They surrounded me with about 15 or 20 agents to take me in, even though I had never made any attempt to run or hide, or even elude the authorities. They never contacted my attorney, nor asked me to come in. Then, they tell me that I 'know' all of this stuff. How, being as close as I was to Tony, how I must have seen and heard things important to this investigation. The Assistant District Attorney even went so far as to present a page of typed information for me to 'familiarize' myself with. On the page were things that I didn't know, wasn't familiar with, and could not have possibly been party to. And the entire time my attorney is all smiles, and nods, and 'can I get you a cup of coffee Mr. Prosecutor?' He was scared to death of these Feds, and he'd have cut off one of his two faces to get out of that federal building. In a nutshell: They wanted me to be their star witness and perjure myself testifying to a bunch of stuff I never knew, or could have know.
So, for about a trillion reasons I had made up my mind what to do.
I was facing prison time, and fines. I would forever be vilified as a 'convict.' I was on 'Death Ground' as the Samurai say. I had to make a choice, and whatever that was . . . it was one of those 'no turning back now' kinds of decisions.
A federal case is a lot like a virulent disease that has infected your foot. And it's coming. There's no stopping it's path of destruction. It isn't a choice of how to cure the disease - unless you're a grass(rat). No, it's more like 'cut off the leg to save the body.'
I informed them that I needed time outside to prepare for court. They said that the only way I'd be eligible for a bond would be if I plead guilty to one (1) count of 'Felon in Possession of a Firearm.' The fact that I was never found with a gun of any kind is apparently immaterial in Federal Court. So, I gave them one of those toothless smiles and plead guilty. Told them I would show up for trial and be a good little boy. They granted me bond and told me to get ready to testify.
I was informed that I should stay nearby, as in 'in the state of Texas.' I did a lot of nodding and smiling; thank you so much, bla, bla, bla. And the day I hit the street I started selling everything that I owned. I was getting 'Liquid. '
The timing of all of this was right around September 11th, 2001. So people were absolutely batty about travel and flying. I would use this to my advantage. One of my partners, Niles, decided that he didn't want to participate ln the government's nonsense either, so he informed me that he would be coming with me. We raised about 50 grand in all, paid off as many debts as we could, kissed our girlfriends one last time, and left on Thanksgiving Weekend . . . for Mexico.
We disappeared into central Mexico for a while, and then left Mexico City on January 1st, non-stop service to Paris, France. We got off of the plane at Charles De Gaulle Airport and made our way, through the freezing slush and snow, to the front gate of Fort De Nogent . This was the place where people on the run might end up if they wanted to join the French Foreign Legion. And that's exactly what we did.
It was lovely. We were doing a very difficult training course for commandos. We were getting the piss kicked out of us by the instructors, who were themselves criminals on the run from other countries (mostly Russia and the other eastern block countries).
Everyone around us was bad; criminals, murderers, ex-spies from KGB and Mossad, soldiers-for-hire. So, we felt proud to be among such reputable amigos.
Truth is, it was a bloody den of killers, psychopaths, and lunatics. But then, the Legion Etrangere is a small military - 8,500 soldiers - who are all trained to create the most about of destruction and violence in the shortest amount of time. And that's exactly how they trained us. We were basically put through a Guerrilla Warfare program for seven months. The Legionnaire is probably the toughest soldier in the world. Perhaps not the smartest. Definitely not the cleanest or most polite. And you probably shouldn't invite him to meet your family, or talk politics.
Just cold, hard, mean. Niles and I felt so at-home. Early on in training I had trashed my left knee pretty good. I think they said that the ACL was completely dis attached, and that the Meniscus, as well as the PCL was virtually destroyed. They wanted me to get surgery.
I decided to finish the training before I got cut on.
After our class graduated, I went for surgery and was put on a kind of medical leave-slash-suspension. It meant that I could return when I was ready to get jump (parachute) qualified.
