The Hunt for Maan Singh

by Hipólito Acosta

  The next morning, the trio received a call from Craig Stanfield, the INS Senior Special Agent in International Affairs in DC. In no uncertain terms, he ordered them to stand down. Craig was one of those assistants to the assistant of the assistant, etc. The trio was being investigated for violating the Espionage Act because they had conducted videotape surveillance in a foreign country, i.e. Panama.

  “We were authorized to do that, Craig,” shouted a red-faced Poli.

  “Bullshit!” Craig fired back.

  “They’re fucking crazy, Craig. They want to shut us down in the middle of the show!!! I don’t give a fuck, I’m gonna continue with the operation. We have a meeting tonight.”

  “I’m just telling you . . . You better get your ass back to DC, first flight.”

  “Look, whoever we need to talk to . . . whoever’s conducting this witch hunt . . . they can interview me telephonically.”

  “Well, I don’t know if they’re gonna want to do that.”

  “I don’t give a shit. Just tell ’em.”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea. You really pissed people off.”

  “Craig, I’m gonna go through with my meeting.”

  “Okay, I’ll see what I can do.”

  After fifteen minutes of ranting and raving, Poli picked up the phone ringing in his and Susan’s room.

  The caller said, “May I speak to Highpolotow Acosta?”

  “Speaking,” Poli said, deciding to be diplomatic and knowing full well that he would be sworn in over the phone by Internal Affairs. “What can I do for you?”

  “We’re going to have to put you under oath. We have received an allegation that you and your team conducted undercover taping in a foreign country without authorization. I need you to be standing and raise your right hand.”

  Poli immediately picked up his beer and sat down on the bed as the investigator administered the oath: “Do you swear to tell the truth and nothing but the truth, so help you God?”

  “I do.”

  “Can I sit down now?” Poli asked, and took a swig of his beer.

  “Yes, go ahead.”

  “What’s this all about?”

  “I’ll ask the questions.”

  “Do you realize that I’m conducting a sensitive undercover operation outside the United States and that I’m a senior officer of the agency?”

  “Have you been videotaping undercover meetings in foreign countries without notifying the foreign governments or the U.S. embassies?”

  “Yes, we’ve been conducting undercover operations in some countries. We’ve videotaped meetings in Ecuador and Panama, and now we’re going to do the same in the Bahamas. AND we have not notified the foreign governments.” Poli paused, took a long swig of his beer to let all that sink in to the interviewing agent, who seemed to have had his breath sucked out of him. “BUT we have authorization to do that, and every single U.S. embassy has been briefed and notified and given their concurrence.”

  “Who gave you authorization?”

  “Jack Keeney, the Deputy Chief of the Criminal Division of the Department of Justice in DC. And you can ask him.”

  You could hear the deflation of the investigator’s balloon over the phone. “Well . . . okay, we’ll get back to you on this. But you are to wait until you hear from us before you have any more undercover meetings anywhere.”

  “Fine,” Poli said, knowing he could not violate a direct order. He also knew that they didn’t have the balls or the ability to contact the number four guy at the Department of Justice at 4 o’clock on a Friday afternoon, much less call him at home. “We would appreciate a reply as early as possible. Before 5 o’clock, ’cause that’s the time you guys go home.”

  “Just stand down.”

  The meeting had to be canceled. Poli got Gulu on the line and said that they’d be in touch the following day because Poli wanted to spend an evening alone with his girlfriend, who had never been to the Bahamas before.

  An hour later, at exactly 6 pm (5 pm DC time), the phone rang again. It was Craig Stanfield.

  “Poli,” a deep officious voice said, “this is Craig Stanfield. We’ve worked it out for you to continue with the operations . . . for now . . . but it’s not over yet.”

  “Thanks, Craig,” said Poli, slamming the receiver down.

  Poli called Gulu at 9:15 pm and arranged to meet with him the next day, Saturday morning.

  “I can’t do it in the morning. I’m getting a load of passengers in from Cuba,” said Gulu.

  “Okay, how about noon?”

