The Hunt for Maan Singh

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The Hunt for Maan Singh Page 13

by Hipólito Acosta


  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Well, let’s get on with it. This agent has a lot to do.”

  The foreman dismissed A. J., who left the room and met up with Matt.

  “What?! Only fifteen minutes for three indictments with multiple defendants?!”

  “All they asked me was if they were coyotes. That’s all they had to hear.”

  “Man, A. J., you always pull everything out of your ass!”

  With that, A. J. caught a plane to Miami to join Poli and Susan and then fly to the Bahamas to take Nick Díaz down. And once that was done, everybody was going to go down.

  Among all the balls A. J. had to keep juggling, there was Margarita Fernández, whom the task force considered the key to luring Maan Singh out of Ecuador. A. J. placed a call to Margarita from DFW airport while waiting to board his plane to Miami on Wednesday, November 18.

  “Ah, Andrés, qué gusto, what a pleasure to hear from you. How is everything?”

  “Everything is just great.”

  “Where are you calling from?”

  “I’m at the airport in Dallas.”

  “Have you called the passengers in Cuba, Andrés? The ones I asked you to?”

  “Yeah, I talked to them. Everything is in order.”

  “Would you please call them again, to make sure the money was sent to me? At Western Union.”

  “Okay,” said A. J. “Oh, and Margarita, Fernando is sending me to Panama . . . I’m not sure when exactly.”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, Margarita, can you come up for a couple of days? We can meet face to face at last.”

  “Um, I think so.”

  “Look, I’m not sure when I’ll be there ‘cause I’m collecting money for Fernando. But I’ll call you.”

  “Okay, I’ll wait for your call, Andresito.”

  “Oh, and Margarita, can you bring Maan Singh?”

  “Will Fernando be there?”

  “If Maan Singh comes, I bet you Fernando will come. If they can meet and talk business, then you and I can go and have dinner and have drinks.”

  “Great idea! Call me as soon as you know when you’ll be there.”

  They said goodbye, and A. J. turned to Poli and said, “Yes, she’s coming.” Then they bumped fists.

  Then A. J. said, “How the fuck am I gonna be there and here at the same time?”

  “You don’t have to be there,” said Poli. “We can get some of my people to the airport and arrest her as she gets off the plane.”

  Multiple times a day, A. J. called Margarita, attempting to get more information on the whereabouts of Maan Singh and to finalize the date when she’d be invited to Panama City. On Sunday, November 15, with five days left to finalize all takedowns, A. J. informed Margarita that he’d be in Panama the next day, Monday.

  “Margarita, come to Cesar Park Hotel, the same hotel we booked last time. I’ll wait for you there.”

  “Now, Andresito, if I’m going to go all the way to Panama, the least you can do is meet me at the airport.”

  “It will be a pleasure, Margarita, I look forward to it.”

  “How will I know you?”

  “You’ll know me.”

  “Andrés, call me back in a couple of hours, and I’ll give you my flight information.”

  “You got it, sweetie.”

  As soon as they said goodbye and hung up, A. J. had to scramble to find Mike Ryan to get agents to meet Margarita at the Panama City airport and take her into custody. On A. J.’s follow-up call, Margarita informed him that she was due in on Wednesday, November 18, two days before the task force’s Friday deadline.

  CHAPTER 11

  8 am

  Margarita Fernández reclined her seat and relaxed on her Copa Airlines flight from Quito, Ecuador, to Panama City. A budding romance was awaiting her, as well as interesting business prospects. Her boutique specializing in East Indian women’s wear was thriving, as well as her behind-the-scenes arrangement with her backer, Naranjan Maan Singh. An international player who was now thriving in moving people across borders, Singh had set her up as a front to his human trafficking business. After landing in one of the Hemisphere’s centers for capital refuge, Margarita deplaned with high hopes and headed straight for the ladies room to refresh her make-up. “Andrés,” whom she had only met through extended phone conversations regarding the human smuggling pipeline she had more and more become involved in, sounded like a nice guy, if there was such a thing in that illicit trade. They had agreed to meet in person and take it from there.