I decided to do my rehab work in Spain. We chose the island of Ibiza, just off of the east coast, in the Balearic Islands. This is one of the most extravagant party islands in the world. It's hedonism personified. It's sex, and drugs, and decadence, and voodoo, and knife fights, and ghosts, and spirituality in its ugliest forms.
And that's when everything got sideways.
THREE
The guys and I arrived on a thursday afternoon, after having spent 10 or 12 hours on a large ferry ship that had left the night before from Barcelona, Spain. I spent most of the trip sitting near the back of the ship, just watching the white foam evaporate into the blackness of the Mediterranean. I was ready for a little recuperation time for my knee. And the time away from loud, violent Legion Instructors would be a relaxing change. But as soon as I got off of the ferry and looked around at all of the excitement, I knew that I was not going to get anything even approaching quiet on that island. The thump of hard House music was almost constantly heard from any place on the island. Every restaurant, shopping center, club, bar, or gas station was jumping to the beat.
The next thing that you will instantly notice is the amount of ethnic diversity on the island. Spanish, Russians, English, Americans, Moroccans, French, Portuguese, Irish, Senegalese, and more. Every color of skin, style of hair, and type of accent you could possibly imagine. And everyone was getting along quite well. There were so many beautiful girls that it was difficult to focus on much else.
First thing first: We contacted a real estate guy, Anthony 'el Santo', or 'the Saint,' as we called him later. He found us an apartment the southern tip of the cost us about 1,200 euros in Sant Antoni, Ibiza - just off of island. From the apartment, which a month, we could see the water, the gym, and the clubs. We were near enough to a shopping center that we didn't need a vehicle. We would just use busses, taxis, and our feet to get wherever we needed to go. And really, you don't need that much to survive on a small party island like Ibiza, Spain.
Within the week the Saint had introduced us to several club owners and we found work as doorguys. Decent cash, about 400 quid (pound sterling) a week. It was more than enough to pay the bills and concentrate on training. In our spare time we set up a security consulting company that would do almost anything that you wanted us to do. Hey . . . we're mercenaries, right?
And that, my friends, is how '5 Commando' was born. Our company, 5 Comm, would handle any security concern you could possibly dream up. Why '5'? Well, there were five of us; we were commandos; and it was paying a bit of tribute to Mr. Denard - a french soldier-for-hire who was the subject of much mercenary lore.
So we did some bodyguard gigs here and there. A couple of Feasibility studies, which is basically just breaking into a facility and then reporting to the owners how they might fix their security to deal with undesirables like ourselves. We did a few jobs, made some cash, and started to put together a good little crew. And everything was going about just fine . . . that is, until the sword fight.
At one of the clubs we were working at, these two Arab men started fighting. Now, normally, two people fighting in the street is no big deal; it happens all the bloody time. But in this case one of the guys was carrying a small sword. I'm not embellishing. No, it wasn't a large knife. Rambo had a knife. It was most certainly a sword. It made that 'wheew' sound when he swung it at the other guy's face. I should have just sat back and enjoyed the show, but the cops were coming from up the street and I didn't want these guys getting arrested. I'd rather kill a guy than give him to the cops. My buddy Cael and I cautiously approached the men and, in our most polite and respectful way, tried to tell them
that the 'Policia' were headed this way! They both split up and the cops chased them. It was all very fun. I saw the sword get thrown in a small landscaped area around the side. Cael and I both decided not to tell the cops where the sword was. Both of those Arab men were detained, but later released.
A couple of nights later the Arab man who had been wielding the sword came and thanked me for not grassing (ratting, snitching, etc.) him up to the Policia. They had been local cops - Guardia Civil - and had decided to release them without charges being filed. He was very polite and explained to me that anything he could do for me would be his pleasure. Well, being on the run as I was, I decided to ask him about a Passport. He said that it would take a couple of weeks but that he'd get back to me. We traded cell phone numbers and that was that.