  “Thereabouts . . . as soon as I’m done, I’ll head out to your hotel room at the Crystal Palace. Okay?”

  “Yes, but I’ll meet you out at the hotel pool. Might as well take in some rays while I wait,” Poli answered. The team did not want Gulu to run counter-surveillance by letting him know in advance the room number.

  “How will I know you?”

  “Look for a pretty woman with light brown hair and wearing a tan bikini. That’s my Susan—I’ll be with her.”

  “Okay, see you early afternoon,” promised Gulu.

  The team had dinner and drinks that night, and operations were resumed the next day.

  Finally at 2 pm, Saturday, Gulu and one of his goons arrived poolside. As Gulu approached, unable to take his eyes off Susan in her bikini, Poli stood up, guessing he was their man.

  “Gulu, nice to finally meet you in person. Let’s go to our room.”

  “No, we talk here,” said Gulu as Susan stood up and readied to go back to the room.

  “Let’s go talk in private,” Susan insisted.

  And as soon as Susan started heading back to the room, Gulu followed like a puppy dog, despite his misgivings.

  When they entered the room set up for the videotaping and with chairs arranged for the camera vantage point, Susan invited Gulu to sit down in the appropriate chair and offered him a drink.

  “No drink . . . business, please,” Gulu said nervously. “Fernando, look, I got five clients in from Cuba. They need to be moved. And, no worries about the airplane. Our man Nelson will take care of arrangements at the airport,” assured Gulu, somewhat distracted as he kept shifting his eyes to Susan, who was rearranging the towel she had wrapped around her body, almost seducing him from afar.

  “Okay, we’ll let you know when we’re coming in so you’ll be ready,” said Poli. “And, I want to meet with your pilot Nelson, so there are no surprises,” said Poli, hoping to identify another felon in the operation.

  “I’ll put you in touch when it is necessary, but, no, no meeting now,” said Gulu. “Don’t worry, we can give you as many clients as you can handle,” he said, again ogling Susan and standing up to leave.

  The next day, Sunday, the team returned to task force headquarters in Dallas. The entire crew was ecstatic with the progress that was made in the Bahamas. What was left was a matter of coordinating with Customs and the pilots to pick up the payload of aliens. The following Tuesday, Poli put a call into Gulu.

  “When will you be back here to pick up your payload?” said Gulu.

  “I won’t come back,” answered Poli, “until I speak to the pilot. I need him to assure me it’s safe, that the security cops at the airport are not going to seize our plane.”

  “Fernando, well, I don’t know. I don’t think we can do that,” said Gulu.

  “Well, I’m not moving ’til I talk to Nelson,” said Poli obstinately.

  “I’ll get back you.”

  After apparently conferring with Nick Díaz, Gulu called A. J. “Andrés,” “Fernando’s” right-hand man, on Wednesday, October 21, with Nelson Hanna’s phone number.

  “Nelson, our pilots need to talk to you for details,” A. J. said as “Andrés.”

  “What kind of details?”

  “Well, man, you know, like they need 4500 feet of runway and the pilots don’t want to land, taxi and sit there, have to explain anything to anybody, no talking, man. They just want to land, taxi and pick up the client
s and take off again,” said A. J.

  “Okay, that can all be arranged at Sandy Point Airport on Amaco Island.”

  “No, that’s no good. The pilots will go to directly to the main Nassau airport and pick up the clients there,” insisted A. J.

  “I guess we can do that,” assured Nelson. “Let’s do it on Saturday, the 24th.”

  That Friday, October 23, Poli, A. J., Susan and Tim “Rico” Tubbs, the agent in charge of the tech setup, returned to Nassau. On the way to the hotel and in the room that evening, “Andrés” was engaged in frantic phone conversations with Margarita, complaining that Maan Singh had gotten word of their dealing with Nick Díaz.

  “How could you, Andrés? We had a deal . . . an exclusive deal. And now you’re moving people from the Bahamas when we have a group of 23 here, waiting to go? And we have eighty more in the pipeline.”

