“Can you believe this, Mike?” one of the guys asked.
“We’ve hit the fucking heroin lottery!”
We eventually counted forty-six bricks containing a total of 44.6 kilos of heroin, or slightly less than a hundred pounds. Lab tests later determined that they averaged 85 percent purity, which was unheard of at the time. Cutting it three or four times would triple or quadruple its street value.
The DEA later placed a street value of $180 million on it, and we had gotten the heroin without spending a dime of government money. It seemed unbelievable.
Then it dawned on me that we’d better lock the heroin away quickly. So we packed the bricks in the trunk of our car and raced back to our FBI office, arriving at 6 AM. The secure evidence vault wasn’t going to open until the start of regular FBI working hours, 8:15 AM.
We piled the bricks on a long metal dolly and waited in the Squad #3 work area. The only way I could think of to secure the heroin before the vault opened was to climb on top of the bricks and sit on them.
I was half asleep when the first person entered the office. It was the leader of the other Drug Squad—Squad #2—a tough, competent Supervisory Special Agent with twenty-five-plus years of experience. When he saw us sitting on the bricks of heroin wrapped in plastic, he froze as though struck by lightning.
“Is that what I think it is?” he stammered.
“Yup.”
“Coke or heroin?”
“It’s heroin. Forty-six kilos.”
“Holy shit!”
More Special Agents arrived. Word of the seizure spread like wildfire through the office. Someone called FBIHQ in Washington and news of the haul circulated there as well.
People I barely knew surrounded me, patted me on the back, and congratulated me. I’d become the most popular guy in the office in an instant. The only thing I wanted to do was lock the heroin into the evidence room, and go home to see my wife and kids, who I’d practically ignored for the past year, and sleep.
Weeks later, as the excitement of the seizure continued, I learned that the Assistant Director of the Criminal Investigation Division—the number-three official in the FBI hierarchy—was on his way from Washington to hold a press conference. It dawned on me that only days earlier, this official and most of the other people congratulating me, didn’t know my name. Suddenly, a mere five years into my career, I’d become the FBI’s “Golden Boy”—FBI-speak for an Agent who can do no wrong.
It felt good, but there was still a lot of investigative work to do. In order to make arrests we had to attach bodies to the drugs. Fortunately, the internet was in its infancy as was twenty-four-hour cable TV news channels. So news of the seizure didn’t reach Malik and Khawaja in Pakistan. Our goal now was to lock them up.
The lure was the millions of dollars in cash owed to Malik from the supposed sale of the heroin in the United States. During a conversation between Malik and Paz on October 27, Malik proposed that Paz travel to Hong Kong to deliver the first payment of $2 million to his nephew Khawaja. Through Paz, we tried to convince Malik to travel to Hong Kong with his nephew.
In ’92, Hong Kong was still a British colony and subject to U.S.-UK extradition agreements. Since the transfer of sovereignty to the Chinese People’s Republic was scheduled to take place in a few years, our liaisons were both British police who spoke Chinese and People’s Republic of China police who spoke some English.
Other than the Canadian cops, I’d never really worked with foreign law enforcement counterparts before, and didn’t know what to expect when Lee, another Agent, and I arrived in densely populated Hong Kong. I soon learned that cops are cops no matter where they work. Both the British and Chinese police were very warm hosts, complete ballbusters (in foreign languages), and wined and dined us nonstop, as we continued to try to convince Malik to leave Karachi with Khawaja and meet us in Hong Kong.
Since my tastes in food are pretty basic, I avoided the more exotic dishes. At one buffet dinner, I thought I was eating a chicken dish, only to learn that it was really pigeon. No thanks.
During another evening escapade that involved the consumption of copious adult beverages, a group of very happy UK and Chinese officers helped me into a car and took off like maniacs into the countryside. They seemed to be enjoying themselves enormously. I, meanwhile, had no idea where we were going or what they were up to.
