Under the Gun
I had been instructed to protect myself to keep my eyes closed and cover my ears. The Emergency Response Team (ERT) would be using flash and stun grenades when they entered the hotel room. I was lying on the floor curled up in fetus position, with my hands over my ears and my eyes closed. The longest second of my life passed, I could smell the fear in the air. After all it was mine. I opened my eyes to see the barrel of an MP5 submachine gun only a millimetre from my face, stuck right at my left eyeball. I was terrified that this was it.
My mind raced, flashing back to what had brought me to this point. The officers working in Langley Drug Section; Constable Natasha Ivanov, and me had been working undercover on this operation for six months. A month earlier, we’d attended a meeting at Royal Canadian Mounted Police Headquarters (RCMP HQ) in Vancouver with the bosses. It was a meeting I would never forget. In the room were seven of Canada’s finest, or so we all thought. We were drug enforcement police officers. We didn’t wear uniforms. Blue jeans and leather jackets were the norm, as was long hair and beards. Except for Natasha. None of us looked like police officers, especially Natasha, with her long blond hair and tight pants.
We sat around a large table in the boardroom of the undercover coordinator’s office. The matter at hand was Project Car Parts, our current operation. Staff Sergeant Lars Green, the coordinator for undercover operations in Western Canada, was chairing the meeting. It was his job to oversee all the covert operations in the region, ensuring that policy and procedures were maintained. Recent legal challenges in the courts had brought undercover police techniques in Canada under intense scrutiny. We always had reviews of our operations to ensure compliance, but with the media focusing on our methods, we needed to ensure we were doing things correctly and within the scope of Canada’s judicial system.
Our project was barely a blip on the radar for Lars. He made the team feel as though our six months of undercover work was insignificant. He preferred to deal with major, long-term covert operations involving homicides and organized crime. Those types of investigations received far more media coverage and more attention from the brass upstairs. Lars was eager to get promoted. He had been around a while, and he understood how things worked. Officers in charge of the higher profile and successful investigations were always more likely to receive promotions. We were approaching what could be the end of Project Truck Parts. A decision had to be made about whether we were going to conclude it by arresting the street-level drug dealers we had met thus far or continue in the hope of taking down some upper scale dealers. At this point, Lars had not yet decided whether he would continue to support the operation. We required his recommendation on the project’s request for an extension, which included more funding.
The project had started as a street level drug operation and was not meant to be a major undercover operation. Lars had seen projects like ours a hundred times before, he referred to Project Car Parts as small potatoes. In his mind it was simple: send two undercover officers into the bars in the local town. With the cover team for backup, we were supposed purchase as much dope from as many people as possible. We had successfully made numerous non recoverable purchases of cocaine, where the trafficker was not immediately arrested. This methodology was an investment towards our higher aspirations and goal of tracking down the sources of the cocaine. After months of buying grams, then eight balls (1/8th of an ounce) and then ounces we had become well known by the local drug traffickers as users. Moving up the ladder to purchasing kilograms meant bringing into other undercover operators who could play the role of someone with more means and capable of handling larger transactions.
To me, it was not so simple. This was my first official and sanctioned undercover operation. It had been my life for the last six months. I had immersed myself in work, putting my personal life on hold, barely able to see my family. Six days a week, long into the night, I had thought of little else. I was partnered with Constable Natasha Ivanov. Assertive and confident in her work, she brought years of experience in undercover operations. She was tall and slender and had big blue eyes with a look of innocence. I was the not so handsome guy, with long hair, a beard, and an earring. Together we had passed ourselves off in the local bar scene as friends and fellow cocaine users. Her experience and cool head had taken us from a street-level operation to the front door of organized crime, behind which were the Hells Angels and a much more substantial amount of cocaine. We’d been living and breathing this operation for months and had a lot of valuable information and insight to contribute to this meeting.
