Border Guard

Part 1

BORDER GUARD

Also by Don Whitehead:

THE FBI STORY JOURNEY INTO CRIME

Don Whitehead

BORDER GUARD

THE STORY OF THE UNITED STATES CUSTOMS SERVICE

McGraw-Hill Book Company, Inc. New York Toronto London

BORDER GUARD

Copyright © 1963 by Don Whitehead. All Rights Reserved. Printed in the United States of America. This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form without written permission of the publishers.

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 63-12134

First Edition

69947

For Ruth and Gene Neilsen

CONTENTS

1. A Slight Case of Conscience 1

2. A Time of Crisis 21

3. A President is Bamboozled 32

4. The Pirates of New Orleans 44

5. The Dark Years 55

6. Booze and Bribes 69

7. The Enforcers 86

8. Test Tube Detectives 96

9. The Informers 107

10. The Violent Border 120

11. A Dirty Business 131

12. The Case of the Crooked Diplomat 147

13. A Strange Little Room 157

14. The Diamond Smugglers 166

Part 2

15. A Fool’s Dream 184

16. The Chiselers 196

17. The Innocents 213

18. The Stormy World of Art 223

19. Sex and the Censor 234

20. Of Toy Canaries and Pirates 241

21. The Middle Men 255

22. The Restless American 265

A SLIGHT CASE OF CONSCIENCE

One of the most serious problems confronting the Customs Service in this century is the control of the illegal importation of narcotics. Some of the difficulties involved in handling dope smuggling can be seen when it is realized that these drugs are being sent from all over the world, by every means of international transportation. The comparatively small number of Customs agents rely on patience, diligence and intelligence, and they are doing a remarkable job. Since this problem is so important, and so typical of the job the Service does, we will begin with the story of one successful case.

On the night of May 17, 1955, seventeen-year-old Truls Arild Halvorsen sat in an office in the Customs House in Boston, Massachusetts, blinking back the unmanly tears that threatened to spill down his face. He kept trying to swallow the dry lump of fear in his throat, but it wouldn’t go away. And he had to concentrate hard to remember the answers to all the questions being asked of him by the men sitting about the room.

He was a tall, handsome youth. His blond hair was cropped in a crew cut. His eyes were as blue as the waters in the fjords of his native Norway which he had left for the first time only a little more than a year before. That was when he had shipped out as a seaman aboard the MS Fernhill.

He remembered the day he left home his father had said, “We are very proud of you, son.” His mother had wept as she clung to him. His friends had gathered to shake his hand and wish him good luck on his first voyage. He had felt grown up and proud and excited--ready to cope with anything the future might bring.

But now ... now he sat, a virtual prisoner, answering questions about his role in the plot to smuggle narcotics into the United States. It was a nightmare he wished he could forget, but he knew he never could. The men around him were members of the U.S. Customs’ Special Racket Squad out of New York City, whose job it was to run down smugglers.

He heard the big, soft-voiced man sitting across the desk from him--the agent named Dave Cardoza--say, “Let’s go over the story again, Halvorsen. This time it’s for the official record. Tell it just as you did before--exactly what happened.”

Halvorsen swallowed once more and nodded. He didn’t need a translator to understand what Cardoza was saying because he spoke excellent English as well as German.

“Will you state your full name?”

The youth replied: “Truls Arild Halvorsen.” And the recording began.

Q--What is your position on the ship?

A--Ordinary seaman.

Q--What vessel are you on?

A--The name of the ship is the Fernhill.

Q--How long have you been employed aboard the Fernhill?

A--Three trips, about fifteen months.

Q--How old are you, Mr. Halvorsen?

A--I am seventeen and a half years old.

Was it possible this had begun only a few weeks ago? It had begun that day in Hong Kong when he met the Chinese stranger aboard the Fernhill and, like a fool, he had listened to the man’s talk about making easy money. That was when he should have walked away.

But he hadn’t walked away. And that’s why he was now in this strange room in Boston with these men who asked so many questions....

Part 3

Q--Mr. Halvorsen, on the 15th of March, 1955, where was your ship, the Fernhill?

A--It was in Hong Kong.

Q--And did you have any conversation with a visitor to the ship?

A--Yes, I was talking to him.

Q--Will you explain what conversation you had and with whom it was?

A--The man was a tailor and he said to me that he wanted to talk about some business down in my cabin.

Q--Had you ever met him before?

A--No.

Halvorsen recalled that he had talked to the Chinese tailor about the price of a suit. Several tailors had boarded the Fernhill to solicit orders as soon as the ship dropped anchor. Most of the ship’s crew had placed orders for suits, but Halvorsen had decided the price was more than he could afford. It was after this that the tailor--a well-dressed man of medium height with a wart on the lobe of his left ear--whispered to Halvorsen that he would like to talk to him alone in his cabin.

Q--What did he say when he talked about this other business of smuggling?

A--He asked me if I wanted to make some money.

Q--What did you say?

A--Yes, I said.

Q--Then what did he say?

A--He said, “I can give you opium if you will take the opium to San Francisco.” He said that if I would do this for him he would pay me $1,200 American.

Q--What did you say then?

A--I was not sure if I wanted to do it or not, but I did not say no.

In the transcript of Halvorsen’s story, the young seaman referred to the narcotics sometimes as opium and at other times as cocaine and heroin. The narcotics in each case was heroin, a derivative of opium highly favored by drug addicts in the United States.

The tailor then wrote an address on a slip of paper--No. 54 Cameron Road--and pressed it into Halvorsen’s hand. “If you decide you want the money, come to this address at seven o’clock tonight.”

By six o’clock that evening, Halvorsen had reached a decision. The sum of $1,200 sounded like a small fortune to the boy who had never in his life had more than a few dollars at one time. It was more money than he could save in many months at sea--enough to buy an interest in a fishing boat back in Norway.

Halvorsen dressed in his best blue trousers and white shirt for the trip ashore. When he left the Fernhill he carried a briefcase which the Chinese had suggested he bring along. He hailed a rickshaw at the ferry slip near the Peninsula Hotel, and gave the address on Cameron Road. Then he sat back to enjoy the gaudy, East-meets-West sights of Kowloon as the coolie trotted through streets swarming with Chinese, most of them refugees from Red China.

After he stepped from the rickshaw and paid the driver, he stood uncertainly at the curb looking about for the number 54. A Chinese came up to him and said, “You looking for Number Fifty-four?” Halvorsen said he was, and the man said, “You follow me.”...

Q--Where did he take you?

A--He took me inside the house and into a corridor. We turned right and there was a door. He knocked on the door.

Q--Was the house No. 54, Cameron Road, ground floor, Kowloon, Hong Kong?

A--Yes.

Q--Was there any number or anything written on the door of the corridor?

A--I don’t remember.

Part 4

Q--Then what happened?

A--Somebody opened the door and said, “Please, come in.” He took my hand as in welcome. He said, “I am glad to see you,” or something like that and in the room was the Chinese tailor I saw on the ship and another man....

Halvorsen remembered sitting with the three Chinese at a small, round table. The room was dimly lit and dingy. One of the men offered him whiskey but he refused and instead asked for a glass of beer. A woman padded into the room and placed a bottle of beer on the table. And then he was aware that a Chinese girl was standing near him. But when he glanced at her, he was blinded momentarily by a flash of light and so startled that he started to rise from his chair.

The wart-eared tailor laughed and said, “Don’t worry. It was only a flash from a camera. We need a photograph to send to our man in San Francisco so he will be able to recognize you when you arrive with the packages.”

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