  “Margarita, mi amor, look, your company’s too slow. We’ve been moving passengers for more than six months for you guys. It just takes too long for your crew to provide us with people,” A, J. said, irately.

  “Sorry, I’m sorry, Andrés, but Maan Singh is calling me every day. He’s pissed that you’re working with Díaz. Lots of those clients are coming from us, from Quito, so he says you’re double dealing.”

  “Well, we need to set up a meeting with Maan Singh and work things out.”

  “I’ll try,” said Margarita, happy to deflect the pressure Singh was putting on her and also looking forward to meeting “Andrés” in person. “I’ll work on it. And please, Andrés, don’t forget we agreed to meet,” she closed in a flirtatious tone.

  On Saturday, October 24, at 5 am, Gulu suddenly called Poli’s room at the Crystal Palace to announce that the aliens were ready to be picked up in Nassau. The undercover Customs pilots in Jacksonville had to be awakened and sent on their way. Poli and Susan had to rush to the airport. There was slight problem: A. J., Tubbs, Susan and Poli were all hung over from the previous night’s partying.

  “Fernando” and Susan grabbed a taxi to the airport and, once there, headed to General Aviation, where private jets loaded. There were five aliens awaiting their flight, shepherded by Gulu.

  At about 8:45 am, the task force’s undercover pilots landed their King Air turbo props, reportedly a multi-million-dollar aircraft. Known for flying long distances and able to take off quickly, it was the preferred plane for drug smugglers. The plane taxied over to General Aviation and parked alongside a group of other planes. The undercover pilots never de-planed nor turned the engines off, but just lowered the stairs.

  As soon as Gulu drove up to the gate and dropped five passengers off, Poli and Susan led the line of five passengers to the plane and Susan led the group onto the plane, followed by Poli.

  Susan found out that the passengers had not eaten since the day before. She looked in her purse and found a candy bar, cut it into pieces and fed it to them.

  Just as they buckled their seat belts, pilot Wayne Wydrynski, looked at his partner, Craig Moore, and said, “We’ve got a fucking problem. Let’s get out of here.” And both reached into their flight bags and pulled out semi-automatic pistols.

  “Oh, fuck,” cursed Poli as he saw a security official running towards the plane, waving his arms. Here goes a whole year’s work out the window, he thought to himself.

  The pilots jacked their pistols, and Wayne declared, “They’re not taking our fucking jet.”

  As the pilots started maneuvering the jet to taxi on the runaway, Poli jumped out of the plane and started running toward the official, in fear that the pilots would have shot the man. This was an international incident in the making.

  “Hey, man, hey . . . what’s the problem?” Poli shouted above the engine racket.

  “You don’t have clearance to take off . . . no clearance. Stop the engines!” the official shouted back.

  “No, man, I just came from the airport manager’s office. Everything’s okay,” Poli said as he reached out to shake his hand. Poli had lodged a one hundred dollar bill in the palm of his hand. With a firm shake, Poli said, “I’ll see you the next time.”

  To which the official responded, looking at the folded bill in his hand, “You have a safe flight, man.” He grinned and turned to return to the offices.

  By this time, the King air was starting to taxi. Poli took off in furious run. Susan was at the open hatch, extending her hand to Poli while gripping something inside the plane for leverage. As the plane turned onto the runway, they locked arms and Susan pulled Poli into the plane.

  An out-of-breath Poli, yelled to Wayne, “Cool it, put your guns away, it’s okay. I handled it, you don’t have to rush.”

  Just then, the tower called and advised, “Unidentified plane, YOU DO NOT HAVE CLEARANCE TO TAXI OR TO TAKE OFF.”

  Both pilots laughed. “Fuck them!”

  “Wayne, take your time, man. Everything’s cool” said Poli, trying to calm them down.

  “Fuck you,” Wayne answered, “we’re not coming back.” The plane picked up speed and was soon in the air.

  Susan’s fear of flying kicked in, she gripped the armrests in anxiety and mumbled to herself unintelligibly.

  “Would you like me to hold your hand,” a smirking Poli volunteered.

  For that, Poli received his last fuck-you of the morning. He sat back and relaxed.

