All had something to say, but a lower-ranking journeyman agent, A. J. Irwin from Dallas, was selected to facilitate the operation; he was to be a gofer attending to details, especially those that the local guys in McAllen would not attend to.
A. J. came from tough stock. Raised in southern California by an Anglo civil servant and a Mexican mother who’d been a migrant worker, he had that bicultural perspective on life in the Southwest. He had law-enforcement in his blood, having followed his father into police work and eventually into the Border Patrol. Somewhat short and muscular, A. J. had been a skinny but indomitable tackle and linebacker in high school football and had also scouted for farm league baseball, but had repeatedly been sidelined because of fighting and other scrapes. From his very first days as a cop in Georgia, he had worked undercover, back then getting the goods on drug dealers at industrial sites, and that involved wiretaps, disguises and cultivating informants. With his mixed heritage, A. J. was frequently mistaken for a Puerto Rican because of his light skin and referred to as “Chico,” but his Spanish was definitely tinged with Mexican dialect. While posted in the Oklahoma City office, he was the lead in busting the local drug distribution cell for the Juárez Cartel, and that is what got A. J. transferred to Dallas: the cartel had put out a hit on him. Along the way, A. J. became a crack writer of reports with well-drafted narratives rich in details and covering the salient legal issues. All of these talents would be tapped during the next months in the hunt for Maan Singh.
Poli was coming in and out of the meeting, his time split between this and another operation he was running. He, nevertheless, was there long enough to pledge, as a senior agent with years of experience, “Jake, you can count on me for the foreign operation. I’ll do whatever it takes: doing undercover work, overseeing the operation outside the States . . . ”
Jim Rayburn from Washington State said, “I’ve got an informant who deals with Maan Singh . . . he can even phone him . . . any time. And he can make a personal introduction for Poli.” But Rayburn refused to divulge the informant’s name or any of the details: who, where, what . . .
Joe de la Cruz, who would later be transferred to McAllen from Laredo to head up the anti-smuggling unit in McAllen, was invited to join because a number of smuggled loads had been moved through Laredo. The plan was to run what was now known as “Operation Featherless” because the INS would clip the wings of air smuggling operations through McAllen.
Joe stood up and announced, “I don’t have to listen to this shit. I’ve got a plane to catch.” As he headed for the door, he dropped a bomb: “This agency doesn’t have the knowledge or the maturity or the horses to conduct wiretaps. We should refer the case to the FBI.” That was a dirty word for these INS agents: FBI! No way!
It was A. J. who spoke up first, “Wait a minute . . . ”
Joe ignored him and kept walking toward the door.
Again A. J., this time shouting, “Hey, wait! You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about!”
Joe turned towards A. J., bracing himself for a fight.
“I’ve worked many wiretaps . . . ,” shouted A. J., “as police officer and as an agent.”
“You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about. If you continue to bark at me like this, I’ll kick your ass.”
“Yeah? Well, let’s take it outside, and we’ll see who does the asskickin.’”
Then Poli and a few others sprang to their feet and restrained A. J. and shoved Joe outside and escorted him to the parking lot, where he called over his shoulder as he headed for his car, “I’ll be back, motherfuckers.”
Back inside, Poli asked the group, “Is there anyone else who feels that way?”
When no one answered, Poli said, “Let’s get back to work.”
After that inauspicious beginning, which was a harbinger of conflicts to come, planning proceeded on “Operation Featherless.” The outcome was that a next meeting would be held in McAllen with the previously unidentified confidential informant. Poli was to come in and meet him.
A. J. was enjoying happy hour at the Best Western Hotel, where the interview would take place the next morning. He could not help but notice a turbaned Indian-looking fellow talking up the girls at the bar. A. J. heard him identify himself to the young ladies as an anti-smuggling agent and that he was in McAllen to work on a major undercover operation. This was unseemly to A. J. on a couple of accounts. First, it was a serious violation of protocol to have a C. I. stay at the same hotel as the agents. Also, why in the world was this dude broadcasting what was supposed to be a secret?
Later that evening, A. J. reported the break in protocol to his boss, Bill Harrington.