Also, at the table sat Sergeant Bill Tass, who was in charge of the Langley Drug Section. Although Bill was an experienced police officer, his specialty was more in serious crimes like homicides. He had little previous experience with drugs, but he was a quick study and a good boss. Two constables from the drug section were also present. Between them, they had over twenty years of drug experience, and they brought a massive amount of knowledge and wisdom to the table. Their efforts, hard work, and commitment to duty were highly visible. Sergeant Tass and the other members were an excellent crew. Together they made up our cover team, providing us with security and intel on local conditions.
The seventh person at the table was Detective Rudy Pozinski, who had recently transferred to the undercover coordinator’s office. He was new and was quiet during the meeting, soaking it all up.
Tass started the meeting with a summary of the undercover work Natasha and I had done over the last six months. We had begun by purchasing small amounts of cocaine. To the sellers and traffickers in the local bar scene, we both appeared to be heavy cocaine users. The cover team had identified twenty-three people who had sold cocaine to us in various amounts, from half grams up to an eightball. We were buying coke at prices ranging from $80 a gram to $350 for an eightball.
Foremost in Staff Sergeant Green’s mind were the unfortunate circumstances of the past week. Just a few days before, while working undercover in The Crossing Pub and Hotel, I had paid up front for an eightball of cocaine to a local trafficker named Vinny, whom I’d just met in the bar. Vinny assured me he had the best cocaine money could buy. I knew I shouldn’t hand over any money until I had at least seen the product, but I was overly eager to do the deal. So, when he offered me his jacket as collateral, I gave him $350 for the eightball. I was supposed to wait with his jacket at the table in the bar while he went to the back of the pub to meet his supplier and get the cocaine. Vinny took the money and walked out the back door of the pub. I never saw him again, and it was only through the hard work of the cover team that he was identified months later and arrested. I knew better than to front money and would never repeat that mistake again.
The main topic of this meeting was planning our way forward with the operation. A couple of weeks earlier, Natasha and I had purchased one ounce of cocaine for $1,400 from one of our suppliers, who went by the name of Norm. Norm was a very active cocaine trafficker. He wore a leather bomber-style jacket that had back and shoulder patches with the number 8 inside a circle. All the locals on the street and in the bars knew that if you were looking to score some coke, the guy with number 8 on his jacket would be able to help you out. Norm told Natasha that he could get us as much cocaine as we could take.
“A kilo or two?” asked Natasha.
“Sure, no problem,” Norm replied. But he was curious about how we could now afford to purchase a couple of kilos, since we’d been buying only grams or eightballs up until then.
Quick on her feet, Natasha snapped back, “The boss has lots of money and is looking for a new supplier.”
Norm took the bait, eager to sell as much cocaine to us as possible. Natasha told him we would contact our boss and get back to him. In our undercover operations, we would sometimes defer questions by saying, “I have to check with my boss,” or, if you need more money, “I need to meet up with my boss.” Norm didn’t know that our real bosses worked out of RCMP HQ.
We were coming to the end of the six-month operation. Around the table, we discussed how best to proceed to ensure officer safety and the integrity of the operation. The meeting went on for over two hours. I tried numerous times to offer my opinion and my understanding and to share what I thought were good ideas. But I was deemed insignificant by Staff Sergeant Green. Every time I tried to offer my two cents, he would shake his finger at me as if to say “hush” and then talk right over me. I sat in the corner of the big office as discussions ensued, feeling that my presence was neither wanted nor required. The meeting ended with Green giving approval to an operation plan that, if executed correctly, should have resulted in numerous arrests and the seizure of a significant amount of cocaine.
Natasha and I returned to the bar scene, and over the next few weeks, we had several meetings with Norm. We were trying to introduce him to another undercover operator, Ed, who was playing the role of our boss. We portrayed Ed as a wealthy criminal who was looking to expand his business and wanted a new supplier.
In real life Ed was in charge of the undercover unit for Vancouver RCMP. He was a very talented and seasoned undercover operative and played the role of a crime boss in dozens of covert operations. Ed later became an executive within the RCMP ranks.
Ed portrayed a big-time gangster better than most. He was in demand; his time was valuable. In his first cellphone conversation with Norm, Ed scared him away by asking for fifteen kilograms of cocaine. Norm’s suppliers, whom we believed to be the Hells Angels, warned him not to sell large amounts of coke to people he didn’t know or trust. In a conversation over lunch one day, Norm said, “Everyone tells me you guys are probably narcs and not to do business with you.”