  She emerged from the ladies room full of expectations of being picked up by “Andrés” at baggage claim. From there, hopefully, it would be on to a sweet weekend in a city that knew how to party.

  Looking around expectantly, practically bouncing with excitement, she was suddenly grabbed by two women. A tall white American and a broad Latina, each one latched onto an arm and began dragging her forward. No explanation, no warning, the women shoved Margarita into a small office marked Migración. There, a short uniformed Panamanian immigration officer pointed to a chair, and the two Amazons pushed her down into the seat. After about forty-five minutes of silence, the women pulled her up and shoved her out the door and down through the terminal and out on to the tarmac, where a twin engine plane awaited.

  Margarita Fernández was headed to Houston and a nightmare instead of a romantic weekend in Panama City.

  The task force had gotten authorization and an appropriation of $25,000 to hire a private plane to fly this high-value defendant to Houston. She was going to be the key to taking down Maan Singh. As the plane waited on the tarmac for the agents and Margarita to board, the weather suddenly turned extremely bad. The confident pilot, nevertheless, volunteered that he could fly through the storms without much difficulty. Thus assured, they all boarded and took off. Margarita, who had never flown in such a small aircraft, was apprehensive, and the take-off was very rough. As soon as they leveled off over the Gulf, it seemed like the bottom had dropped out of the plane. The pilot recovered, leveled off, but suddenly the plane went into a deep dive.

  Margarita began praying out loud, sure that this was the end for her.

  Again, the pilot was able to regain control of the plane a few hundred feet above the gulf waters. He turned around and confessed to the two agents, “I’m sorry, we have to go back to Panama City. Sorry!”

  There were no objections from the agents, nor from Margarita.

  Upon landing back in Panama, the agents called into task force headquarters and reported the problem. The Panamanian immigration director told Ryan, “Get her out of my country. I don’t want the human rights commissioner coming down on my back.”

  For once, Ryan listened and obeyed. He immediately bought her a ticket on an American Airlines flight to Miami.

  A short time later, Margarita, with her make-up running in the rain, boarded a flight to Miami, where “Andrés” was anxiously waiting.

  On the Ecuador front, as soon as Nick Díaz was taken down, the task force feared that word would get to Quito and place Babaco and his family in danger. On Sunday night, November 15, Poli and Susan said goodbye to A. J. at the Miami airport as he boarded a flight to Newark and then they proceeded to take a plane to Quito. The agents were committed never to leave team members behind, plus they could not rely on Max Avery to do the right thing at his post in that city. Poli and Susan had called ahead to the embassy and to the CIA station chief to facilitate the safety and extraction of Babaco and his family. On arrival, the INS agents learned that Babaco became the proud father of a baby girl five days earlier, but without travel documents, she could not leave the country, and the U.S. embassy would not consider issuing a travel document unless she had a birth registration certificate issued by the appropriate Ecuadorian authorities. Poli and Susan then decided to do whatever it would take to get baby Karla’s documents and so they accompanied Babaco into old-town Quito in one of the city’s most dangerous neighborhoods to arrange for documents. On the s
treet in plain sight, of all things, a couple of thugs pushed the foreign-looking Poli and Susan and slashed her purse from underneath to steal the contents, the purse containing some $2000 and everyone’s passports. Both Susan and Poli reacted before Babaco and grabbed the purse snatchers and recovered the purse while trashing the criminals. The purse snatchers took off, their usual operation being a hit and run, and the agents moved to their destination quickly.

