Transcript
A (0:01)
Hey, Sal.
B (0:02)
Hank. What's going on?
A (0:03)
We haven't worked a case in years. I just bought my car at Carvana, and it was so easy. Too easy.
B (0:08)
Think something's up?
A (0:10)
You tell me. They got thousands of options, found a great car at a great price, and it got delivered the next day. It sounds like Carvana just makes it easy to buy your car, Hank. Yeah, you're right. Case closed. Buy your car today on Carvana. Delivery fees may apply. Do you want to know what it's like to hang out with Ms. 13 in El Salvador? How the Russian mafia fought battles all over Brooklyn in the 1990s?
B (0:37)
What about that time I got lost in the Burmese jungle hunting the world's biggest meth lab? I'm Sean Williams.
A (0:42)
And I'm Danny Gold, and we're the host of the Underworld podcast. We're journalists that have traveled all over, reporting on dangerous people and places, and every week, we'll be bringing you a new story about organized crime from all.
B (0:53)
Over the world, available wherever you get your podcasts. February 1, 2013. Paramaribo, capital of Suriname. An old English and Dutch colonial slave port situated at the point where the winding Suriname river meets the Atlantic Ocean. Since the country's independence from the Netherlands in 1975 and a bitter civil war that followed, nothing much has happened here. At least little to make international headlines, save perhaps for it being the birthplace of some of the world's greatest footballers. Seriously? Edgar Davids, Clarence Seedorf, Aaron Winter, Jimmy Floyd Hasselbank and Ru Hullit. And Frank Rykard's stats were from Maribo, too. Imagine how good that national side could have been. What formation would you even go for? Sorry. Sorry. Where was I? Oh, yeah, crime. It's the crime podcast, isn't it? Besides the birthplace of brilliant footballers, not a huge amount happens in Paramaribo. Population a quarter million. Except perhaps crime. Because while America's war on drugs has chased some traffickers away from land routes in Mexico or seaports in Colombia or the Dominican Republic, the cocaine trade is like a big, squishy balloon. Squeeze one part of it, the air pops out in another, and Suriname, poorly policed and perched between the Amazon and the Atlantic, is a perfect place for them to do business. Perhaps that's why since the 1980s, the nation has been under the de facto control of a tiny cadre of crooks and violent narcos, not least among them Desi Bautas, a murderous military officer who committed Suriname's most notorious massacre in 1982. Then another in 1986. Became the country's dictator before dipping his toes in the booming 90s cocaine trademark. First a little, then a hell of a lot, copping in an 11 year sentence in the Netherlands in absentia along the way. Incredibly, though, in 2010 Baltirce had become Surinamese leader once more, this time via the ballot box, celebrating rather than playing down his checkered past. You could barely script a better place for cartels to ply their trade. But on this particular February day in 2013, it's not Balturst the elder, but his son Dino, a shaven headed facsimile of his old man who's about to get himself in an ocean of hot water. Dino has already been convicted of a major crime once, having smuggled huge quantities of drugs, weapons and luxury cars in 2003, but he hadn't served half his sentence then before tasting freedom, after which he was appointed the chief of Suriname's anti terror unit. I wonder who got him that job. Still, Dino wants more, which is why he's joined on February 1st at his office, not by faithful public servants, but a compatriot drug trafficker known to most only as Brian Blue and two men claiming to be members of a major Mexican cartel. Dino tells them he can help move product through Suriname, through the Caribbean and into the United States. States? We can do transit from here to Trinidad to Miami, dino tells them. Matter of fact, Dino can also source weapons if that's what the narcos are after. Even landmines, as long as they're not used on his home turf. He whips out a pen and paper and starts writing down details of the men's fake Surinamese passports. You're going to be 47, he tells One and switches to the second man. And you're going to be 53. When he tells them what their aliases will be and one of the men fails to write it down correctly, Dino jokes, you don't know how to write down your own name. Dino and Blue cut a deal with the pair to move 450 kilos of product through Suriname's airport rather than its shipping lanes. It'll be identifiable via tags on the baggage and treated with a chemical to throw sniffer dogs off the scent. Then Dino pulls out his piece de la resistance. He strides around the back of his desk, opens his safe and pulls out a rocket launcher. An actual real life rocket launcher. He hands it to one of the Mexicans. It's an law, dino tells him. A light anti tank weapon. It's a decent clincher and the men shake hands the deal is done. It'll keep getting wilder over the coming months. Stuff added to it, and ironically it'll soon include a pledge to provide lodgings to member of Lebanon's narco jihadists in chief, Hezbollah. Pretty ironic for an anti terror chief, in case you haven't twigged it yet. Yes, of course the entire thing is a setup. The two guys aren't Mexican cartel, and Dino and his friend Blue are busy talking themselves into one of the DEA's most successful stings in years. As they say in Dutch, strong and knicker shit's getting serious. This is the Underworld podcast. Hello and welcome to the weekly dose of organized crime and chaos that's way better than whatever Half Arsed Christmas Special 0 Other favorite podcasts are churning out. My name is Sean Williams, the tired and weathered reporter. I actually wrote down withered but weathered works fine as well, right? And I am based for the next few weeks at least in Wellington, New Zealand, until I go somewhere else that's a little bit more lively. And I'm joined today by Danny Gold, documentarian and fiercely reputed lover in New York City. I don't know about you, but I'm done for the year. Bread, sauce, bad movies and cricket all the way from here.