I reassured him. “You gotta trust us,” I said. “Do Natasha and I look like cops? We’re not the heat. We’ve been buying from you for months.”
Norm replied, “If you guys are cops, you gotta take care of me in the end.” I reassured him we were not cops.
It took a couple more weeks of meetings with Natasha and me before Norm no longer felt suspicious of Ed. After numerous phone calls between Ed and Norm, an agreement was eventually reached. Norm would supply five kilograms of cocaine for the agreed-upon price of $144,000, which worked out to $28,800 a kilo. It was a reasonable price, at the time, a single kilo usually cost $32,000.
In the days leading up to the deal, Norm bragged to Ed that his suppliers were Hells Angels and that if this deal went well, he would be able to expand his operations. He said he was looking forward to making some real cash.
The big day arrived; Natasha was busy on another undercover operation out of town. She was replaced by Don, another very experienced undercover officer. I knew Don from my time in Vancouver Drug Section. He was a large burly man, a tad overweight, and when he spoke you could not help but listen, as his voice boomed over everyone. Like Ed, he specialized in the world of undercover police work. Everyone, including the criminals, developed a lot of respect for Ed and Don. They knew what they were doing, and they did it well.
The deal was to take place at the local Inn in Langley. It was a typical motel, not too fancy, about two and a half stars. It had two storeys and a long hallway that went on for an eternity. On the day of the deal, we reserved three rooms on the second floor.
There were two simple plans for the day. The first plan was the one Norm was expecting to take place. It involved the use of two of the rooms, one where the money would be secured and the other where the cocaine would be delivered. Once the cash was counted and confirmed in place, Norm would provide the five kilograms of cocaine to the second room next door.
The second plan, unknown to Norm, included a room across the hall. In that room six heavily armed RCMP ERT members waited. Once the cocaine was delivered and confirmed to be in the second room, the ERT members would exit their room and arrest whoever had delivered the cocaine.
Since the Hells Angels were involved in the deal, the odds that weapons might be involved were high, so the use of ERT was warranted. Having these highly trained, heavily armed officers there to make the arrest made a lot of sense to me. During our briefing a few hours before the final takedown, I learned that ERT would be doing what they referred to as a hard entry. This meant flash and stun grenades would be thrown into the rooms where the suspects were located. If we were in those rooms with the suspects, we needed to protect our eyes and ears.
Unfortunately, the ERT members did not get a chance to meet with me or the other undercover operators before the takedown. Instead, Polaroid photographs of us were passed around to them with some kind words: “These are your fellow officers. Do not shoot them.” They would know we were there, and I hoped they would be thinking about us as they threw in their grenades and made their entry.
The plan was supposed to unfold with Don and me in one room with the buy money and one of the suspects. Our role was to hold on to the money until the cocaine was delivered to Ed in the room next door. On the floor by my feet was a small green garbage bag containing $144,000 in bundles of various denominations held together with large rubber bands.
After hours of phone calls and arrangements, things began to come together. Ed and Norm entered the room that Don and I were in. Norm had brought a third person with him, whom he introduced as Jimmy. Jimmy was there to guard the money after Norm verified it was all there.
“Let him count it,” Ed barked at me.
I tossed the bag of money onto one of the two queen beds in the hotel room. Norm sat on the edge of the bed and proceeded to count the $144,000. He was quick and efficient; it appeared he had lots of experience in counting large amounts of cash. In just a few minutes he announced to Jimmy that it was all there. Then he told Jimmy to stay in the room and keep an eye on the money and handed the bag back to me. It had been agreed that once the five kilos of cocaine had been delivered to the room next door Ed would call us in our room confirming he had received the dope. Once I received that confirmation my role was to hand Jimmy the bag with the cash in it. At the same time, I was supposed to activate the alarm I was wearing. That alarm would be received by the ERT members who were in a room across the hallway from us. Upon getting the alarm they were going to leave their room making their way into the two rooms taking Norm and Jimmy into custody along with any people who had been involved in the transaction.
