisoned and two key chains that would later confirm my sorry state.
“It’s not going to happen.”
Once the final op plan was in place, the HAZMAT team would establish a “choke point” through which Oakley’s car would have to pass. Strategically parked would be a nondescript panel truck that was, in fact, an ultra-high-tech response truck with high-sensitivity external monitors. Inside the truck would be a five-operator SWAT team, all wearing HAZMAT suits and standard ordnance, to include submachine guns. Any detection of gamma rays—and Oakley would not be arriving for the meet with me. Good, but I still wanted a HAZMAT suit. I was worried.
As the army of lawyers at DOJ and JEH continued to debate what I would and would not be allowed to say on D-Day—none of whom were likely to have had any real-world experience that might inform them as to what a UC can and cannot say to a subject without sabotaging the entire op—my preparations continued. One of the high points of the week was the tour of the lab the following morning: a visual familiarity with the devices found in a nuclear facility being a prerequisite to an informed discussion, even with a relatively ill-informed conspirator. Jean-Marc should certainly appear to be as familiar with the machines as Oakley. Chris, Michelle, Jon, and I all stared at the huge high-tech machinery. The engineer, accustomed to providing VIP tours to budget-approving legislators, provided the enthralling details in layman’s terms.
The SWAT commanders, in an indication of true professionalism, had requested that I participate in their operational planning sessions. It is not uncommon for SWAT team leaders and their “operators” (as the individual commandos are called) to resent input from outsiders. These self-assured veterans knew better. The decisions made here could be determinative as to whether I would still be around, alive and kicking on Saturday. They laid out their thinking and their planning.
Adjacent to the Knoxville Airport Hilton is a four-story stand-alone garage. Then, farther out, is a large, surface-level parking lot. Initially the SWAT chiefs were inclined to select the large lot for the meet. With unobstructed views, a number of observation posts could be established. Ben Templeton, the overall SWAT commander, pointed out that the area was not enclosed, thus difficult to secure and also offering numerous escape routes. His suggestion: the rooftop level of the garage, with clear line of sight to the upper floors of the hotel proper, and a single ramp in, a single ramp out. The HAZMAT truck could be parked the evening prior by the second-story ramp, to screen Oakley as he came in.
On the hotel side of the lot, there was an enclosed stairwell. Jean-Marc’s car could be parked alongside that stairwell. Adjacent to my car, a spot would be saved for Oakley with one of our vehicles. Once Oakley’s approach was called in by surveillance, our car would pull out and free up the space for Oakley. I pointed out a flaw, and a solution.
“If our cars are parked side by side, Oakley may not even get out of his car, just open the window and start to talk. You guys won’t have a good view, if the sun is reflecting off the windshields, you won’t see what’s going on. He could have a gun in his hand, no one will know. It’ll be too tight, there’ll be no room to maneuver … Why not save him a space across the lane from my car? Then we both need to get out of our cars.”
Templeton did me one better. Directly in front of the stairwell door, the lane was blocked out by diagonal yellow lines. Jean-Marc’s car would be parked to the right of the stairwell, Oakley’s “reserved” space would be to the left, with the yellowed-out lane in-between. Perfect.
Throughout the course of the meet, a SWAT team would be waiting in the stairwell. Hearing my prearranged signal that the meet was over—or earlier, if demanded by circumstances—the twelve commandoes would emerge for the arrest of both Oakley and myself. I added my usual caveat: The arrest of Jean-Marc, accompanied by the appropriate level of verbal abuse and manhandling, would not be brought to completion until Oakley (and confederates, if any) were cuffed and the area secured. Cardinal principle of UC work.
On Thursday—D-Day minus one—a real conflict arose. One of the DOJ attorneys came up with a change in the scenario, designed to enhance the evidentiary strength of the case. A videotaped sale of stolen, classified nuclear materials to a foreign intelligence service wasn’t enough for him—selling secrets to the French wasn’t sufficiently sexy. His suggestion—his requirement, in fact—was a short addendum to the closing scene. Once the cash and materials had been successfully exchanged, I was to say that the contraband was destined for Sudan.
