Ghost (14 page)

fifteen

LITTLE ITALY

Not long after my return to Foggy Bottom, Mr. Dittmer calls up the CT office as reinforcements for the protective security details in New York. As if chasing terrorists and trying to find hostages isn’t enough for us, now we’ve got to pull dignitary duty as well.

Actually, it turns out to be kind of fun. We set up shop in a midtown hotel and take turns racing around Manhattan in our Ford Crown Victorias and Jeep Wagoneers, covering convoys of foreign diplomats who’ve come for the UN General Assembly meetings. We carry Uzis, get to use our earpieces, and hassle irritable New Yorkers as we weave around traffic jams. In the past few days, I can’t even tell you how many times we’ve received the finger from some expletive-spewing Manhattan driver.

When we protect motorcades, we run with a lead car and a trail car, five agents to a Jeep, four to a Crown Vic. The agent riding in the front passenger seat of the lead car scans the road ahead. Both he and his driver carry Smith & Wesson Model 19 revolvers, tucked away in shoulder holsters for easy access. We’ve learned not to wear hip holsters when pulling this sort of duty. Between the confined spaces and the seat belt, it takes too long to draw our hand cannons that way.

In the backseats, two agents cover the sides with Uzis and shotguns. They keep their windows rolled down and their weapons hidden by their doors so average citizens cannot see them. That way, if a gunfight erupts, they’ll be ready to engage in a split second.

The Jeeps also have a tail stinger. Where most Americans would put groceries in their Wagoneers, we have an extra jump seat. The fifth agent is stationed there, Uzi at the ready, covering the rear.

The lead car, usually a Crown Vic, is the motorcade equivalent of a fullback. It runs interference for the rest of the formation, its driver prepared to swing out left or right and block any incoming vehicular threat. The follow car, usually one of the Jeeps, needs to be heavy and powerful. It is our blunt defensive instrument in case the motorcade comes under serious attack. The driver’s job is to deflect any incoming threats, ramming them if necessary.

Foggy Bottom assigns me to protect Giulio Andreotti, Italy’s foreign minister. We worked up a profile on him prior to his arrival and discovered some disconcerting facts about the guy. Andreotti is one of the doyens of the post–World War II Italian democracy, which means he’s been a power broker and cabinet member in some capacity in dozens of governments since the 1950s. In his thirty-plus-year career, he’s made plenty of enemies and seems to have had the temerity to off a few.

For the past year, there has been increasing speculation that Andreotti had a hand in murdering Michele “the Shark” Sindona, an Italian banker and heroin trafficker. Somebody poisoned Sindona’s coffee while he was serving a life term in prison for murdering a lawyer.

Giulio Andreotti apparently doesn’t like journalists any more than Mob bankers. In 1979, a reporter named Carmine “Mino” Pecorelli started investigating Andreotti’s Mafia connections. For his efforts, he was assassinated by a hit team in Rome. Exactly who was responsible has never been made clear, but there seems to have been some involvement from a criminal right-wing syndicate known as the Branda della Magliana.

What does this all mean—besides the fact that Italian politics are obviously a lot more interesting than ours? Well, for those who have to guard him, it means potential trouble. Andreotti is a big target, and lots of irate Italians want him gone. He apparently doesn’t mind playing hardball in return, which only made his enemies list grow. Guarding this guy could be the most dangerous thing I do as a DSS agent.

I spend a sleepless night in my midtown hotel room, reading and rereading the file my fellow agents have worked up on Andreotti. He’s a powerful man with a long reach, and many, many friends in the United States—not to mention a few enemies here. We’ll have to take special precautions wherever we go with him. Before dawn, I write down a laundry list of extra security procedures we’ll need. Some will require the help of the New York Police Department.

The next day, I begin my shift with the Italian foreign minister. He’s in town for the UN General Assembly meeting, but he also has some associates he needs to meet. He tells us he wants to dine at a swanky restaurant in Little Italy. Fine. We send over an advance agent to conduct a site recon and check the place out.

The advance agent reaches the restaurant, only to find it closed. The entire street is deserted and no cars are parked anywhere on the block around the eatery. Something does not seem right.