  After that near disaster, the trio found the official registrar of births and deaths, and for a fee of $200 to expedite same-day issuance, was able to obtain a birth certificate for little Karla. They took a cab back to the embassy, where Babaco’s wife, Yvonne, and his daughter were waiting. At the embassy, Yvonne was issued a tourist visa to the United States and a boarding document was issued for the baby. After a final meeting with the embassy staff, the group took a cab to the airport. Poli was extremely afraid that the hunt was on for Babaco by Maan Singh’s men, who had concluded that Babaco was the snitch accountable for all of the arrests now being effected in the whole smuggling network. The natural place thugs might try to intercept him was the airport. The airport was small and antiquated with two entrances and very light security. Poli hurried the group through the right-hand entrance and to the Continental Airlines ticket counter as soon as they arrived. Susan and Poli had open tickets to return to the United States, but Poli had to go to the counter to purchase tickets for Babaco and his family with a government credit card. The airport manager had been contacted in advance by INS that the group was on their way and in danger. But there, nevertheless, was a long line waiting for assistance, plus an exit tax had to be paid for each member of the group. After about fifteen minutes of tension because the security forces at the airport were a major part of the smuggling operations and could easily detain Babaco or any member passing through their vigilance, Poli was finally able to purchase the tickets and pay the exit taxes. Poli turned to the group and instructed Babaco and his family to stay close as they headed through the security check point. Poli led the group, and both he and Susan were repeatedly turning around to keep an eye on Babaco, Yvonne and the baby. Suddenly Babaco had disappeared.

  “Yvonne, ¿dónde está Carlos?” gasped Poli, using Babaco’s real name.

  Yvonne answered in Spanish: “Somebody grabbed him. ¡Lo agarraron!”

  “Who took him?”

  “No sé. Se lo llevaron.”

  “Stay here, in line, and I’ll go look.” Poli instructed as he started to jog in panic and wheel his head around in every direction.

  First, he rushed to the entrance they had come in, hoping to find the promised backup by Max Avery or the CIA agent. No deal. No Babaco and no backup. He turned and ran to the other entrance and ran inside, from one end to the other. No Babaco.

  Poli finally saw an Ecuadorian working for the U.S. Embassy, who was supposedly providing security for Babaco. “Babaco is missing!” Poli shouted. “Have you seen him, anything?”

  “No, I haven’t seen him or anyone taking him away.”

  “Is anyone else with you?”

  “No, I’m by myself.”

  “Okay, contact Max Avery and tell him Babaco’s been grabbed,” concluded Poli, and ran back to Yvonne to check to see if Babaco had returned. He hadn’t.

  Yvonne busted out in tears. “We can’t leave without Carlos!”

  “We won’t, but you have to get beyond the security check point,” he ordered. Then he turned to Susan. “Get on that plane with or without us!”

  Susan did not need any instructions. She always knew what to do, but promised, “Poli, we won’t leave you behind.” She was prepared to do whatever it took to hold up the airplane. She was on her own now, and it was up to her instincts and resolve.

  Poli saw a hallway with a sign that read “Seguridad de Aeropuerto,” airport security, under which an armed guard was posted. He ran past the guard and down the hall, with the guard running after him, shouting, “¡No se puede pasar, no se puede pasar!” As he ran down the hall he spied through a window a crisply dressed official—it turned out to be a colonel—staring across a desk at a seated Babaco.

  He barged into the office, just when the armed guard, pistol drawn, was about to grab him. Poli pulled out his diplomatic I.D. and shouted in Spanish, “I’m from the American Embassy, and this man is with me! What’s the problem here?”

  Both the guard and the colonel interviewing Babaco faced Poli in shock. The colonel, a scowl on his face, reached out and grabbed the passport. He immediately did a double-take, recognizing that, indeed, it was a U.S. diplomatic passport.

  “He did not pay his exit tax,” said the colonel.

  Poli knew that this was bullshit, that the colonel was ordered to make Babaco disappear. But he turned to Babaco and said, “Carlos, cómo eres pendejo. How could you do something like that?”

  Then Poli took out a fifty dollar bill from his wallet, placed it on the desk and retrieved his passport. He then grabbed Carlos by his left arm and said, “Vámonos, Carlos.” He turned to the colonel and said, “Pardon us, colonel, this should compensate you for your time. Sorry for the inconvenience.”

  Poli pulled Carlos as fast as he could, given that Babaco limped from an old injury, and finally made the security line right in back of Yvonne and Susan and the baby. At that point, sweating profusely and wheeling his head in every direction, it seemed like the line was taking hours to clear passport control. Finally, they made it to the departure gate, but Poli was not sure they were safe. He knew that once they were on a U.S. flag carrier, it was legally U.S. territory and they’d be safe. He decided to press it, and walked up to the counter, showed his diplomatic credentials and requested that the group be pre-boarded.