For Sudan! Oakley had unequivocally stated that he did not want to make a sale to “Arabs.” He owned handguns. Read extremist right-wing blogs. How would he react? Perhaps in a very unpleasant way, and I had no intention of finding out. A phone call with the attorney ended in a heated exchange. And what am I suggesting that they use it for? That they reverse-engineer it in a stone pot? He in turn “required” that I include the addendum. I outright refused—a bluff. Were FBI upper management to side with the DOJ and order the change, then so be it, but with everyone of authority I could corner, I made my case. In addition to the operational concerns, I suggested a legal rationale. Adding the “Sudan postscript” would essentially fabricate an additional charge. The defense would certainly so argue, claiming (accurately) that the FBI and DOJ were overreaching, thus diverting attention from the rest of the charges, and ultimately weakening what was already a rock-solid case. They agreed, went to bat for me, and convinced the bosses at JEH, who—to their credit—drew a line in the sand. DOJ backed down. Late in the afternoon, the SAC gave me a call. Forget about Sudan. (Gladly.)
Thursday evening I placed the last call.
MR: Hello, Paul, how are you?
Oakley: Hello! I’m just okey-dokey. Are you down here?
MR: Eet does not matter. But I will be tomorrow morning. My superiors were very happy, very happy, weeth thees peectures. They have agreed to thee two hundred.
Oakley: That’s just super-duper. When?
MR: At nine a.m., we will meet at the airport, on the roof of zhe garage. Thees way, I can leave quickly, after. I will be alone. You will be alone, no?
Oakley: Yeah. I’ll be alone, for sure. How do I know who you are?
MR: I am a skinny man, I will be wearing a dark coat and a dark blue cap, holdeeng a black briefcase.
Oakley: Okay, I’ll see you tomorrow.
MR: Paul, one more theeng. The product. Put eet een baggies or ziplock bag, something so I can see.
Oakley: Okay. Okay. I’ll see you tomorrow morning.
MR: Okay, Paul, I weel see you in thee morning.
After the call, Jon Sarno and I checked out of the Oak Ridge Embassy Suites in the afternoon and relocated that evening to the Airport Hilton. Management wanted me safely on site. Two rooms facing the garage, upper floor. One was to serve as the on-site command post, the other as the Surveillance/SOG Command Post. Jon would have the use of one room for the night, myself the other.
Arriving just before 8:00 p.m., I crossed paths with the SWAT and te
ch agents who were on their way out. Friendly smiles, wishes of good luck, be careful Marc. I checked out both rooms, which were replete with all manner of law enforcement gear. There were large ballistic nylon duffel bags, black Pelikan cases of varying sizes, tripods with high-power binoculars, with telephoto-lens-fitted cameras, with parabolic antennas. Recording equipment. Communications’ equipment. Weapons cases. I had seen many such set-ups before, but nothing this elaborate. Second place in my experience would have been the one for the mass Machetero arrests in WELLROB, years ago, back in San Juan.
Five minutes later, I was at the front desk to get my own room.
“You’ll have to call Hilton’s 800 number to reserve a room.”
“I’ll what? I can’t get a room at the front desk?!”
Not being disposed to entering into a ridiculous argument, I called the number and ten minutes later had a large room on the Hilton Honors Members’ Floor. I let Chris know where I was and settled in.
At 7:00 a.m. Friday morning, after a quiet night’s sleep, I was joined in my room by Chris, and a frazzled, bleary-eyed Jon. What happened to you? Starting at 4:00 a.m., there had commenced a steady procession of tactically uniformed, heavily booted agents entering and exiting the room, radios crackling, orders being barked. Tech agents making final adjustments and tests of equipment. Phones ringing. Coffee runs, shared jokes. I glanced around my quiet, cozy room—no doubt, one of my better tactical decisions. As we ate breakfast in this superior room, Chris conducted last-minute checks on my recording equipment and transmitter. The audio was the primary concern, both for evidentiary purposes and security. My videocam would be supplemented by telephoto-lensed camcorders in the SOG room and by a camera secreted in an empty pickup truck already parked in a space across from the planned meet location.