After forty minutes of winding through the dark countryside, we pulled up to a decrepit saloon/club in the middle of nowhere where my foreign hosts were greeted like regulars. One of the Chinese cops introduced me to a woman of about seventy with two missing front teeth. She bowed and I nodded politely as the cop and woman jabbered back and forth in Chinese. Before I knew what was happening, the elderly woman took me firmly by the hand and was leading me to a backroom.
That’s when a British cop stopped me and explained that the old woman was a very experienced prostitute who was prepared to grant me three carnal wishes.
“Thanks,” I said, turning back, “but I’m fine.”
One of the Chinese policemen told me that I didn’t know what I was missing and that the old woman’s missing front teeth only enhanced her “skills.”
“That’s okay. I don’t mean to insult her or her skills. But I think I’ll pass.”
Minutes later another prostitute joined us at our table and asked for my business card to keep as “a memory.” A strange request, I thought, in our current setting and one I politely declined. It’s not that I’m a prude; I just didn’t think it was smart to leave an FBI calling card as a memento in a whorehouse—although I did see many business cards from customers from all over the world, including Dallas, Texas.
As we left my police hosts explained that we had driven into Communist China. They found great amusement at my shocked reaction. Now I was really glad that I hadn’t accepted the three carnal wishes from the elderly woman. Imagine the reaction if I had and the news got back to FBIHQ.
Let’s see if we got this right.… While on official business you took a detour into Communist China to have sexual relations with a toothless, seventy-year-old woman?
Lee, the third FBI Agent, and I remained in Hong Kong for a week, hoping that Malik would join us and we could arrest him. But the canny drug trafficker didn’t budge. Nor did he respond positively to other entreaties to meet in London or other locations around the world.
Finally, in January 1993, four months after the heroin seizure, Malik and Khawaja were arrested by Pakistani law enforcement. During the last recorded call between Paz and Malik, we directed Malik to a location in Karachi where the Pakistani authorities were waiting for him.
Because of the extradition process, I knew it could take months before we had Malik and Khawaja in U.S. custody. Still, I was enormously pleased. My team and I had arrested one of the world’s leading heroin traffickers and had seized an enormous amount of heroin valued at $180 million at no cost. In fact, it had been the largest heroin seizure in Philadelphia history, and the eighth largest in the world at that time.
After only five years in, I was feeling very good about my choice to join the FBI. Little did I know that a little more than one year later, my promising FBI career would suddenly become a real-life nightmare, all because of the prized, seized heroin.
8
BETRAYAL
In January 1994, I slapped the handcuffs on Malik and Khawaja when they were extradited to the United States, and successfully concluded the UCO that had drawn the two Pakistani drug traffickers out of the shadows. Now began the long, tedious process of preparing the case for trial with my buddy Assistant U.S. Attorney Shane Thomas. January 1994 was also the last time I drove Paz back to jail, and said good-bye to the informant with a curt, “Next time I see you will be in court.” As usual, he scowled and started ranting about the terrible way he was being treated.
Without a doubt, Paz had played a critical part in the UCO that had nabbed the Pakistani drug traffickers. He’d also been a royal pain in the ass all the wa
y through. He’d cooperated with us for only one reason—to save his skinny ass—because he was facing a life sentence for trafficking 320 kilos of cocaine soon after he had been released from federal prison on another drug-trafficking charge, and was looking for a break from the judge. True to our word, we filed a Section 5K1.1 form with the court in accordance with the U.S. Sentencing Guidelines. It stated that Paz had provided substantial assistance in the investigation of another person.
This allowed the judge to reduce Paz’s overall sentence, which in Paz’s case had a mandatory minimum of no less than twenty years and a maximum of life.
On the day of his sentencing in early ’94, I sat with AUSA Thomas waiting for the judge to arrive. I observed a pretty Hispanic woman entering the nearly empty courtroom in the company of two well-dressed children and sitting in the back row.
“That’s Paz’s wife,” whispered Thomas.
