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  The most successful federal law enforcement agency ever, the Federal Bureau of Narcotics was populated by some of the most amazing characters in American history …

  The Strength of the Wolf

  The Secret History of America’s War on Drugs

  by Douglas Valentine

  Publisher’s Disclaimer

  These memoirs are based on the author’s best recollections of events in his life. Where indicated, the names and characteristics of some people have been changed in order to protect their privacy and identities. In some instances the author has recreated dialogue according to his best recollections and rearranged the details of events and chronologies in order to facilitate the narrative. Except in such instances the author has stated to the publisher that the contents of this book are true.

  PREFACE

  In 1930 the Federal Bureau of Narcotics was created primarily as an overseas intelligence operation with its agents often posing as CIA officials. It tracked the Sicilian Mafia who converted morphine into heroin then smuggled it in to New York City. The Bureau understood the magnitude of this evil, global plague of violence and death. However, it had less than three hundred agents worldwide to fight against the well-financed and well-organized Mafia that controlled the illicit drug trade with ruthless efficiency.

  The Bureau’s New York City operation was at the epicenter. Its headquarters was at 90 Church, an old post office in lower Manhattan. Only thirty agents were charged with the responsibility of making cases against organized crime. The bizarre and cunning way that they fought the Mafia to a standstill made them legendary. In 1968, at the most crucial point in its history, the Bureau was terminated. Two years later the Federal Drug Administration was formed with over four thousand five hundred agents but by then it was too late, the war on drugs was lost.

  I was an undercover agent at 90 Church. I bought heroin, an absurd and dangerous job. I participated in many cases and had firsthand knowledge of others; however, this book is not just about my experiences. Nor is it an attempt to re-write history or lay blame or bestow glory, but simply to tell what it was like to work in an environment of desperation and madness.

  To understand the agent’s moral dilemma I have written a personal narrative. Because of the sensitivity of such activities, some of the events described in this book, including sequences, locations and other details, although inspired by real cases, have been changed. It has also been necessary to protect the identity of some of my fellow agents by changing their names and other identifying characteristics.

  CHAPTER ONE

  THE ROOKIE

  DAY ONE

  As far back as I can remember I had always wanted to be an FBI agent. I had never met an agent or a criminal, or even anyone who was victimized by a serious crime. But, like so many other things in my life that I could not explain, I just wanted to fight for truth, justice and the American way. This was Superman’s creed from the opening of his TV show. It was such a silly combination of words that I was embarrassed to repeat them, but that was how I felt.

  The FBI rejected me at the first interview. The two agents wore blue suits and had the same short haircut. They asked me questions like how much did I love my country and did I know people who were un-American? I answered as best I could. One of them referred me to a small agency that I had never heard of, the Federal Bureau of Narcotics. He said, “Their standards are very different.” And after two short interviews they hired me. The two agents at the Federal Bureau of Narcotics were strange. One was wearing a T-shirt and the other was overweight. Talking to them was like meeting someone at a bar, friendly, saying whatever comes into your mind.

  Only two months earlier I had moved from Ohio. I knew nothing about New York City. At about 5:00 on that drizzly morning in August 1964, I left my wife Daisy and my one-year-old son Mark sleeping and started walking to Manhattan to join the Federal Bureau of Narcotics. I was wearing a new gray suit, new spit-polished wing-tipped shoes, and was carrying a heavy briefcase filled with law books and manuals on self-defense. It never occurred to me that such a long walk might be a bad idea. The streets were wet and the buildings looked like abandoned sets from a black-and-white movie.

  About six blocks from the Williamsburg Bridge, my right heel began to blister, and I started to limp. Suddenly I saw headlights charging directly toward me. A black Cadillac convertible was trying to run me down, swerving a few feet before it would have flattened me. I couldn’t see the driver but I knew he did it on purpose. The car splashed through a large puddle, throwing muddy water on me from my chest to my ankles. I looked at my reflection in a store window. The suit looked wet but undamaged so I continued, limping from my blistered foot a little more with each step.

  I tried to forget about the incident and was swinging my briefcase in cadence with my limp when the plastic handle snapped; it went sliding into the muddy street. It was too wide to carry with one hand, so I held it against my chest. Now limping badly and hugging my briefcase, I walked across the bridge with the hot, early morning traffic into Manhattan.

  It was about 8:30 when I finally arrived at 90 Church Street. The Federal Bureau of Narcotics was on the top floor of an old post office, not far from Wall Street. Exhausted and sweating, I stopped at a coffee shop and sat at the counter. The waitress waved at her nose. “Gee, honey, I think you stepped in something.”

  In the men’s room I looked in the mirror. My face and hands were dirty, and there was a black streak from my shoulder to my waist from carrying the muddy briefcase. My new suit looked like wrinkled pajamas. Blood from my blistered heel seeped through my sock, soaking the back of my shoe. Worst of all, now I remembered seeing a small mound in the puddle just before the Cadillac splashed me, which is why I smelled like dog shit. I washed my hands and face, tried to clean my shirt, but it didn’t make much difference, everything just smeared. I looked like a dirty homeless bum and there was nothing I could do about it.

