An exclusive excerpt from David Howard's .

March 9th, 1977: Nassau, Bahamas

Jim Wedick stared at his watch, wiped the sweat off his forehead, and cursed. The line he was standing in snaked around the corner and out of sight. Every few minutes he shuffled forward a few steps.

It was his second day in Nassau, in the Bahamas, which he’d found to be a prototypical Caribbean backwater. Everything happened on island time, including, apparently, the installation of the kinds of utilities folks back home took for granted. Such as telephones.

Phil Kitzer, photographed on July 6, 1965, at age thirty-two. Minneapolis Star Tribune

When Wedick and his fellow undercover FBI agent Jack Brennan had arrived at the Sheraton British Colonial the previous day, they’d been eager to report to their boss back in Indianapolis that their trip had lurched off course unexpectedly. Phil Kitzer, the financial-fraud kingpin with whom they were traveling, had spontaneously zigzagged from Miami to the Bahamas, just because that sounded like fun. But the agents were due home, and they were exasperated to find that the room phone was a relic: It lacked any way to dial. To make a call, a guest lifted the receiver and told the hotel switchboard operator the number of the party he wanted to reach. To call the States, the operator then had to reach another operator capable of accessing an international line—which might take ten minutes or more. Nassau was ideal for honeymooners and Coppertoned sunbathers; marooned agents, not so much.

Brennan and Wedick quickly dismissed the hotel-phone option. Kitzer might wander into the room before the operator reached their boss, Jim Deeghan. Or he could be friendly with an employee who might note an incoming call from the FBI.

Nassau was ideal for honeymooners. Marooned FBI agents, not so much.

So the agents figured the only way to reach Indianapolis safely was via Nassau’s public phone bank. Wedick told Kitzer he was heading out to catch some sights. “Sightseeing?” Kitzer said, grinning incredulously. His idea of relaxation was sitting at a bar on the beach, gabbing with everyone in the vicinity. Wedick, feeling like a high school senior sneaking out his bedroom window, figured he had two hours before Kitzer grew suspicious. But he’d burned through that time without coming close to a phone. Apparently, half of the island needed to make a call.

Wedick pondered his options. If he left without reaching his case agent, Bowen Johnson, the FBI would probably begin to wonder whether their bodies were floating somewhere in the Everglades.

The bureau was a highly regimented organization. Under J. Edgar Hoover, agents had been expected to be at their desks every morning at eight. The boss would leave you alone if you were established and productive, but otherwise he’d sit on you. For Wedick and Brennan to be out of the office for eight days now—and incommunicado on top of that—was an affront to FBI culture. They would undoubtedly be censured later, but they had no other options. Wedick shuffled a few more steps forward and looked at his watch again, then started back toward the Sheraton.

Nothing about these risks and logistical migraines was expected. The agents had stumbled into the operation seven weeks earlier with no undercover training, using their real names. They hadn’t expected to meet Kitzer more than once. At the time, the FBI scarcely assigned undercover work and largely ignored white collar crime. But Kitzer had liked them. He needed new front men, so he’d invited the duo along on his travels.



Lieutenant governor of Hawaii James Kealoha. Getty Images

Wedick and Brennan sold their bosses on the value of wriggling inside Kitzer’s operation. Kitzer’s complex schemes were built on one simple concept: offshore banks. He opened them in places like St. Vincent and Grenada, where if you filled out the paperwork and bribed the right person, no one asked questions. Kitzer then printed out certificates of deposit, letters of credit, and other perfectly official-looking securities, which he then peddled to banks, businessmen, entrepreneurs. The catch, of course: There was no money in his banks. The agents had discovered that over the previous decade, Kitzer and a loose network of co-conspirators, known as the Fraternity, had made millions of dollars flooding the financial system with bogus paper—far more than any bank robber.

Thus far, the agents had just met one of Kitzer’s victims in person: Hawaii’s former lieutenant governor, James Kealoha. He was trying to build a condominium tower on Waikiki Beach, but had struggled to acquire financing in a soft market. Banks wanted him to presell all the condo units before offering a loan. Kealoha wound up connected with Kitzer, who, playing his role as a global financier, had struck a deal the previous autumn to purchase the tower’s remaining 121 apartments with letters of credit from his current vehicle for fraud, a British bank called Seven Oak Finance. Kealoha paid Kitzer $60,000 for this service. The documents he received in return were worthless. But Kealoha, still guilelessly seeking loans and increasingly desperate, had come back for more.

The agents realized the challenge they faced: They not only had to collect evidence on Kitzer’s schemes by following him around the globe. They had to somehow stop him from doing more damage.