“Good-looking woman,” I responded. “What she’s doing with the garment bag?”
“Beats me.”
We watched the marshal walk over to her and overheard him say, “Ma’am, you can’t come into the court with this.”
“No,” Paz’s wife replied, “I’m the defendant’s wife. This is his suit.”
The marshal unzipped the bag. Inside was a very fashionable suit, shirt, and tie. The suit alone looked like it cost $1,000. It signaled to me that in Paz’s sick mind, he thought he was going to be released that day.
Thomas shook his head and whispered, “Arrogant little fuck.”
“Typical Paz,” I responded.
Minutes later Paz entered the court as cocky as ever in the company of two armed marshals and wearing an orange prison jumpsuit. After surveying the room, he winked at his wife, waved a big hello to his children, and smirked toward the government table to remind us that he was the smartest guy in the room.
Speaking through a court translator, he introduced his wife and children. Then, puffing his chest out like a self-proclaimed hero, he explained to the judge how because of his hard work and ingenuity the FBI had made an important international case. True to form, he expressed no remorse over the crime he had committed, nor did he display a drop of humility. At the end, he seemed to be waiting for the occupants of the courtroom to jump to their feet and applaud.
Instead the sentencing judge—a known ballbuster—looked at him stone-faced. I thought I detected smoke emanating from his ears. Following court practice, the judge announced Paz’s sentence in months—234. I quickly did the math in my head. It came out to nineteen and a half years, six months below the maximum minimum sentence.
I saw Paz’s attorney lean toward his client and relay the bad news, and Paz’s face turn a deep shade of red. He puffed out his cheeks like a blowfish and stared at the judge in disbelief.
I disliked Paz immensely, but felt a little bad for him. On reflection, the judge’s sentence was totally justified. Paz hadn’t learned a thing from his first stint in federal prison and had immediately returned to drug trafficking when released. That was the last time I ever saw him.
At the start of 1994, I was feeling good about my life and career. Having just wrapped up a major international heroin case, I was now considered one of the more successful Case Agents in the Philadelphia office. I was having a blast on SWAT. Waiting for me at home every night was a wonderful wife and three healthy kids. Then my perfect world exploded.
A few months later in April, as I was preparing for Khawaja’s and Malik’s trials, I learned that the 44.6 kilos of the seized Pakistani heroin had been stolen from the FBI evidence vault and replaced with baking powder. In addition, 11 kilos of cocaine from the Eastload investigation had also gone missing. The combined value of the two missing drug loads exceeded $200 million, and I was considered the chief suspect.
In the blink of an eye, I went from FBI “Golden Boy” to “Public Enemy #1.” The whole thing was incomprehensible, and the pressure almost unbearable—as though my head had been placed in a vise and was slowly being squeezed tighter with every second that passed.
The SAC had instructed me not to tell anyone—including my Squad mates and wife. I was scared to death and didn’t have anyone to turn to for advice. I briefly thought of hiring an attorney, but decided against it, one, because I knew I was innocent; and, two, because I couldn’t afford one.
Adding to my distress was the fact that nearly everyone in the office knew about the heroin theft and thought I was guilty. Most of my Squad mates and friends on SWAT stood by me, but Executive Management in particular treated me like I was scum. I understood that since I had access to the evidence vault and as the Case Agent was officially authorized to review and handle the heroin evidence at any time, it made logical sense to consider me a suspect. What I couldn’t understand was how quickly colleagues and FBI brass turned against me.
I expected that they more than anyone would respect my integrity and appreciate all the long hours I had put in and risks I had taken.
But the cold, hard reality was that they didn’t. Nor did they make any effort to hide their negative judgments of my character—judgments that were clearly spelled out on their faces every time I encountered one of them in the office and heard their whispered asides when I walked into a room.
Because I couldn’t explain my situation without risking being called on the carpet for insubordination, I kept my feelings to myself. The best I could do when someone looked at me funny was respond with a sharp, “What the fuck are you looking at?”