Bill replied, “Don’t make a big deal out of it, A. J. This is not our case. We’re just here to support them.”
“But this is dangerous, Bill. How can we put Poli in this position?”
After some convincing, Bill concluded, “I knew coming down here with you was gonna be a bombshell. Do what you think is right, but I’m not gonna have anything to do with it.” Bill finished his drink and went to his room.
A. J. decided to go to the front lobby and wait for Poli to arrive.
After about forty-five minutes, Poli came in, and A. J. approached him.
“Hey, Poli, you might not remember me, but I was in the Dallas meeting.”
“Oh, I know who you are. How ya doin’?”
“We need to talk.”
“Okay, what’s up?” Poli said as they headed for the bar.
“This C. I. . . . he’s gonna get you killed.”
“What d’you mean?”
“Last night the C. I. was running his mouth . . . like real loud . . . at the bar about a heavy operation coming down . . . and that he was an agent. Plus, all day I’ve been hearing about how this guy’s been heading up a counterfeit document ring. He’s been providing the documents for Indians smuggled in through Tijuana. Our agent in Spokane, who’s been running this guy, thinks just because he’s so good at printing documents that those smuggled by Maan Singh use . . . that he can introduce you to the Maan. But they’ve said today that this guy has never even met Maan Singh. Man, you’re gonna be hung out to dry. There’s no way you should gamble your life on this guy’s credibility.”
Some quiet set in after they were served their beers and each took a swig. Poli was digesting the unfortunate report from A. J.
Finally, Poli broke the silence. “I believe you, man. I’m not going through with it. Thanks for the info. You might have saved my skin.”
The meeting of the agents that had been waiting for Poli broke up and they found Poli and A. J. at the bar. They ordered beers and asked Poli when he had arrived.
Poli turned to them and said, “I don’t care what you’ve planned, guys, but you’re gonna get that C. I. out of here. This is a shit plan and it’s over.”
Most of the agents looked at A. J. and understood where Poli was coming from, but Rayburn was disgusted and announced, “Then I’m outta here, too.”
That was the end of the McAllen meeting, but the beginning of long and tight friendship for A. J. and Poli. And that’s when the hunt for Mann Singh really began.
CHAPTER 2
All that Amer Sultan could think about was becoming a pilot. That was going to be his ticket to the American Dream. Amer had been orphaned of his father when he was six years old and was raised by his mother who worked as a matron in a dormitory for nursing students. When he was twelve, the government stepped in and decided he was too old to be in an all-female environment, separated him from his beloved mother and shipped him to live with relatives. Growing up extremely poor in Bahawalpur, Pakistan, always trying to reunite with his mom, he somehow was able to get accepted at the University of Oklahoma and obtain a student visa, and he was on his way to fulfilling the American Dream, every immigrant’s aspiration to success in the land of opportunity. After a brief time in Norman, he decided he could not afford tuition and living expenses, and transferred to Central State
University in Edmond, Oklahoma. His mother was able to join him, and Amer started working two jobs to make ends meet. He was a part-time clerk at a Circle K convenience store and also worked as the night clerk at a Ramada Inn to put food on the table and finance his second dream: becoming a pilot. He was slowly paying for flight training at the local air field, but at the rate he was putting dollars together, he would never get to fly the big birds. Plus, his student visa would be in jeopardy if he got a full-time job to pay for enough air miles to qualify as a pilot.
One evening in January 1993, the Ramada Inn owner, Sharma Patel, well aware of Amer’s dream, waltzed to the front desk and announced, “Hey, Amer, I’ve got someone here you need to meet. This is my cousin Hamid, from Dallas. He’s got a hotel, too.”
Amer immediately noticed the sharp dress and air of confidence of Hamid Patel and said, “How do you do, sir.”
“I . . . we have great news for you,” said Hamid. “What would you say if we rented you a plane and helped you get all the air time you need for a license? And we’ll throw a little cash in as well.”
“Ah . . . how? . . . Why?”
“I have relatives that need transportation. I’m doing well in my business and I don’t mind spending some on my family,” said Hamid.