A group of three women were talking to the concierge in the Sheraton lobby, asking about dining options, when Kitzer overheard them. He stopped and bantered in a way that Brennan and Wedick recognized as being as effortless as breathing for him. Where are you from? Canada, really? Why don’t you join us for dinner? We’re just on our way out!



The undercover agents exchanged looks: Here we go. It was their third day there; Brennan and Wedick had both checked the phone bank again, but the line only seemed to lengthen. Their anxiety about their situation was gradually intensifying, and, vexingly, Kitzer wouldn’t say how long he wanted to stay in the Caribbean. Maybe he didn’t know yet himself.

Amid it all stood Kitzer, the maestro at the height of his powers, fully in control of the room.

Instead, Kitzer told his friends to get ready for a big dinner. At his behest, the three of them squeezed into a cab, their new acquaintances from Canada sitting on their laps, giggling. Kitzer directed the cabbie downtown to the historic Graycliff Hotel. The property, according to legend, had been built by a pirate in the 1700s, only to be captured, along with the rest of Nassau, by the American navy in 1776. It later became an exclusive private club—Al Capone visited during Prohibition—before being purchased by British royalty in the 1960s. The new owners jammed the place with antiques and high-end decor for visits from the Duke and Duchess of Windsor. Then, in 1973, the property was turned into a hotel with a five-star restaurant, complete with a humidor, overlooking downtown and the Caribbean beyond.

The Graycliff was the kind of place where Kitzer’s proclivity for flashing rolls of hundreds would not go unappreciated. When they arrived, he instructed the cabbie to keep the meter running and wait outside: He didn’t want to have to hail another one when they were finished.

FBI agents Jim Wedick and Jack Brennan. Courtesy of Jack Brennan

Inside, a crowd redolent of old money packed the room, forming a sea of white hair and starchy dinner jackets. Brennan and Wedick felt underdressed in their blazers and slacks. The three men fired up enormous Cuban cigars from the humidor and ordered Drambuie. A pianist began to play. Kitzer perked up and signaled to the maître d’, requesting Tony Bennett’s signature song, “I Left My Heart in San Francisco.”

The pianist knew that one, and also the Sinatra song Kitzer asked for next, and the show-tune requests that followed. Kitzer smiled when he heard the first notes of “Hello, Dolly!,” then rose to his feet and burst into song, signaling for everyone at the table to join him. Brennan and Wedick and the Canadian girls began to sing; then the neighboring table chimed in. The crooning spread like a torch passed from hand to hand, lighting up their surroundings, until the entire place was belting out lyrics and clinking glasses. Brennan gazed across at a septuagenarian British matron wearing a string of pearls, her face beatific and lifted skyward as she sang.

Amid it all stood Kitzer, a huge grin creasing his face, the maestro at the height of his powers, fully in control of the room.

Between songs, the maître d’ approached with a familiar-looking figure hovering behind him. It was the cabbie. His meter had been running for more than two hours; anxious about the ballooning fare, he was asking for partial payment.

Kitzer was irked by the interruption, as well as the implication that he might welsh on the fare. Nearby diners watched as the cabbie haltingly explained that he’d been victimized before, but Kitzer held up a hand, dug into a pocket for his gangster roll, and peeled off enough bills to pay the fare, then dismissed the driver. The wide-eyed cabbie quickly backpedaled: He was happy to wait. He’d just gotten nervous.

Kitzer waved him away. The spell was broken. He asked the maître d’ to call another cab.

This Nagra recorder was the smallest device of its kind in 1977. Agent J.J. Wedick concealed it on his lower back on multiple occasions while traveling with Kitzer. Getty Images

Once they were rolling again, Kitzer told the new driver to take them to an after-hours bar. The overstuffed cab sped out of town, eventually stopping at what seemed like a distant fishing port. The six of them emerged from the car and looked around. The only place in sight was a dingy lounge that was clearly a world away from the tourist schlock of Paradise Island. The bar’s entire clientele turned to stare as they walked in. The undercover agents nonchalantly led the way into a billiards room, settled around a table in the corner, and ordered drinks.



Wedick and Brennan exchanged wary looks. It was amazing how quickly things could turn in Phil’s company. Not an hour ago, they’d been singing “Oklahoma” with British aristocracy. Now they sensed an unwelcome vibe in a dive bar beyond American jurisdiction, where they’d gone without the knowledge of their U.S. Department of Justice employers. With three Canadians. The situation had all the ingredients of a spectacular international incident.

The women passed around a large, decorative ceramic Paradise Island ashtray they’d found on the table—they thought it was a cool souvenir. The group did their best to chat unself-consciously and sip their drinks, even as a patron approached and asked what they were doing there. At that point, Brennan convinced Phil that they should leave. They were all hustling toward the exit when someone yelled, “Hey, you!”