Probably the hardest thing I had to do was officially inform the federal prosecutor in the case and my close friend Shane Thomas about the heroin theft. Shane seemed suitably shocked. Then, I had to look him in the eye, tell him I was the main suspect, and swear to him that I didn’t do it.
“Of course not, Mike,” he answered. “That goes unsaid.”
The next time I was summoned to the SAC’s office, he informed me that the FBI was obligated to notify the U.S. Attorney’s Office about the heroin theft, and they would pass that information on to both the court and the defendants. Malik’s attorney had previously indicated that his client was going to plead guilty. Now his plea would likely change.
I felt mortified. It seemed that with every passing second all our hard work and my whole career was slipping further down the drain.
My mind raced every second of every day with fears of my future incarceration and how it would affect my family. Sleep was impossible and concentration on work was extremely difficult. Still, I had to report to the office every day where I endured more whispers, suspicious looks, and other forms of humiliation, and waited for the walls to close in on me and crush me to death.
I thought about going to The Colonel, and asking, “What the fuck am I supposed to do?”
But even that could have been construed as a form of insubordination. So I walked around like a zombie and waited to be arrested. My only solace was knowing that I didn’t steal the heroin, which I told myself a hundred times a day, sometimes out loud, which drew more stares.
The only way I had to let off stream was to go to the gym and work out like a madman, which I did whenever I could. I briefly considered drinking to ease the anxiety, but decided against it because I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to stop and didn’t want to subject my family to the same torment my father had inflicted on me, my siblings, and my mother.
Rumors about me swirled around the office. A week after being informed about the investigation, one of the secretaries told me that the FBI was planning to search my house. They were going to do it when I wasn’t there, but my wife and kids were home.
I thought of telling my wife: If the FBI knocks on the door, tell them to go fuck themselves.
I decided not to. Given her negative attitude toward the FBI and blunt style, I figured she would probably do that anyway, should it happen.
I spent more time at home, fixing shutters and doing the kinds of odd jobs around the house that I had ignored for years. My wife looked worried. Several
times, she asked, “What’s up?”
“Nothing,” was my answer.
We both knew it was a lie, but I was sticking to the deal we had made while I was a cop.
One evening, I was home mowing the back lawn for the fifth time that week. Around 6:30 I walked inside and saw that my pager had gone off and was displaying the main number of the Philadelphia office.
I called and the operator put me through to the SAC.
“Boss,” I said, “it’s McGowan.”
“McGowan, we need to interview you.”
“Tomorrow morning?” I asked.
“No. Get your ass in here now.”
I showered and dressed, and as I came down the steps, a voice in my head said: Go kiss your wife and kids in case they lock you up.
I found Russell, Michael, and Paige outside playing with their friends, hugged each of them, and told them I loved them. They looked at me funny and went right back to playing with their bikes and wrestling. I turned and saw Sam standing behind the screen door watching. With the huge lump in my throat I kissed her on the forehead, and we exchanged a look that acknowledged that whatever was about to happen could change our lives forever.
Then I got in my car and started driving like a wild man. Flying over the Ben Franklin Bridge into Pennsylvania, I looked at the speedometer and saw that I was pushing ninety. I said to myself, You’re going to get into an accident and then everyone is going to think you killed yourself because you were guilty. Is that what you want your children to remember?
Upon reaching the office, the SAC sent me directly to the interview room. I’d heard before that two guys from Executive Management were running the initial investigation. Because they were paper pushers and not seasoned street Agents, I feared they wouldn’t know what they were doing. I didn’t want to end up like other people who had been arrested and sent to jail for crimes they hadn’t committed.
When I entered the interview room, I instead saw two seasoned street Agents, Bill Courtney and Steve Allen. I didn’t know them personally, but was aware of their stellar reputations. Both had formerly served in the NYC office as Case Agents and had twenty years of experience.
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