“I can’t believe it! This is great! When do I start?”
“Are you familiar with McAllen, Texas?”
“Um, no, not really. . . . ”
“Well, from Guthrie Airport . . . you take lessons there, right? You take a hop to an airport just north of Austin, refuel, and it’s a straight shot from there back to Guthrie. Not a big deal.”
The next day, Hamid Patel and Amer went to Guthrie Airport and rented a twin-engine Beechcraft Baron. Amer hesitated—he had never piloted such a big aircraft, and Amer would have to fly only in daytime because he was not instrument-rated for flying at night. Patel explained that Amer would be flying round trip Oklahoma City-Burnet-McAllen-Burnet-Oklahoma City, about an eight-hour trip that would allow Amer to build up a lot of air miles fast. Patel provided Amer with a motel telephone number and room number for Camile Moody, who would deliver the passengers to Amer.
Amer piloted his first trip in February, 1993, picking up Patel’s four supposed relatives at the Executive Inn in Edinburg, near the McAllen airport. As instructed, he refueled in Burnet and ended up at Guthrie, where Hamid Patel met the plane, paid the rental fee to the plane’s owner and turned to Amer and handed him $100 in cash. Patel then hurried off with his “relatives” and drove to Wiley Post Airport northwest of Oklahoma City.
Within a couple of weeks, Amer fell into the routine of pick-up and drop-off, only varying airports for refueling, including Stephenville Airport, Houston’s Hobby Airport and Dallas’ Love Field. But it did not take long for Amer to begin asking questions, now that he was flying so many “cousins” regularly. On one trip, upon receiving five more “relatives” at the McAllen airport before taking off for Dallas, Amer noticed that one of the passengers seemed to be a Mexican—he couldn’t speak English nor, it seemed, Urdu. So the conscientious, although not all that sharp, Amer called Patel at his hotel in Dallas and asked, “Since when do you have Mexican relatives?”
“Look, we’re really starting to like our Mexican friends. Just bring him. I’ll give you $400 a flight from now on. Okay?”
Amer was not buying it, so Patel fessed up to smuggling aliens and promised to cut Amer into the profits. And Amer, who had by now become a minor instructor at Riverside Airport in Tulsa, had something to offer in return. Once or twice a month, he was able to borrow a plane to use in the unlawful scheme. Even better, the plane was a twin-engine Aztec (N55BA), a six-seater. When the Aztec was not available, he’d rent aircraft at the various regional airports.
Soon after agreeing to the new arrangement with Patel, a wised-up Amer engaged in a conversation with the McAllen link, the coyote named Camile Moody, a tall Dutchman.
Moody, wanting to impress the young Amer that he was a “big player,” boasted about his exploits in smuggling people across the border and revealed to his comrade in arms, “Hey, Amer, I know our boss is real happy with you. Together we make a great team herding these pollos across.”
“Yeah?”
“Manohar, you’ll meet him, he’s the guy giving Patel his marching orders.”
“Well, Camile, I want to meet that Manohar. You think that’s possible?”
“Hum . . . I don’t see anything wrong with that. I’ll set up a meeting . . . in Oklahoma City.”
Shortly after Amer’s return to Oklahoma City, Sharma checked into the Ramada Inn for a couple of nights and, as agreed, Sharma phoned Amer to come over for a meet.
By this time Amer had garnered enough flight hours to qualify as a regular instructor and rarely worked nights at the hotel. Now confident, even cocky, Amer ignored Sharma’s calls, trying to judge how important Sharma was and hoping to increase his negotiating power. Finally, Amer relented and agreed to meet him in the lounge of the flight school at the Wiley Post Airport. Again, Amer stalled Sharma, leaving him to sit around eating cookies out of a machine and stewing in his own juices.
Finally, Amer entered the lounge and sat down beside Sharma, a short, round Indian in his fifties.
“Mr. Sharma, I’m very glad to meet you. I know we can continue to do business together.”
“Well, I hope so, but . . . you don’t seem too eager.”