Two days later I got a call to meet him down at a Moroccan bar. Outside, in his Mercedes, he showed me about 10 or 15 passports from France, Spain, England, and I think there may have even been a Canadian or two. He then told me that they were easy to get because the Policia were selling them to him and the other 'Brothers' for next to nothing. They were then getting pictures of the people who wanted passports and sending them all off to France where some artist would insert the new photos into the passports. Voila, now Joe Terrorista becomes Johnny English, with entry into almost every country in the free world . . . including the United States.
He also explained to me that he would be able to get travelers checks that were stolen, and then doctor them up so that they could be used again. He was giving 30 cents on the euro for those, or selling them for half price. He could also get drivers' licenses and other supporting documents. It was how he did for all of the Brothers that were coming up from Morocco, Lebanon, Algeria, Tunisia, Egypt, Libya, and the list goes on.
To tell you honestly, I still don't know why he decided to confide in me all of this. It seemed like a huge security risk. I mean, we were barely a year after 9/11. Anyway, I handed him some photos of me and decided to see what he could produce. He said he'd call me, and we split.
Something about all of this didn't sit well with me. I'm a bad guy and all, but I don't kill innocent people. Terrorists seem not to have a problem with non-combatant casualties. And if you're making moves for a bunch of would be terrorists, then . . . you're a terrorist too.
I decided to make a call to an old friend. He knew some people at the CIA, and they were more than a bit interested. Unfortunately, they wanted me to fly out to Barcelona and meet the Station Chief at the embassy. And, you see, I'm still on the run. Well, I'm not a genius, but I think they'd have just loved to take me into custody right then and there. So I politely declined his offer and told him to call me when they decided what course of action they were going to take.
I didn't hear anything for a couple of days. I was working at the club, and something strange happens. I am approached by two Americans, who present black 'Diplomatic' passports to me to get into the club. At first I'm thinking that they are trying to see if they can get a rise out of me. I deliberately said something to the other doorguy in Spanish and handed him the passports. He then nodded and let them into the club.
They were probably inside for twenty minutes or so before they came back out and hung out at the door. I guess that some company (CIA) guys are good operators, but most of the ones that I've met were clueless morons. You can't take a kid out of Harvard or Yale, and then make him a spook in 6 months. As far as I know, the only good spies left are English, Russian, French, or Israeli. American spies throw cash around for a week and then take down a target. Lots of press; lots of nonsense.
I was waiting for the moment where they might say that they were here to take me into custody or something, but then . . . who the hell am I? It's not like I'm public enemy number one. I went to a freakin' gun show and caught an indictment. After a couple of minutes one of them tells me that they work for the State Department, and that they would be interested if I knew anything about Middle Eastern men on the island doing anything strange or out of place. The thing about Ibiza is that nothing is taboo, or out of place. But that being said, I figured that they had been sent by the embassy in Barcelona, and that they probably were trying to do some good. I still had a patriotic flame burning a bit inside me. Not a fire, mind you, but I still believed in what America stood for. I guess I figured that if I helped it would make my most heinous 'crimes' seem a little less awful when compared to the bigger picture. I would help them.
I told them that I had seen some things that could be related to the security of our borders. They then conveyed to me that they were very interested in what I had to say. They told me that they'd be in touch. Whatever that's supposed to mean.
They never explained how they were going to contact me, exactly. We didn't exchange numbers or anything clever like that. But then, this is the CIA . . . so I'm sure they have all sorts of incredibly brilliant methods that commoners like myself can't possibly imagine. So I nodded. They nodded. And that was that.
I went back down to the club where I had originally met the passport-sword-guy. Figured I'd do a little pre-Op Recon. I decided to take a couple of notes: make some rough maps on the location, and some other tactical notes (entry into the building, access, egress, perimeter, etc.). The kind of stuff that spooks would eventually have to do if they were going to hit the place. After doing this I memorized what I could, coded the rest, and then destroyed the original notes.