I decide we need to do an EOD sweep. These are the NYPD bomb squad guys—EOD stands for Explosive Ordnance Disposal. I’ve had them on call all day for just such a scenario. We launch them, but while they’re en route, the advance agent makes contact with the restaurant’s owner. He’s an Italian American with a thick accent and a bad disposition. He tells our agent on the scene that there’s nothing to worry about, he has ensured that his restaurant is secure. He tells our agent that everything’s already been taken care of in preparation for the foreign minister’s arrival.

We can’t trust that.

We send in the EOD team as soon as they arrive. As they check for bombs, we scour the place for weapons. Nothing. The place is clean.

Meanwhile, I climb behind the wheel of one of our black Crown Victorias. I’ll have the lead car for this motorcade. Ahead of my ride is an unmarked NYPD intel car with four plainclothes detectives inside. Their job is to scout the road ahead, finding the best route to our destination.

We hit Little Italy right on schedule. As soon as we reach the restaurant’s general neighborhood, we encounter hardly a single moving vehicle. All the shops are closed. Nobody is on the sidewalks. Only a few parked cars line the streets.

We press on as my eyes roam from the street ahead to the buildings on either side of the road. I scan the doorways, windows, and balconies, praying I won’t see an assassin or a sniper team. Every nerve is jangling. I feel raw and adrenaline-rushed. The Smith & Wesson’s weight against my side feels reassuring. Of course, if I end up having to use it, it’ll mean we’re in last-stand mode. The driver’s job is to drive, not shoot. He only pulls his piece as a last resort.

I wonder if this is how Custer felt riding into that box canyon in Montana. Instead of Sioux warriors, we’re driving headlong into a manmade canyon of shops and apartments, surrounded by Italians. Though I can’t see anyone, I sense we’re being watched. There are eyes out there in the night, tracking our every move.

I key my radio and call our advance agent. “Five minutes out.”

The agent replies, “Roger. Site clear. We’ll meet you curbside.”

We make a final turn and reach our destination. Limousines are parallel parked all up and down the avenue. I notice some of the limos have New Jersey plates. It looks like we’re going to a millionaires’ club meeting.

Andreotti’s limo finds a parking space and slips into it. We burst out of our rigs and quickly prepare for the foreign minister’s arrival. Near the entrance to the restaurant, I spot several oversized men. Hired muscle. They all look like Luca Brasi on steroids.

Andreotti slips from the rear of the limo and hits the curb. We escort him into the restaurant. The place is empty, save for a single rectangular table in the back occupied by a dozen or so men. Baskets of bread sit on the starched white linen tablecloth between bottles of Chianti. At the head of the table sits an elderly gentleman in dapper attire, whom the others treat with deference. He smiles. They smile. He frowns. They frown. They’re speaking Italian, which I can’t understand. I take a long look at the old man, trying not to be too obvious about it. I recognize him from somewhere, but I can’t place his name.

As the foreign minister steps to the table, the men welcome him with obvious affection and friendship. He sits down with them and is soon immersed in the flow of the conversation. I stand nearby, keeping my head on a swivel until a waiter comes over and asks me to follow him. He leads me to a table prepared for us out in front of the restaurant. We’ll be dining outside while business is conducted within. He gestures for me to have a seat.

I take it. I’m sitting only a few feet from the limo, an interesting place to have dinner. Glancing up the street, I see a van parked at the end of the next block. There’s no mistaking it: It’s an FBI vehicle. I’ve seen them in the Bureau’s motorpools in New York and in D.C.

I wonder how many FBI special surveillance groups (SSGs) are out there in the evening, watching every move we’re making. I’m probably being filmed right now by one, quite possibly from that van. The FBI’s just doing their job—keeping an eye on the Mafia. But I’m doing mine—guarding a Mob don. Feds spying on feds. What would the taxpayers say?

This would be a perfect setting for a hit. There are some very powerful people in the room tonight who have made their share of enemies over the years, just like Andreotti. The threats are out there. And with all these figures in one place, under one roof, it would be an assassin’s dream. They could scrub out some key members of New York’s underworld in one job and nail the foreign minister as extra credit.

If I have to die in the line of duty, so be it. But I’d just as soon not die protecting La Cosa Nostra.

