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Authors: Steve Israel
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night-vision goggles; who insisted that you could conduct an effective surveillance op with equipment that came off the discount table at Crazy Harryâs Electronics Warehouse.
And the micromanagement! Christ, you allocate a couple hundred million dollars to a satellite surveillance technology that accidentally snaps a picture of some Senator and his girlfriend naked in a backyard hot tub and suddenly they make a federal case out of itâliterally. They summon you to congressional committees with words like âoversightâ and âinvestigationâ in their titles. They start poking their noses and their subpoenas into your budgets. People start knowing who you are. And if they know who you are, theyâll soon know what youâre doing. And then tell you not to do it.
Sully needed a place where he could work without being watched. A place dark and deep within the bureaucracy, where he could grow his empire like mushrooms. One morning, his CIA colleagues showed up for work, and Sullyâs cubicle was empty. Picked-clean. He had vanished. Except for a triplicate copy of an Office of Personnel Management Authorization for Voluntary Reduction in Force pinned to the fabric divider.
Sully had fired himself. And then rehired himself at the FDA.
Technically his occupational specialty was leading a task force to investigate the influx of counterfeit drugs into Americaâs medicine cabinets. Not exactly tracking Taliban suicide bombers. But who at the New York Times or the Washington Post cared about the investigative techniques used by a division director at a backwater agency sworn to protect and defend Americaâs aspirins? He could toil in obscurity. Just the way he liked it.
Sully reached for a tattered manila folder on the counter in front of him and opened it. Again. It was like a book he couldnât put down. The Life and Times of Victoria DâAmico. Employee of Dr. Richard Kirleski (whose life and times were contained in another file withinarmâs reach of Sully). Recently divorced from one Jerome DâAmico. Owner of a mortgage at 88 Algonquin Lane (with a recent frequency of sixty-day-late mortgage payments); lessee of a Volvo SUV (also some late payments). Vices? An addiction to the shoe departments at Bloomingdaleâs and Nordstrom, the jewelry counter at Fortunoff, and credit card purchases that seemed to bob up against her limit. A well-worn plotline , Sully thought. Man leaves woman for a much younger woman. Man leaves older woman with stretch marks and a plummeting credit score.
All routine, except for this twist: Victoria DâAmico, medical secretary with access to a treasure trove of pharmaceuticals, consorting with Ricardo Xavier Montoyez, known pharmaceutical counterfeiter.
Or âRx Rick,â as he was better known, who was creating the medical equivalent of two-dollar bills. He was part of an extensive and profitable enterprise that purloined pharmaceutical shipments from manufacturers, diverted them to secret locations, where they were diluted, tainted, relabeled, or copied as cheap facsimiles before being reinserted in the supply chain and delivered to your local pharmacist. Taking medicine for your chemotherapy? That vial may be filled with water. A tablet for your blood pressure? Chalk. Your doctor prescribed twenty milligrams? You were taking only five. And you didnât even know.
He was the lowest of the low. So low that every major terrorist organization on earthâwith one exceptionârejected the practice as inhumane. If there were a Geneva Convention for terrorist groups, counterfeiting medicines might be the only entry. âAre you out of your mind?â one terrorist leader screamed at a subordinate in a Baghdad safe house. âCounterfeit cancer medicines? Our mothers take this stuff.â
T wenty minutes after Ricardo Xavier Montoyez left Victoria, she peered at a bill for two steak dinners that were never served, onebottle of
And the micromanagement! Christ, you allocate a couple hundred million dollars to a satellite surveillance technology that accidentally snaps a picture of some Senator and his girlfriend naked in a backyard hot tub and suddenly they make a federal case out of itâliterally. They summon you to congressional committees with words like âoversightâ and âinvestigationâ in their titles. They start poking their noses and their subpoenas into your budgets. People start knowing who you are. And if they know who you are, theyâll soon know what youâre doing. And then tell you not to do it.
Sully needed a place where he could work without being watched. A place dark and deep within the bureaucracy, where he could grow his empire like mushrooms. One morning, his CIA colleagues showed up for work, and Sullyâs cubicle was empty. Picked-clean. He had vanished. Except for a triplicate copy of an Office of Personnel Management Authorization for Voluntary Reduction in Force pinned to the fabric divider.
Sully had fired himself. And then rehired himself at the FDA.
Technically his occupational specialty was leading a task force to investigate the influx of counterfeit drugs into Americaâs medicine cabinets. Not exactly tracking Taliban suicide bombers. But who at the New York Times or the Washington Post cared about the investigative techniques used by a division director at a backwater agency sworn to protect and defend Americaâs aspirins? He could toil in obscurity. Just the way he liked it.
Sully reached for a tattered manila folder on the counter in front of him and opened it. Again. It was like a book he couldnât put down. The Life and Times of Victoria DâAmico. Employee of Dr. Richard Kirleski (whose life and times were contained in another file withinarmâs reach of Sully). Recently divorced from one Jerome DâAmico. Owner of a mortgage at 88 Algonquin Lane (with a recent frequency of sixty-day-late mortgage payments); lessee of a Volvo SUV (also some late payments). Vices? An addiction to the shoe departments at Bloomingdaleâs and Nordstrom, the jewelry counter at Fortunoff, and credit card purchases that seemed to bob up against her limit. A well-worn plotline , Sully thought. Man leaves woman for a much younger woman. Man leaves older woman with stretch marks and a plummeting credit score.
All routine, except for this twist: Victoria DâAmico, medical secretary with access to a treasure trove of pharmaceuticals, consorting with Ricardo Xavier Montoyez, known pharmaceutical counterfeiter.
Or âRx Rick,â as he was better known, who was creating the medical equivalent of two-dollar bills. He was part of an extensive and profitable enterprise that purloined pharmaceutical shipments from manufacturers, diverted them to secret locations, where they were diluted, tainted, relabeled, or copied as cheap facsimiles before being reinserted in the supply chain and delivered to your local pharmacist. Taking medicine for your chemotherapy? That vial may be filled with water. A tablet for your blood pressure? Chalk. Your doctor prescribed twenty milligrams? You were taking only five. And you didnât even know.
He was the lowest of the low. So low that every major terrorist organization on earthâwith one exceptionârejected the practice as inhumane. If there were a Geneva Convention for terrorist groups, counterfeiting medicines might be the only entry. âAre you out of your mind?â one terrorist leader screamed at a subordinate in a Baghdad safe house. âCounterfeit cancer medicines? Our mothers take this stuff.â
T wenty minutes after Ricardo Xavier Montoyez left Victoria, she peered at a bill for two steak dinners that were never served, onebottle of
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