In the end, Olenicoff got away with all of it. At his sentencing hearing in that spring of 2008, Igor blamed his plight on everyone else: his lawyers, accountants, UBS, and me—for giving him such bad advice! Prosecutors nodded solemnly and argued against his serving any prison sentence, even though the sentencing guidelines called for three years in stir. They did agree that he’d have to suffer some indignity, since he’d been using offshore accounts to avoid paying taxes since 1992, but he had no prior convictions and his crimes had “hurt no one financially.” They lobbied hard for a slap on the wrist. Why? Because Igor has low friends in high places.
US District Court Judge Cormac Carney sentenced Igor to two years’ probation and 120 hours of community service. His former DOJ prosecutor-attorney called it “the deal of the century.” It was, and as a result Igor was free to go after me. But we’ll get to that later.
Meanwhile, although the rest of the indictments were sealed, somehow all of my former UBS bosses—Christian Bovay, Michel Guignard, Martin Liechti, and Raoul Weil—suddenly received word from Swiss authorities that they were all “wanted men” by the US government. Did someone in the US Department of Justice have a tight relationship with someone in the Swiss Ministry of Justice? Can’t say for sure, but Hillary Clinton, the soon-to-be new Secretary of State, certainly did (that wouldn’t come out until she decided she wanted to be the leader of the Free World). The Swiss, however, were not about to break their own legal “codes of ethics” and ship big-money bankers off to jail in Washington. All those guys had to do was stay home in Switzerland, or at least just travel anywhere except the United States, and keep on bringing in that illicit cash. Simple, right?
One might think so, unless you’re an arrogant, swaggering, puffed-up dude like Martin Liechti. Martin thought he was invincible, untouchable. Unlike many of my white-socked Swiss managers, Martin acted like an international gadfly, jetting around the world in his thousand-dollar suits, gelled brown hair, and permanent tan. He’d been warned to watch his ass, but he wasn’t about to let the Americans dictate the terms of his business trips. So in mid-April Martin boarded a flight for the Bahamas, probably to snag some more fat cats and make sure that tan kept its glow. His flight itinerary routed through Miami, where he’d have to switch planes, but he probably figured he’d be able to just walk from one terminal to the other. Wrong. First he had to clear Customs, and that’s where his name popped up at Passport Control. A couple of icy ICE men took his elbow and his suitcase and invited him for a little chat.
Strangely, although Martin’s face was on a DOJ “wanted” list, he wasn’t swept off to court or arraigned by any judge. Federal agents from the Department of Justice informed him that he was being detained as a “material witness” in a burgeoning international tax fraud case. By merely detaining Liechti on a material witness warrant instead of an arrest warrant, Downing and his cohorts at DOJ had total control of his fate. For the time being, there would be no court appearance, no nasty federal judge making decisions, as long as he played ball. They escorted him off to a five-star hotel in Miami, locked him up in a fashionable suite, and posted round-the-clock gunmen to make sure he didn’t go for a swim and keep on swimming. Aside from that inconvenience, he was told to just cool his heels and enjoy the weather. And that’s where he stayed for four months, until “invited” to testify before Carl Levin’s soon-to-be-televised open hearings.
My cell phone buzzed in my flat in Geneva. It was Jacques Leuba, and I could hear the sounds of lunchtime somewhere. He’d left the office.
“Bradley, have you heard the latest? It’s incroyable!”
“What’s unbelievable, mon ami?”
“Martin Liechti. He’s just been arrested in Miami! The bank’s denying it, but he’s been overdue from his trip for a week. Christian’s been trying to call him, but he doesn’t answer his cell phone, and his secretary’s starting to stutter.”
“Maybe she’s got early Alzheimer’s.”
“Don’t be glib, she’s not even thirty. A reporter from the Financial Times has been calling over here, trying to confirm the story, but we’ve all been told to shut up.”
I knew that had to be Haig, who’d been slightly skeptical of my bombshell at the beginning but was now all over it and publishing every new UBS scandal.
“Well, Jacques,” I said. “I guess you reap what you sow.”
He laughed. “I can tell that you’re heartbroken, Bradley.”