From my vantage point up front, I keep tabs on everything out on the street. For whatever reason, hardly a soul appears on either sidewalk. The place is like a ghost town. Well, that just gives the FBI cameras an unobstructed view of us DSS agents. What a goat rope. Visiting dignitaries and diplomats require protection. That’s the DSS’s job. What I didn’t count on was this: What if we are hosting a criminal in a suit? We guard them anyway, just like tonight. Their diplomatic status gives them that right, just like if Fidel Castro came to town—or Mikhail Gorbachev. We guard our enemies as zealously as our friends to ensure they do not suffer harm while visiting our nation.

I feel slightly sick inside. When the moment of truth came, would I throw myself in front of the foreign minister to save him from an assassin’s bullet? That is my duty. I would have no other choice.

I wouldn’t do it for Andreotti. No, from what I’ve seen here tonight, the Mob ties are real. But I would do it for the service—for the DSS. Failing to do our duty would dishonor our badge and forever smear our hard-won stellar reputation. If it came to that, it would be black and white after all. I’d do whatever I had to in order to protect the integrity of my fellow agents. That would be worth the bullet.

Before long, the waiter brings us food—lots and lots of food.

The meal is an extended affair with plenty of courses. We dig in. Soon we’re all stuffed. The entire scene could have been lifted straight from a Mario Puzo novel.

I turn to one of the NYPD detectives, who is sitting next to me. “This could be an outtake from
The Godfather.
”

The detective grunts, “Let’s hope not. We’re in for a shit storm if that’s the case.”

True. These sorts of meetings never end well in Mob films. Somebody always ends up feeding the fishes.

Finally, the meeting breaks up. I really wish I spoke Italian. I’m sure I would have heard plenty of things that could be used to indict everyone in the room. Or maybe not. They’re probably not that careless; after all, feds are feds, even when they’re watching one another.

Atlantic City is next on the agenda. The foreign minister is scheduled to fly over to the Trump Castle Casino. Andreotti climbs back into his limo. We scramble for our faux-wood-sided Wagoneer and jet-black Crown Vic. As we speed out of the neighborhood, I glance in the rearview mirror. Only blocks behind us, the scene takes on an altogether different character. Cars fill the street again. People suddenly appear on the sidewalk. Lights go on and businesses are opened. Life in Little Italy returns to normal.

How does an entire community get word to lie low? That’s one dialed-in neighborhood.

We stop at a midtown helicopter port. Waiting for us is Donald Trump’s personal Sikorsky Sea King. One of the other agents on this detail leans into me and whispers, “It used to serve as Marine One. That helicopter flew presidents around.”

I climb aboard, along with Andreotti’s personal bodyguard. With a pilot and copilot, there will only be five of us on this flight. I move to the back of the helicopter and marvel at its luxuries. The seats are leather, and each one has a telephone. A wet bar dominates one corner. I’m suddenly in a toy right out of
Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous.
I feel underdressed. I should have brought a larger gun.

With Andreotti aboard, the helicopter lifts off into the New York evening. The pilots take us on a skyscraper-hopping tour of downtown Manhattan. The skyline’s beauty leaves me breathless as we weave in and out of the city’s major landmarks. We make a complete 360 around the World Trade Center from about fiftieth-floor level. I have to strain to look up and see the top of those awesome silver monoliths. There is nothing more impressive than the Twin Towers on a clear night. They become bright beacons of power, symbols of American economic might. It is hard not to feel a swell of pride as the pilots give our Italian guest an aerial tour of the greatest city on the planet.

When we turn for the Jersey shore, I use that newest of modern conveniences—a cellular phone—to call our detail in Atlantic City. They’re ready and waiting for the foreign minister’s arrival.

We touch down at Trump Castle’s helipad. Our agents pick up Andreotti as soon as he descends from the Sikorsky. He leads them down to the casino floor, where he spends the rest of the night gambling.

I spend the rest of my night in the casino’s ultramodern security center. Trump’s chief of security is a knowledgeable and intelligent man, and he walks me through all the safeguards within the facility. It is the most sophisticated setup I’ve ever seen. There are an impressive number of cameras, and the display terminals make the security center look like a miniature version of NORAD’s headquarters in Cheyenne Mountain. Everyone and everything is under constant surveillance. If you are inside Trump’s casino, Big Brother is always watching.