stood there nodding at Rocky, acting unfazed. “No problem, my man. I’ll get it back to you in a day or so.”
Meanwhile, I could quickly see that we had a major problem; we might even have to deep-six the whole operation. For one thing, Rocky told me that after I filled out the application, it was going to be handed over to a private investigator—quite possibly an ex-cop. I also knew that sometimes the best you can do is not good enough.
I had started building my undercover background as Billy St. John in the mid-eighties, during my work inside the neo-Nazis, the National Alliance, and other antigovernment groups. ATF had the ability to do anything any other federal or local agency could do as far as covering their UC agents, such as creating a bogus arrest record, work history, credit reports, vehicle registration, driver’s license, and educational records. In preparing my undercover identity, I had been in touch with other agents and agencies who were in the know about potential pitfalls. I had called on my old friend Steve Campbell, a police department captain in North Carolina, who set up a bogus criminal record for me; it showed several misdemeanor arrests for assault and drug violations. I was one of the few guys in ATF who was able to actually go under with some confidence—at least until I saw that Mongol membership application.
I was scanning the questions and thinking,
How the hell are we going to cover all this shit?
There was no way I could do it alone. If Ciccone wanted his UC agent to stay alive, he was going to have another project dumped in his lap.
Once again, Ciccone saved my skin. He proved himself a genius at navigating the complex and often treacherous administrative waters of ATF. We made a great team that way—John handling the behind-the-scenes machinations of the bureau and me handling the face-to-face stuff with the bad guys on the street.
Within a few hours of seeing my application, Ciccone had a team of ATF agents running from one side of the country to the other, getting things in place to bolster my background. Besides the obvious ID issues—Social Security number, California driver’s license, Veterans Administration records—the Mongols wanted telephone numbers and addresses for my relatives. They expected to see high school records, in my case, from North Carolina in the late 1960s. They also wanted to see hard copies of W-2s for five years.
In just a matter of days, Ciccone pulled it all together. He had ATF agents inside the school system in the town where I’d supposedly grown up, doctoring “official” school records for me. He had various agents around the country ready to answer the phone numbers we’d provided, pretending to be my parents, uncles, aunts, cousins.
He got his hands on IRS forms and made some official W-2s “proving” that Billy St. John had worked at a California-based avionics company for the past five years. The avionics industry deals with aircraft instrumentation: radar units, navigational radios, weather scopes, altitude indicators, and speed indicators. My “job” was to buy and sell used equipment. During the day I would pick up equipment in Southern California and take it to a real repair shop. And to give the whole employment cover more credibility, on several occasions I arranged to bring one of the Mongols with me on a pickup. A few times I even took Rocky along to meet with my supposed employer—actually an ATF agent working undercover—so he could pay me in front of Rocky.
We felt like we had covered everything that the Mongols were asking for in the application, and we were sure as fuck betting my life on it. But as thorough as we’d been in preparing my background, I was still a nervous wreck every day I went in to meet the Mongols. And Ciccone was just as wound up and tense as I was.
Following protocol, I turned my application in to our chapter president, Domingo. There was no backing out of it now. Despite my apprehensions,
Meanwhile, I could quickly see that we had a major problem; we might even have to deep-six the whole operation. For one thing, Rocky told me that after I filled out the application, it was going to be handed over to a private investigator—quite possibly an ex-cop. I also knew that sometimes the best you can do is not good enough.
I had started building my undercover background as Billy St. John in the mid-eighties, during my work inside the neo-Nazis, the National Alliance, and other antigovernment groups. ATF had the ability to do anything any other federal or local agency could do as far as covering their UC agents, such as creating a bogus arrest record, work history, credit reports, vehicle registration, driver’s license, and educational records. In preparing my undercover identity, I had been in touch with other agents and agencies who were in the know about potential pitfalls. I had called on my old friend Steve Campbell, a police department captain in North Carolina, who set up a bogus criminal record for me; it showed several misdemeanor arrests for assault and drug violations. I was one of the few guys in ATF who was able to actually go under with some confidence—at least until I saw that Mongol membership application.
I was scanning the questions and thinking,
How the hell are we going to cover all this shit?
There was no way I could do it alone. If Ciccone wanted his UC agent to stay alive, he was going to have another project dumped in his lap.
Once again, Ciccone saved my skin. He proved himself a genius at navigating the complex and often treacherous administrative waters of ATF. We made a great team that way—John handling the behind-the-scenes machinations of the bureau and me handling the face-to-face stuff with the bad guys on the street.
Within a few hours of seeing my application, Ciccone had a team of ATF agents running from one side of the country to the other, getting things in place to bolster my background. Besides the obvious ID issues—Social Security number, California driver’s license, Veterans Administration records—the Mongols wanted telephone numbers and addresses for my relatives. They expected to see high school records, in my case, from North Carolina in the late 1960s. They also wanted to see hard copies of W-2s for five years.
In just a matter of days, Ciccone pulled it all together. He had ATF agents inside the school system in the town where I’d supposedly grown up, doctoring “official” school records for me. He had various agents around the country ready to answer the phone numbers we’d provided, pretending to be my parents, uncles, aunts, cousins.
He got his hands on IRS forms and made some official W-2s “proving” that Billy St. John had worked at a California-based avionics company for the past five years. The avionics industry deals with aircraft instrumentation: radar units, navigational radios, weather scopes, altitude indicators, and speed indicators. My “job” was to buy and sell used equipment. During the day I would pick up equipment in Southern California and take it to a real repair shop. And to give the whole employment cover more credibility, on several occasions I arranged to bring one of the Mongols with me on a pickup. A few times I even took Rocky along to meet with my supposed employer—actually an ATF agent working undercover—so he could pay me in front of Rocky.
We felt like we had covered everything that the Mongols were asking for in the application, and we were sure as fuck betting my life on it. But as thorough as we’d been in preparing my background, I was still a nervous wreck every day I went in to meet the Mongols. And Ciccone was just as wound up and tense as I was.
Following protocol, I turned my application in to our chapter president, Domingo. There was no backing out of it now. Despite my apprehensions,
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