“Hey, I feel sorry for the guy. He could wind up in prison, and American prisons aren’t exactly the Ritz. Some big dude named Bubba might make Martin his wife.”
“You’re brutal. Want to have lunch?”
“Not today, Jacques, but soon.”
“All right. I’ll let you know if I hear any more gossip.”
“Thanks, buddy.”
We hung up and I exhaled a long sigh. Martin Liechti, busted. Downing was starting to actually do something, taking down Swiss bankers and clients, knocking them off like pawns. Part of me was happy about it. After all, that’s what I wanted, for all those arrogant, ungrateful Swiss assholes to pay. But the other part of me reacted like a mole inside a terror network. I’d been feeding the authorities hard intelligence, but when the commandos finally showed up, they’d be killing everyone in sight, including me. Some of the stuff I’d delivered was as persuasive as a smoking gun, such as Martin Liechti’s memo to all Americas Desk bankers, blatantly telling them to up their game in the States. It was bombshell stuff, and had no doubt served as ammunition for his detainment. And still, over the course of a long year, Hector and Moran had been trying to get me immunity from prosecution, pleading that I’d only played a minor role in the vast Swiss scheme; they’d failed. Only the DOJ could grant me immunity, and Downing kept slamming the door in their faces. With Liechti’s detainment it was now all too clear that I wasn’t going to get a pass.
I called my attorneys up and told them about Liechti. You’d think that these guys, Hector and Moran, representing a whistle-blower in the tax fraud case of the century, would have already known about Martin Liechti’s demise. They didn’t.
“Oh, now that’s interesting news,” said Rick.
“Ya think?” I scoffed.
“Well, what are you going to do now?” Paul asked.
I sighed and shook my head. They should have been telling me what they planned to do! I just told them I’d be thinking it over and would let them know.
If you’ve done any skiing, you know what it’s like when you take a hard fall on a black diamond slope, lose a ski, and just keep on tumbling, sliding, wondering when something’s going to break your fall. That’s how I felt at the time, but my instinct was to just jam a ski pole in the ice and stand up, straight and tall. I had only two choices. I could stay in Geneva forever, lie low, keep doing my business deals, give up on the whole whistle-blower thing, and never go back to America. Or I could keep my head up, flaunt my righteous cause, go back into the fray, and face the hard music—no matter what discordant tune Downing decided to play.
Liechti’s capture was the signal for me. My bosses were hunted men and I knew my days were numbered as well. Kevin Downing wasn’t going to grant me immunity from anything, ever. He wanted me in chains more than he wanted the truth. And I wasn’t going to spend the rest of my life in Europe, always looking over my shoulder, unable to see my family and friends in the States. I wasn’t built that way. It was time for a showdown.
The idea of getting some sort of award at the end of my efforts wasn’t even on my radar at the time, because nothing like that had ever played out to the benefit of any other informant like me. It was simply a question: Was I going to stick to my guns? My old military training kicked in; nothing matters but the mission.
Then I looked around my flat, all the beautiful accoutrements, the comforts, and I thought about my Swiss chalet in Zermatt, my cars, my best buddies in Geneva and lovely lady friends, and everything else I could still enjoy if I’d just let the whole thing go. I
knew if I went back to the States I might never see any of my life here again. As a matter of fact, the only thing I might be seeing for a long, long time would be iron bars and weak sunlight streaming through a concrete slit window. I asked myself over and over: “Is it worth it?”
The answer came back from somewhere. Birkenfelds don’t act like fugitives. Birkenfelds don’t hide. Birkenfelds don’t run. I called Hector and Moran back.
“Okay guys, listen up. I want you to arrange another meeting, with both the SEC and the Senate.”
“They just called us,” Rick said. “They’ve requested follow-up meetings with you. What do you want us to say to them?”
I rolled my eyes. “Well, tell them hell yes!”
“You’re going to come back here?” Paul sounded incredulous. “Especially with one of your bosses just getting busted?”
“I’m not a criminal, and I’m not going to act like one. I don’t give a fuck what that moron Downing says, thinks, or does.”