  “Absolutely not!” explained the gate agent. “We’ll be boarding in forty-five minutes. Please wait. We’ll let you know when to board.”

  “I want you to call the airport manager,” demanded Poli.

  She did and after a few minutes the manager showed up.

  “You have been called by the U.S. embassy,” he told the manager. “We are in danger. I need you to allow us to board, for safety’s sake.”

  “I cannot do that. It’s against regulations, and the airline does not permit that,” he explained politely.

  “Look, I’m a U.S. diplomat, this is a safety issue for this family, and I’m asking you to comply with my request.”

  There was a Mexican stand-off for about a minute, and then the manager looked over to the agent and said, “Ábreles la puerta.”

  Breathing in with relief, finally, the group descended the stairs to the tarmac and crossed to the stairs leading up to the plane. They boarded and took their seats while a crew cleaned the plane and prepared for the plane to be boarded in another hour.

  An attendant approached the group and asked Poli, “Can I serve you anything?”

  “A Coors Light, please,” Poli asked a flight attendant. When Poli was served, he sat back in his seat and enjoyed his beer.

  The group waited for take-off apprehensively and, when they heard the landing gear being retracted, Poli and Babaco fist-bumped, and Poli said, “We’re going home.”

  Susan was visibly relieved to get her ass out of Ecuador.

  Back on Tuesday, during the drama of evacuating Babaco and his family, Poli received news in Quito that Attorney General Janet Reno would hold a press conference on that Friday in DC to announce the indictment and the arrests of thirty-one smugglers and their human cargo, the largest smuggling operation in history. Poli was notified that he would be opening the press conference because of his intimate knowledge of the case. In reality, the DOJ and the INS were having a hard time getting their arms around such a vast operation and they needed someone who knew all the details and could explain it to the media. Poli, as a senior manager, was the natural choice. The only problem was that he had no suit, nor did he have time to fly to El Paso to pick up one from home.

  “I need to find a good suit, that doesn’t cost me a l
ot of money, and is good for a press conference,” he told Babaco.

  “I have the perfect tailor for you. He can get it done for you in one day.”

  “Let’s do it.”

  On Wednesday, they went to a combination tailor and tire shop owned by Mohammad Kaddafi, a known human trafficker, and Poli was fitted for a charcoal grey suit, appropriate for a federal executive. He also picked out a matching shirt and tie. Poli paid all of $150 total. In between obtaining official documents for baby Karla and returning to the embassy, they picked up the suit. Poli had no time to try it out. The first time Poli would put it on would be for his date with Janet Reno in DC.

  After escaping Quito and arriving in Houston, Susan escorted Babaco and his family to Dallas, and Poli barely made the Continental flight to DC. Once having arrived in DC at noon, without having grabbed a shower in two days, Poli grabbed a cab to the General Services Administration building, which had a gym, where he showered, shaved and put on his new attire. About a half hour later, he reunited with A. J. at INS headquarters. A briefing with the U.S. Attorney General would be held at 1 pm and a media conference would be held at 2 pm.

  At 12:55, Poli and A. J. took the elevator to the seventh floor and the large room where the conference would be held. Suddenly, they were greeted like heroes, their backs being patted and hands shook by their colleagues, some of whom had opposed their operation from the beginning and throughout.

  The first man to shake A. J.’s hand was Craig Stanfield, who said, “Congratulations to you and Poli. Great case!”

  “Fuck you, Craig,” replied the agent, gritting his teeth and walking on by.

  As the pair made their way through the crowd, Commissioner Meissner approached them, hugged Poli and shook A. J.’s hand. “You both have represented the agency so well. What a wonderful outcome, all to your doing.”

  As Poli was chatting with Meissner, staff members were handing out copies of the media release that had been prepared for general consumption. A. J. started reading and noticed glaring gaps in the release as well as outright mistakes.

 

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