  I was fifteen minutes late. Orientation had already begun. The receptionist ushered me into the office of George Blanker, Agent in Charge. He looked like the FBI agents who had rejected me, except his eyes were bloodshot, like my uncle who everyone said drank too much. There were two other new agents already sitting on the office couch. I squeezed in between them. In a condescending voice, Blanker was explaining what a dangerous job it was to be a federal narcotics agent, “We are soldiers on the front line in a war, out-manned and out-gunned. We are the only hope for saving America from a fate worse than any disease.” The blue spider-web veins in his face glowed like a road map as he talked. “Drugs are the greatest threat to mankind, in the history of mankind, and it is up to us to save our country, us – just a handful of agents! Just fink of it!” His face swelled red with anger as he slurred, “Fink of it! Just fink of it! Only us to save America.” He sprayed tiny balls of saliva as he pointed to the American flag. “Fink of it!” The three of us sat in a row, nodding, enduring the “Finking” spit shower. He retrea
ted behind his desk, exhausted.

  Then with new enthusiasm he flipped the switch of a tape recorder. From the sound of a dial tone we knew it was from a wiretap. At first the voices spoke in Italian, then, “We’re in America now, we should speak English. It’s good practice.” There was a soft chuckle. Blanker told us that it was a major Mafia leader. “Come to New York. I know we’ve talked about this before, but it’s great here. The whores, the numbers, the rackets, the unions, it’s wide open, it’s America. In New York we don’t fight, we work together. You have nothing to fear here, nothing to worry about. The police, they’ll steal a hot stove, don’t worry about them; just give them a little something. The FBI, the FBI are kids. They go home at five o’clock. They have nice suits, but they don’t know what they’re doing. You only have one thing to worry about: 90 Church. They are evil. They will fuck your wife. They will steal your mistress. They will take your money. They will lie in court. You never know who they are, but worse, you never know who they’ve got. If they get you, they will turn you into a rat. If they want you dead, they won’t kill you; they’ll make your best friend do it. They have no soul. Their slaves are everywhere, fucking and ratting on people. The agents of 90 Church are the most dangerous, evil people on the face of the earth.”

  Blanker turned the recorder off and smiled with pride.

  “I am proud of our guys. I am proud of this office. This is how we are feared by the dopers and the Mafia. You are joining a brave band of Americans and I wish you luck.” Blanker waved us out. No one said a word.

  We sat in the lobby for about a half hour, waiting to be told what to do next. I discovered a new problem; the hem of my right pant leg had unraveled and draped over my foot, completely covering my shoe. As I wondered how I was going to fix it, a senior agent greeted us and said that our first phase of training would be the pistol range. After pulling on his nose he said to me, “We will issue you a gun, which should be carried on your belt. You’re not wearing a belt. Why don’t you go and buy yourself one?”

  I had only ten minutes to get to the firing range in the basement. I left the office, found a men’s shop, grabbed a belt off the rack and paid for it. I limped back carrying it in one hand and holding my pant leg up with the other. Again I was late.

  By the time I had convinced the security guard to clear me into the range, the other agents had received a revolver. The Range Master gave me a gray snub-nosed revolver in a holster. While everyone watched, I tried to put the belt on; it was too small. I pulled it across my waist to the first hole. It squeezed me like the end of a sausage. The holster and gun stuck out in front of my stomach. I could hardly breathe. I tried to hold my pant leg up, but the torn hem still covered my shoe and I kept stepping on it. I smelled like dog shit and was hobbling and sweating like a dirty, horribly wounded animal. I looked at my instructors, my fellow agents, and saw the disgust in their eyes. I hated myself.

  That afternoon I was assigned to Group Two with two other new agents, Del Ridley and Jerry Ramirez. Our group had ten agents and the group leader was Agent Pike, a huge, fat, smiling German with big hands and crooked yellow teeth. Del and Jerry were each assigned a senior partner and given a desk, but Agent Pike said there were no senior partners available for me. He led me to a small table with a straight chair in the corner, away from everyone. I saw him go back into his office and talk to his secretary. He waved his hand in front of his nose as he talked to her.

  Just when I thought things couldn’t get any worse, Blanker’s secretary brought in a large basket of fruit wrapped in red cellophane with a big sign, Happy First Day. “This has to be for you,” she said. Then she placed it on the table in front of me and walked out shaking her head. My wife, Daisy, meant well. I looked over the red shiny wrapping, hoping somehow that no one had noticed this spectacle, but of course everyone had. They smirked at each other. Finally, Group Leader Pike came over to my table and told me to go home. I took the awful red basket and threw it in a trash barrel. The subway home took less than a half hour. Even strangers avoided me, preferring to stand rather than sit next to me.

  Daisy was outside with my son Mark and saw me limping down the street, holding my pant leg up. “My God, what happened to you?”