“All right, Brad,” said Rick. “We’ll get on the horn to the SEC and the Committee.”
“Honk it loud,” I said. “But don’t blow it.”
It was the first week of May 2008. I took a deep breath and started packing, but it felt different than preparing for any previous trip. This time I really had no idea when I’d be coming back, if ever. Spring was in full bloom in Geneva; it would be even warmer in the States. A couple of suits? Sure, those would do for now. Polo shirts, slacks, and jeans? Okay. Then I looked around some more in my closet for my favorite parka and chuckled out loud, remembering a line from an old Mafia movie where the hit man, with a big bulge under his jacket, shows up at his victim’s house. “We’re takin’ a little walk. You ain’t gonna need your coat.” I finished up the clothing options quickly, but was much more careful about packing up all my latest UBS evidence and documentation. Then I picked up a forgotten envelope from the table in front of my green leather couch, an invitation to my upcoming high school reunion in the States. I opened it up, thinking about all the years of adventures I’d had since those innocent schoolboy times and wishing things could be that simple again. Then I booked a seat on a late-night flight, one way to Boston, and called my brother Doug in Weymouth.
“I’m coming into Boston tomorrow.”
“What the hell for?” Doug demanded. He’d been carefully tracking all the intrigues going on with my case, and he knew Martin Liechti had just been nabbed.
“High school reunion.”
“Are you out of your mind?!”
I laughed. “No, I’m coming in for more meetings with the Senate and the SEC, and to finish this thing with Downing once and for all. The reunion’s just a side trip.”
Looking around my apartment just before heading out the door, I glanced down at my coffee table in front of the fireplace. A Monopoly board game was on it. I walked over there, opened the box, pulled out the cards from the game, and found it—the Get Out of Jail Free card, with the image of some silly-ass-looking mustachioed dude wearing a top hat. I placed the card in my wallet and walked out.
Just before boarding the plane, I found an airport pay phone and called Haig Simonian. It was too late to find him over at the Financial Times, but by now I had his cell number and he knew my voice. I didn’t have to announce myself as “Tarantula.” I could tell I’d woken him up.
“Evening, Haig. Sorry about the late hour. I’m about to board a flight for the States. Just wanted you to know what’s going on, in case I disappear.”
He sighed and wished me good luck. I think he was worried about losing his “Deep Throat,” the kind of source that comes around only once in a newsman’s career.
It was a long flight, maybe the longest of my relatively young, carefree life. But at least I was in Business Class with plenty of room for my long legs. I had a couple of stiff drinks to little effect and pushed my food away. I knew I wasn’t going to sleep much, so I scrolled through the menu of feature-length movies. I smiled and chose The Fugitive with Harrison Ford.
If you’re Boston-born and raised, flying into Logan always feels good. At dawn the bay glistens blue and silver and you can see the furled sails of that beautiful four-master, the USS Constitution, better known as “Old Ironsides.” The Hancock Tower, cocooned in huge windows and gleaming, jabs majestically up from the skyline, like the Twin Towers once did in New York. I looked down at all that as we circled for a landing, thinking about how this was the place I’d begun my banking career, and the place where I’d probably end it.
I got off the plane, hefted my carry-on, and started heading for Passport Control. There weren’t a lot of other passengers around. A sleepy airline employee at the gate counter didn’t even look at me, until he saw what I saw. Ambush.
I watched as four uniformed ICE agents came striding over from a darkened hallway. I could feel the stares from the few other passengers around me, but I knew by then what was happening and I just nodded and smiled at the government’s hit men.
“Would you come with us, please?” one of them said. It wasn’t a request.
We left the ramp area, one ICE guy leading and the others following. We passed into a separate room, with long rows of empty seats and a lady in a crisp white uniform shirt, sitting at a big desk like a Supreme Court judge, sipping coffee and eyeing me like I might be a kiddie-porn peddler. We kept on going, into something like an interrogation room, where they took my bag, laid it on a long table, and told me to sit down. I did.
One of them put his foot up on a chair, like he’d watched too many episodes of Law and Order. His fingers tapped the butt of his sidearm.