I then made a list of the items that I would need to be provided by the spooks to properly do my job: digital camera, satellite secure phone or burst transmitter, small caliber pistol that can be silenced, portable recording device, chewing gum that turns into high-explosive. Well, that last one didn't make the final list.
You may wonder why I thought they might want to use me to do their dirty work. I would love to tell you that it was because I'm trained commando with experience in the intelligence field, or that I spoke four of five languages, or because I was a world champion mixed-martial-arts fighter, or even that I was just a cleverly placed insider that had already established rapport with the bad guys. But no, none of that was the reason. It was more like plausible deniability. If I get caught, I'm just some rogue convict on the run from the u.s. Government. They'd probably even spin it that I was working for the bad guys in some capacity. But it wouldn't come out that it was a sanctioned Op on foreign soil being run without the express permission of the Spanish Government . . . not that the US is known for asking permission.
Regardless, I was in the right place, and to position another agent or asset could take months, if not longer. Or it might not have even been possible. When you're dealing with the immigration of Terrorists, every day you loose is another potential 9/11.
But then they did something very surprising. A move that was so genius that I couldn't have possibly predicted it.
FOUR
"Hi," my name is Jayden R. Huck, and I am a bad guy. Sounds like my opening line at some Mercenaries Anonymous meeting, but it is the truth. At this point you know how I got into trouble. You know that I went on the run and ended up in the French Foreign Legion. But you're still not sure about this whole spy business.
The brilliant move that the government made was to arrest me. It happened while I was entering the gym that I trained at regularly. The gym was located on the south end of the island, overlooking the Mediterranean. I was just inside the door when a group of agents from both the Spanish Federales and INTERPOL tackled me and my buddy Paul.
They got me in front of a judge who said that I would be shipped back to the United States because I was considered a very dangerous person. Yeah, heard all that before. They asked if I wanted to fight against extradition (for example: claiming political refugee status). I said that I should probably go back and face the music. They then threw me in a dark room for a couple of days. They bounced me around a couple of local jails in Ibiza, and then I caught a chaperoned flight to Valencia. Next thing I knew I was getting what we call 'diesel therapy.' That is
when they put you in a new prison every couple of days . . . between your long, extended, superfluous bus rides.
I ended up in Madrid, at a prison with the name Valdemoro,but to police agencies and the local populous it is known affectionately as "Terrorist University."
They say that there are more terrorists per-square-foot inside those prison walls than in any other prison on earth. And I'm taking into consideration Camp X-ray, at Guantanamo bay, and all of those 'secret' prisons that the CIA allegedly runs. The people at Valdemoro are real live bad guys. The kind of people who will, without hesitation, kill you and everybody you're associated with if it fits their needs. These guys aren't all religiously motivated either. The muslim fundamentalists are only a small portion of the harbingers of violence.
You have the Basque Separatists - who blow up cars and senators all the time in Spain, because they want their small state's autonomy (which is about the size of a farm).
Then there are the Italian Red Brigade - who are a group of fire-loving Fascists, hoping for some new phantom government that will save Italy.
The French are so confusing with their bomb-makers, gangsters, and religious zealots that I won't even delve into them.
Let us not forget the fall of communism which marked the end of the 'Cold War' and the beginning of a new era in eastern-block psychopathology. Tons of gangs- some of them Mafiya, rebel factions, ex-military, gun-runners, hit-men, continue on ad nauseam.
The Moroccans have their own drug cartels. The Senegalese. The BeIge. The Pakistani. The Lebanese. Throw in the whole of North Africa as well. I know your eyes are rolling, but the list goes on.
The English and Irish . . . well, of course you know about all that.
Anyway, almost every terrorist group, gang, faction, front, syndicate, or association has representatives in Valdemoro. Some of them are dangerous because of their religious underpinnings, but mostly it's the latent European Capitalism rearing its ugly head. The lust for money; greed in its purest form.
Walking Ghost: Welcome to Terrorist University Page 2