“It’s just that I’ve got a lot of business, and it’s cumbersome to have to deal with Hamid Patel and the way things have been set up.”
“Oh?”
“Uh, yes, I don’t see any real need for Mr. Patel. I’d rather deal directly with you. Everything else is a waste of time.”
“I think we can work that out. I see no reason why you can’t work directly for me. How about I sweeten the deal? And, um, how about I buy you an airplane? I’m pretty sure I can raise your pay from $400 to $1000 a trip?”
“Okay, Mr. Sharma, you’ve got a deal.”
Within a couple of days, Amer settled on a single-engine Piper Aztec, capable of carrying five passengers. After a test flight, Amer brought in Sharma, who put $25,000 in cash down, with the remainder of the $38,000 to be paid in monthly installments.
Piloting the Piper Aztec, Amer made as many runs to McAllen and back as Camile Moody’s supply of pollos required.
Once again, Camile Moody’s loose lips came into play, and he revealed to Amer that the really big boss was a woman named Gloria Canales, an Ecuadorean headquartered in Costa Rica. At that time, Canales was thought to be the absolute kingpin of the international transit routes, serving aliens from Asia, Africa and the Americas. She had built up a reputation for smuggling what was known as “exotics,” that is, illegal aliens from any country other than Mexico, including China, India, Pakistan and even the former Yugoslavia. She had already served time in Honduras through a collaboration of the CIA with the local authorities.
“Yeah, Amer, I’ve told her about you. Man, she’s impressed, my man.” With that, Moody proceeded to give Amer her phone number.
Amer, now feeling invincible and dressed like a commercial airline captain, took off with his five passengers.
By the summer of 1995, Amer was flying daily. Glorying in his newfound authority and financial success, Amer began interrogating the passengers.
“Who’s responsible for getting you into the United States?”
Over and again, the name that was repeated was Maan Singh. Finally, on one flight in early July, he asked a passenger for Maan Singh’s phone number. Much to his surprise, it was immediately furnished to him. Remembering how he had jumped over Hamid Patel, Amer decided to approach both Canales and Maan Singh directly. He soon had appointments set up with Maan Singh in Quito, Ecuador, and Gloria Canales in San José, Costa Rica.
After deplaning in the ramshackle airport in Ecuador’s capital city, Amer pushed his way through the throng of people jostling to get through Customs. On the other side of a wrought-
iron barrier, the crowd was just as sweaty, unruly and pressing. Amer doubted he’d ever find Singh in that desperate press of hundreds of bodies, but at the back of the crowd he thought he caught sight of a turban. Pushing his way in that direction, he discovered an East Indian dressed like a Sikh, maybe about sixty years old and sporting a greying beard.
The aged Indian extended his sickly torso to the approaching Amer and asked, “Are you Amer Sultan, the pilot?”
“Yes, sir, that’s me. Mr. . . . Singh?”
No answer, just, “Let’s go.”
What Amer thought was just a driver, led him to a car and drove him to the Hostal Bavaria, a white stucco building in a downtown neighborhood of small businesses. They entered and the driver led him to the bar, where a coffee service was ready. They sat down at a table in the empty bar.
Finally, the driver broke his silence. “I am Maan Singh, and I’m ready to do business.”
“Well, I wasn’t sure who you were, sir. Glad to meet you. Eh, yes, I’m ready to talk business.”
“Sultan, this is what you need to know. All I care about is this business, nothing else. I’m the boss, you’re the pilot. If you know your place, we’ll be fine, otherwise . . . ” With that, Maan Singh got to his feet and left.
Much to his chagrin, Amer had to register at the Hostal Bavaria, what for him was a “cheap-ass hotel,” and spend the night in what turned out to be a tiny room with a narrow bed and a community restroom at the end of the hall. What had Amer come to, now that he was “rich,” making $1000 per trip and accustomed to staying in good hotels, Holiday Inns and better. Now, meeting with one of the world’s wealthiest smugglers, here he was in bed-bug heaven. It may not have been Maan Singh’s intention, but the former street urchin from Pakistan had been taken down a peg.
The Hunt for Maan Singh Page 2