“There’s a warrant for your arrest, Mr. Birkenfeld. Department of Justice.”
“Really?” I said. “I wonder what that’s all about.”
They looked at each other and sneered. Another one leaned over me.
“Are you carrying more than $10,000 in cash on your person?”
“No,” I said. “Credit cards are much lighter.”
He didn’t like that much, so this time he growled it.
“I’ll ask you again. Are you carrying more than $10,000 in cash on your person?”
I cocked my head and gave him my Birkenfeld grin. “Tell me something,” I said. “Is English your first language?”
They hauled me out of my chair, spun me around, and slapped the cuffs on me. Then they threw me into a holding cell.
I missed the high school reunion.
CHAPTER 11
THE TWILIGHT ZONE
“I am shocked—shocked—to find that
gambling is going on in here!”
—CAPTAIN RENAULT, CASABLANCA
I’VE NEVER LIKED FLORIDA all that much.
Not that I have anything against Disney World or Mickey Mouse, and Daytona’s a fine motor speedway, even though it’s not Formula One. Miami can be fun if you like the beaches, bikinis, and Latin nightlife, which I generally do, but it’s not Saint-Tropez or Cancún. So, other than some light entertainment, I’ve always thought of the state as sort of flat, barren, and humid, a place to escape from New England winters when your bones are aching and you’re craving a lounge chair and drinks with pastel umbrellas. If you’re still relatively young, a visit to Florida can be like a bleak peek at your future: lots of sweet old folks with blue hair, moving slowly. God’s waiting room.
But apparently Florida’s a great place to arraign an international tax fraud conspirator, even if his place of US residence is in Boston. And apparently Kevin Downing loved it, because he dragged me all the way to Fort Lauderdale to be harangued by a Southern District of Florida judge. Downing could have chosen Boston, or even New York or Washington, DC, but those venues would have been too convenient for me.
When word reached me from Hector and Moran that I’d have to fly down to Florida, on my own dime, just to be formally bitchslapped, I figured Downing just wanted to make me sweat, which certainly happens the minute you step off a plane in Fort Lauderdale in June. This was a classic case o
f forum shopping.
Maybe most of this is bitter speculation on my part. But the fact is that Kevin Downing decided that Ground Zero for my case proceedings would be as far away from my residence as he could manage, while still remaining on the Eastern Seaboard. That also meant that with every appearance—and there would be many—personnel from Washington would have to be there too. Perhaps the Department of Justice has a secret mileage program, so when they travel all over the place to prosecute tax criminals, using your tax dollars to do so, they rack up free airline trips, hotel stays, and vacations. At any rate, they spend your money like drunken sailors while claiming they’re doing everything they can to save it.
A month had passed since I’d landed in Boston, knowing full well that with Martin Liechti’s detainment I probably wouldn’t make it to curbside. The Customs and Border Protection guys had kept me at the airport for an hour, then stuffed me like a street perp in the back of a patrol car, driven me over to Winthrop, and locked me up for the night in an old New England jail. It wasn’t too bad. I had my own cell and a good book, Five Years to Freedom, an incredible true tale by former US Army Special Forces officer James N. Rowe about his imprisonment in a North Vietnamese bamboo cage for five years. It put things in perspective.
In the morning the sheriffs drove me from the local jail in Winthrop over to the federal courthouse in Boston to face my first judge, a “Judge Judy”-type woman with little patience for government bullshit. Boston judges don’t go much for drama; they’ve seen too much real crime in Southie. Downing wasn’t there, but he had two of his US attorneys on hand, neither of whom ever disclosed to the judge the fact that I’d come to the States to give further testimony. Downing had also pressured Moran, my attorney that day, not to reveal to the judge that I had come forward to volunteer the information on Swiss banks a year earlier. Downing essentially forbade Moran from revealing the truth of why I had returned from Switzerland: to continue my Senate and SEC meetings to singlehandedly expose the largest tax fraud in the history of the United States. Nope. He was just coming in for a high school reunion. So the DOJ force-fed a blatant lie to a federal judge and presented me as a dangerous international criminal who’d fly the coop the first chance I got.
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