Norm and Ed walked out of the room no doubt satisfied that, and Don double-locked the door as they left.
Several hours went by, and there was no indication that the cocaine was en route. Things were slowing down. Jimmy, Don, and I sat in the motel room watching a hockey game and having a couple of beers. I kept the cash in the bag at my feet, trying to appear like this was a typical day for me.
I imagined the ERT members waiting in the third room, sitting on the edge of their seats, or beds, painfully waiting for the signal that would engage them. They had no idea if they would be encountering people with guns drawn, or even worse, with guns blazing. I envisioned them sweating profusely, cursing the delays as this deal dragged on, yet maintaining their poise and their focus on the plan at hand. Remaining that tense and preparing for the worst-case scenario hour after hour had to have been extremely stressful.
I learned later that the cover team and surveillance team outside the motel had picked up on Norm meeting some people in the parking lot. A couple of pickup trucks arrived with some guys wearing biker vests and jackets. Inside our room, we didn’t know what was going on outside. As I stared at the hockey game on TV, I had no idea what teams were playing or what the score was.
The room phone finally rang. I picked it up. On the other end was Ed. He told me he had the coke, and I could go ahead and give the money to Jimmy. That was my signal to alert the ERT. I pressed the plunger activating the transmitter.
The agreed upon plan was that once the ERT members got the signal, they would cross the hall and enter the two rooms simultaneously and arrest Jimmy and Norm. Unfortunately, the Hells Angels, seeking to protect their cocaine, had five men make the delivery, each carrying one kilo. One second after I transmitted the takedown signal, the ERT members burst into the hallway of the hotel to find those five men leaving the room next door to mine.
Through the cheaply built walls, we could hear people running down the hallway. ERT members were yelling, “Stop! Police! Stop!” Don, Jimmy, and I looked at each other. Everything slowed down and went into slow motion. It was surreal.
Jimmy stood up from the bed he had been sitting on and slowly lifted his shirt, which fit loosely over his pants. He pulled out what looked to me like the biggest 9mm handgun I had ever seen. I was not armed; neither was Don. I didn’t know what Jimmy was going to do with his gun. He might start shooting and take out Don and me, or he might shoot at the ERT members as they come through the door. Either way, I had to do something. I jumped towards Jimmy, planning to grab him before he could get a shot off. It was like watching a movie. I glided through the air, landing beside him with both my feet firmly on the ground. The clock stood still as I watched things unfold frame by frame.
Just as I landed beside him, Jimmy who was sitting on the bed watching TV bent over and lifted the end of the mattress with his free hand. With the other, he whipped the gun under the mattress. Then he sat down on the bed.
As this was happening, the ERT members were banging on our door, trying to make the entry. But the door was locked. Finally, Don unlocked the door and yelled, “Gun!” so the ERT members would know there was a weapon in the room.
Things shifted. My most urgent concern now was putting distance between Jimmy and me. I expected the ERT members to enter with stun and flash grenades. I fell away from Jimmy and onto the floor, curled up into a near-fetal position, closing my eyes and covering my ears to protect them from the incoming grenade. A second passed. No grenade. I opened my eyes to see the barrel of an MP5 stuck in my face. The ERT member stayed in position for another second. Then, recognizing me from the photo he’d seen earlier, he yelled, “Clear,” and removed the barrel from my eye socket. I breathed a sigh of relief.
The operation was a huge success, with numerous arrests and the seizure of the five kilograms of cocaine and several weapons, including the loaded 9mm Jimmy had brought into the room. When it was all over, we had a typical roundup party, where we drank a pint or two, shared stories of how the operation had unfolded, and congratulated ourselves for a job well done. John, from Langley Drug Section, presented me with a framed photograph that showed all of us who’d worked on Project Car Parts standing behind a table covered in drugs, money, and weapons. A brass plate attached to the frame was inscribed “To the Plant.” It wasn’t clear to me what the inscription meant. I asked John who reminded me of the meeting we had attended at HQ and how I was ignored and passed over again. He said, “You might as well have been a plant in the room.”
I got it.