Agent Wedick takes a few moments to relax with a pipe. Courtesy of Jack Brennan

Everyone stopped. The group turned toward the unhappy-looking figure standing behind the bar—probably the owner. He was looking at Phil, who grinned and said, “Me?”

“Yeah! Put it back.”

Phil stood there for a moment, motionless. Everyone looked from him to the owner, confused.

“You know what I’m talking about. Underneath your coat.”

Phil said, “Oh, this?” He pulled a small plastic ashtray from his blazer and held it aloft. “Oh, I was just taking this for the girls,” he said. He placed the tray on a table, and then they turned and left.

Outside, Wedick turned to Phil. “Are you crazy? We were gonna get killed in there.”

Phil grinned and reached into the other side of his jacket. “Fuck those guys,” he said. He produced the larger ashtray the girls had coveted. Everyone stood there, stunned, as he handed it to one of the women. They all stared at it while the girls giggled, and then everyone hurried back into the cab and the driver peeled away into the sultry night.

Two days later, Kitzer greeted his protégés with some welcome news. A Fraternity member reported that Jimmy Kealoha wanted to meet, and they needed to hop on a flight to California. Brennan and Wedick, enormously relieved, quickly packed their bags.



Kitzer constantly carried this model of gold-plated lighter, using it as a conversation starter with women on nights out with the FBI agents throughout 1977. Alamy

But when they climbed into a cab, Phil pointed out that they had some time to burn before the flight and suggested they stop for a last drink. The undercover agents didn’t care to go partying—it was barely past noon—but there was no talking Kitzer out of it. He ordered the cabbie to stop as they reached a large resort. Climbing out of the cab, they could hear music shuddering and saw tourists carrying towels through the lobby. Kitzer nodded to Wedick and Brennan to follow the crowd, and rounding a corner, he stopped and smiled. A band was playing, and besotted patrons were lunging into the pool and sitting under umbrella-shaded tables, clutching drinks from the poolside bar.



Kitzer viewed his first moments walking into scenes like this one as critical. His primary objective was to find an open seat next to a table full of women. That wasn’t an option here—the room was packed—so he settled on a barstool and laid out his lighter. Then he began his routine of buying drinks, lighting cigarettes, pulling two strangers together to dance, or escorting someone onto the floor. Recently he had started incorporating Wedick into his act. Kitzer would approach a woman and say, “My friend likes you.” Or he would tug Wedick into a crowd and say something outrageous or provocative. Wedick found it challenging to escape.

Two more days AWOL would be slow torture.

Now Kitzer leaned toward the others. “You know, we don’t have to catch this flight,” he said. It was Friday afternoon, so they could stay at the beach until Sunday, then fly to Los Angeles in time for work on Monday. Wedick smiled tightly. Two more days AWOL would be slow torture. But it wasn’t so easy to come up with a compelling reason why they needed to leave: he and Brennan had no families or jobs to get back to, as far as Phil knew.



Wedick blurted out the only thing he could think of: “This scene is over, Phil. Southern California has even more women and places to party.”

Kitzer conceded that they could use a change of venue. Seizing the moment, Brennan hauled him to the taxi he’d kept waiting, saying they could still catch the flight if they hustled.

When they reached Miami, Wedick slipped off the plane ahead of the others and sprinted to call the office. Bowen Johnson sounded both apoplectic and sick with worry. Wedick had expected this, of course, but he and Brennan were lucky: It was late Friday afternoon, which meant that even though Indianapolis was furious, Johnson and the others would be ready to start their weekend. Wedick just had to let everyone know they were okay and ward off any kind of communication to headquarters indicating they were missing.

From left, Brennan, Kitzer, and Wedick pose together. Courtesy of James J. Wedick Jr.

Johnson started shouting questions and orders: Where the hell had they been? What did they think they were doing? They better get their asses back to the office immediately.

“Look, Bowen,” Wedick said, cutting him off, “it’s almost five o’clock on Friday, and nobody gives a shit until Monday morning.”

“You have to come back now!” Johnson bellowed.

“Listen: We’ll be there at eight o’clock Monday morning, guaranteed, but it ain’t happening right now. We can’t.”

“I’m ordering you!”

Wedick glanced at the gate. Brennan and Kitzer had emerged from the tunnel and were looking around.

“Bowen, I’m hanging up the phone, but we’ll be there,” Wedick said. “I promise.”

“Don’t hang up!”

Johnson was still shouting as Wedick plunked the receiver down and walked over to join the others. Sure, everyone would still be apoplectic on Monday morning, but that was a problem for Monday.

For now, they had plenty to worry about with Kitzer.

Adapted from Copyright © 2017 by David Howard. Published by Crown, an imprint of Penguin Random House LLC.





