IN THE BAER case, we used the bump—a direct frontal assault—because there was no quick, easy way to work a vouch. We didn’t know anyone on the inside.
But that didn’t mean we didn’t have decent intelligence. Our friends from the Fish and Wildlife Service had busted enough low-level players—so-called traders and pickers who scour reservations for religious artifacts and sell them to the shady gallery dealers—that we knew how the illegal sales worked. To circumvent the eagle feather law, dealers like Baer would speak in code. They always referred to eagle plumes as “turkey” feathers. And they never actually sold artifacts with eagle feathers—they gifted them to customers who also bought legal Native American artifacts at obscenely inflated prices. Such a customer might knowingly pay $21,000 for a legal artifact worth $1,000 and receive an illegal artifact worth $20,000 as a gift.
The afternoon after our brief exchange at the wine-and-cheese reception, we returned to Baer’s gallery and he greeted us warmly.
“C’mon in the back,” Baer said as he opened a door off the gallery floor to a private room. He brought out a set of wooden parrots, and explained that they were used as part of a Jemez Pueblo corn dance. He showed us a Navajo singer’s brush, a sacred artifact used by a medicine man to wipe away evil spirits; and a pair of Jemez hair ornaments, consisting of four foot-long feathers tied to an inch-wide wood shaft. The hair sticks were perhaps one hundred years old, constructed of cotton string, two red-tailed hawk feathers, a golden eagle feather, and a macaw feather.
“It would be hard to imagine something more ceremonial,” Baer said.
Or, I thought, something more illegal. I offered the code phrase. “These are what, turkey?”
“Yep,” Baer said, smiling. “Turkey feathers.”
He quickly made clear he’d received them as a gift from a broker with whom he did a great deal of business. “You know,” he said, “it was a thing like where I purchased something from him and he gave me these.”
“Just like if you had something you could give to Ivar as a gift?”
“Right,” he said. “It’s not the kind of thing that should be sold to somebody. Somebody’s in your life and they’re helping you.”
I smiled. “That’s very commendable.”
Baer laughed.
I turned to Husby. “You’re interested?”
He nodded. “May I take a photograph of this?”
Baer shook his head. “Sorry, can’t allow it.”
“Oh, OK.”
“After I give them to you, then you can take a photograph.” We all laughed again. We were all friends now, conspirators, and Baer began to open up. “I have to be frank with you. It’s really no fun dealing with the federal government in terms of the legality of these things.”
“What’s the problem?” I said.
“They are interested in harassing people who buy and sell American Indian material,” he said. Baer launched into a long justification about how illegally trading sacred Native American artifacts is a victimless crime, one encouraged and manipulated by tribal leaders to reward friends and punish enemies. “It’s a political thing.”
“I had no idea,” Husby said.
“So I’m not going to sit here and ask for identification or be a jerk about this,” Baer said. “I mean, obviously, you guys are serious people. But my concern is that this is not the kind of thing that should be discussed.”
“No, right, right,” I said. I turned to Husby. “I’ve got to find a way to get this to you.”
Baer said, “I understand what he’s looking for. If we have some kind of working relationship, everything will be fine.”
“So, between you and I,” I whispered, acting if such words ought to be said just out of Husby’s earshot, “we’ll just tack on the price?”
“Yes,” Baer said.
I beamed. “I’d like to start up a working relationship.”
Husby and Baer discussed customs hassles for a few minutes. When they finished, I said, “One of the things Ivar was interested in was a war bonnet.”
Baer perked up but didn’t say anything.
“Can you get that?” I asked.
“It would take some time,” Baer said carefully. “It is possible but it’s very, very difficult. It’s not the kind of thing that we can call up and order.”
“No, I understand,” I said.
Husby jumped in. “We have looked on many days and have seen none.”
“I’ll find you one,” Baer said. “But it will take some time.”
I needed time too. I had to get back to Philadelphia.
On the day after Baer promised to find me a headdress, Hurricane Floyd, which had already caused so much flooding and misery in North Carolina, arrived in southeastern Pennsylvania, bringing a foot of water and seventy-mile-an-hour gusts to my neighborhood. Our new home was particularly vulnerable because the builder was still struggling to fix punch-list problems, even two years after we’d moved in. When the storm reached Pennsylvania, Donna called me in Santa Fe to gave me a damage report. The carpets were soaked. Water was flowing down the walls on the inside of the house. The ceilings were bulging with water, leaking everywhere. I imagined the looming bills, new construction headaches—new drywall, stucco, landscaping, gutters, and windows. The Baer case would have to wait. I hustled back to my room and arranged for a flight home.
GOING UNDERCOVER CAN be tough on the family.
You’re gone for long stretches of time. You leave your spouse home alone with the kids, with all their activities, homework assignments, trips to the doctor, housekeeping, and car problems. You can’t say precisely when you’ll leave or when you’ll be back—it might be a few days or it might be weeks. Your spouse knows where you’re going and has a general idea of what you’re doing—and that it might be dangerous—but for your own safety, you tell her she can’t discuss it with anyone.
I certainly leaned on Donna for support. She came from a line of strong women. Her upbringing—especially what she learned from her mother, Jerry—guided us through our toughest times. Jerry would frequently remind us to “slow down and smell the roses.” Whenever Donna’s parents visited, they would bring the boys a bushel of enormous Maryland steamed crabs. Jerry would bring for Kristin her sewing machine and quilting fabric. For Donna, she’d bring hand-sewn drapes to hang in our new home. Jerry lived by example, offering her unconditional love and support, beginning with my car accident and continuing through her long, valiant battle against breast cancer. Donna had the same focus and strength imparted to her by her mother. As a result my family thrived.
Which made it easier for me to go undercover with a clear mind.
UNDER THE FBI’s strict undercover rules, you’re only supposed to work one case at a time. I never followed that rule. It made no sense: Most opportunities in life don’t come along so conveniently, one neatly after the other. It seemed silly to ignore a chance to solve one case simply because another was still evolving. Besides, my supervisors certainly couldn’t complain when I worked multiple cases. They didn’t have an alternative. I was the FBI’s only undercover agent working the art crime beat.
When I returned home to inspect the hurricane damage, I received an e-mail from a Penn museum curator, a woman I’d met during the backflap case. Her tip was unrelated to the Baer investigation, but by coincidence involved the illegal sale of eagle feathers. Someone was offering a war bonnet once worn by the Apache warrior and medicine man Geronimo.