  I could not begin to explain. Daisy and I had only been married for two years, but had been together all through high school and college. We acted together in school plays and toured with a theatre group during the summer. She was my best friend, but now she couldn’t do or say anything to help me. My greatest ambition in life – to fight for truth, justice and the American way – was over before it had even begun.

  GROUP LEADER PIKE

  The next morning I was on time. Pike and his secretary were the only ones there. Occasionally agents would come in briefly but ignored me. For hours I sat alone then finally Agent Pike came over to me. “At one o’clock let’s you and I sit down with Agent George Blanker.” I knew I was going to be fired. “Gee, um, did they issue you a gun yesterday?”

  “Yes” I replied, trying to hide my disappointment.

  He waved his big hand. “Well, can I have it? We just have to be sure it’s registered, you know.” I took my belt off and gave him the gun and holster. “Let’s meet with George at one o’clock. Why don’t you go to lunch now?”

  The agents had come in and left with their partners. Everyone ignored me. I sat at my desk alone until finally at 1:00 Pike said, “Okay let’s go have our little talk with George.” I followed him through the halls to Blanker’s office, like a bad student going to see the principal.

  We waited outside Blanker’s office, but I could see through the open door. Blanker was behind his desk, trying to calm two agitated men in wrinkled suits. Blanker called out to his secretary, “Is Agent Pike here yet?”

  “Yes,” she replied.

  “Send him in.”

  I knew what was coming, but instead Blanker looked at me then said to Pike, “Who’s this?” as if he had never seen me before. Before I could speak, he smiled, and said, “Would you please wait outside?” I returned to my seat outside his office.

  I could still hear Blanker continue with the two angry men. “This is Agent Pike. He drives a government vehicle, a black Cadillac convertible.” He read off a string of numbers. There was silence. Then one of the men said, “Were you at One Hundred Forty-Fifth Street and Lenox at about four-thirty a.m. Monday morning?”

  Pike answered, “Yeah, I guess I was. We were working an after-hours joint, you know; we were there all night.”

  One of the wrinkled suits said, “There was a witness to a killing and an assault. A lady in a basement apartment got your license-plate number. Since the plate is confidential, it took us a while to track it. Were you there when someone was shot, then run over by your car?”

  I heard Pike answer, “A drunk nigger tried to boost me off. He had a gun. I had to shoot him; he got in the way when I left. So what?”

  One of the policemen said, “Well, okay, but why didn’t you report this? Do you know the man is dead?”

  “Well,” Pike said, “it was me or him, the car wasn’t damaged. I was going to write it up probably today, this afternoon. It happened very late. I was on my way home. I drove across the Williamsburg Bridge. It was after five in the morning.”

  One of the cops exploded, “You shoot a man on the streets of New York City, you run him over, you don’t feel the need to call it in? Is this what you’re saying? You fucking kill someone then drive away because your black Cadillac wasn’t damaged? Jesus Christ! Is this your story? And you’re a fucking supervisor?”

  “Well, I should have gotten to it sooner,” Pike apologized. “I’ll write something up.”

  I heard Blanker say, “I’m sorry. I’ll take care of this right away. Agent Pike is a Group Leader, he should know better. We’re sorry about this and he’ll do a report today.”

  The other cop was not satisfied. “This is bullshit. You can’t treat us like this. This is not good for the Bureau either. Don’t push
yourself, George. Your guys have been crazy for a long time, but not this bad.”

  The two cops walked past me, shaking their heads as they left. Through the open door I saw Blanker turn to Pike. “Ted, this is not good. I can’t believe this. I want a report on my desk in an hour. These guys are really pissed. If this happens again, you’re back in Chicago. Now get the fuck out.”

  Pike walked out, ignoring me, and went back to Group Two.

  I just sat there staring at the odd assortment of pictures and awards that covered the wall. Besides the usual diplomas there were about ten strange plaques; each had a gun and a picture mounted on polished wood. There were different types of guns and next to each was a photograph of its owner, a smiling agent. A brass plate gave the agent’s name followed by “killed while protecting his country in the line of duty” and a date. After about thirty minutes Blanker’s secretary said, “Why are you here?”

  I tried to smile. “I don’t know.”

  She laughed. “Well, you’re honest, that means you won’t last in this office. Since you don’t know why you’re here, why don’t you go back to where you think you belong?”

  On the way back to Group Two I passed a large file room. Inside, seated around a table were a group of file clerks, fat girls with pimply faces and strange-looking guys so shy they wouldn’t look at me. At the head of the table was what looked like a well-dressed teenager. He was making them laugh, but stopped when he saw me. He gave me a big smile and waved hello. This was the only friendly thing that had happened to me since walking in the door of 90 Church, and I was too stunned to wave back. For the rest of the day I sat at my little table, remembering what the cops had said about the black Cadillac convertible and Pike telling them how he “drove across the Williamsburg Bridge at about five in the morning”. Incredibly, against all odds, it was Pike who had splashed dog shit on me and now by another weird twist of fate I had just escaped being fired.