  The pilots kept the King Air under the radar over the Atlantic and then climbed as they hit land in route to Gainesville for refueling at a small air strip.

  While refueling, the passengers left the plane in order to use the bathroom facilities because their plane did not have a head.

  Some four sheriff’s officers at the airfield just happened to notice a white lady, a Latino-looking guy followed by five “middle easterners” walking into the terminal. They immediately made a beeline toward the group.

  Pilots Wayne and Craig immediately realized that trouble was brewing. As white men, they were in their element, as they felt they were no longer in the Bahamas. Both pilots de-planed and cut off the officers, pulled out their badges and explained they were federal agents conducting and undercover operation. The officers reluctantly turned away but eyed the unlikely group until the plane took off, once again headed for Dallas.

  Upon landing at Red Bird Airport south of Dallas, undercover agent George Ramírez transferred the aliens to a hotel, then called Gulu to assure him that the clients had made it to Dallas safely. Gulu was so elated that he later called “Fernando” to tell him that Nelson would like to follow the next flight in his plane, thus transporting two loads instead of one.

  Soon thereafter, Nick Díaz called. “Hey, Fernando, from all reports, your idea’s a success. I’ll do you one better. Next time, can you get a plane that seats nineteen people?”

  “Sure, Nick, no problem,” said Poli.

  “And, uh, when can you get to Ecuador? We need to meet again I take a lot of loads out of Quito. Maybe we can come to an arrangement.”

  “You bet, Nick. Let’s get together on that,” said Poli. “But I have a little problem. Uh, I’m going through some financial setbacks on my ranch in Mexico right now. I don’t know how to say this . . . ”

  “What?”

  “Well, can you make me an advance?” Poli said, trying to delay the process for time to set up another flight and hoping to get money-laundering info from Nick. Perhaps reveal the Gunvantla connection.

  “How much do you need?”

  “A hundred thousand.”

  “Yeah, just give me your bank numbers so I can wire you the cash.”

  “I’ll send it to you, Nick. Thanks, man. You’re a lifesaver.”

  As of October 28, nothing had been worked out, when Gulu called asking to set up the next trip.

  Poli said that without an advance, he’d have to go back to Mexico immediately.

  Nick Díaz got on the line and said, “Fernando, I’ve got the money for you. But I can’t wire it, I need to get you cash. But just 50 K now, you’ll have to pick up the
rest in Philadelphia. Is that all right?”

  “Yes, Nick, that’ll be fine.”

  “Fernando, look, things are slowing down here in the Bahamas. Some local officials are black-mailing Gulu, and we need to pick things up elsewhere. I have two more loads you need to move from the Bahamas and seventeen more people in Cuba you need to help me with. And I want to keep twenty ready at all times in Ecuador.”

  “Okay, keep ’em coming.”

  “But, Fernando, you have to work only for me.”

  “Look, Nick, when we started, we agreed I’d have other clients. I told you that after I fulfill my commitment, then it’ll be just you and me working together. Okay?”

  “Well, just so you know, I believe in you. That’s why I’m advancing you the 50 K.”

  The next day, Gulu and Nick called with specific instructions on picking up the $50,000 in New York. “Fly to LaGuardia, check in at the airport Marriot and call me. I’ll give you a code number for the person who’ll bring the money to you.”

  The INS team immediately took off to New York. Installed at the hotel at LaGuardia, Poli received a phone call with the assigned code. The surveillance team immediately traced the number to a Deli in Staten Island and sent agents to watch the store. But Keystone Cops in action, again, hung a handset microphone over the rearview mirror. New York coppers do this to let the notorious parking police know they are “on the job.” Of course, he was recognized as a cop, and the surveillance was burned. There was no way that Dipac, the Deli owner, was going to send his worker out to LaGuardia with $50,000, and he communicated this to Poli in no uncertain terms. But with all the money laundering he was conducting, he did not link the surveillance to “Fernando.”

  “Well, how about I go out to you and pick up the cash. That way, you don’t risk anything?” Poli volunteered.