“Guerrilla Filmmaking – a True Story” Part IV
By Alex Ceppi
July 20th, 2017
Diab Fattah, the terrorist, slipped through everybody’s fingers – he was deplaned through the back of the aircraft by two DISIP (Venezuelan Political Police), put on a jeep waiting on the airport tarmac and driven away never to be seen again. The FBI called Ferreira to have the terrorist returned to the US for an in-depth interrogation regarding his alleged partner, Hani Hanjour, and the other 9/11 terrorists; but there was no way to comply with the FBI’S request; Diab Fattah was gone.
But Fattah had not vanish into thin air; he was hiding in plain sight – he was spotted working the counter at “La Gran Dama”, a little-nothing bathing suit store located in the heart of Margarita Island. I know this to be true because I stood right next to him while one of my associates photographed him from a distance.
* * *
I took the $5,000 I had raised and, committed to shooting the first half of the documentary, hired a former military intelligence officer, currently working as a detective for the PTJ – Policia Tecnica Judicial – to help out. The man known only as Chucho, promised to deliver Diab Fattah and more; he claimed to have connections on “the island” that could lead us to him – connections within the Hezbollah group we all knew was protecting Diab Fattah. In retrospect, it all sounded crazy, but Chucho had been recommended to me by a common acquaintance; he also looked corrupt and unstable enough, which in this case was a good thing – who else but an unstable corrupt officer would successfully play both sides the way he claimed he could?
The team and I sat by the gate at the Caracas airport concourse waiting to board our flight to Margarita Island – each trying to mind his own business but Chucho who, on “selling” mode, was pitching me this guy he knew who claimed had struck a friendship with somebody from the inside of the Hezbollah brotherhood.
“He’s the real thing, man… I know… trust me”
I may have been new at this game, but I did not trust anyone – I knew Chucho would flip on me on a dime. In this country, money talked and bullshit walked and $5,000 was not a lot of money; so all anyone had to do to hurt us, was offer Chucho a little more money and I, and the team, were toast. What can I say other than I knew the risks and that a boy scout could never get me where I needed to go – the game was on and I needed to get the info as quickly as possible. Time was not our friend – I knew the longer we were at it, the more likely we were to be made and get in real trouble. So we got on that plane and marched on. There was no turning back for me now.
* * *
An unmarked SUV picked us up upon our arrival in Margarita Island – the driver was a big but mild-mannered guy; he wore a bushy beard and must have weighed at least three hundred and twenty pounds – lean as an ox, he was all muscle. His name was Anton.
Anton was the guy Chucho was pitching me while at the airport terminal in Caracas and the man we’d later trust with our lives as the situation worsened. He was laser-focused and had great instincts; he knew exactly what we were looking for and what would work on the screen; and so he took us on a drive through the town of “Juan Griego” – or as it was popularly known, “Little Beirut”.
As its nickname would suggest, the small town of Juan Griego was mostly populated by Arabs, with retail signage only inscribed in Arabic and a townscape that, once low in density, was now peppered with tall mosques and Islamic centers. I was shocked. I remember visiting this same town as a kid; it was a quaint village populated by fishermen. Where were they now? When did this town turn? And what was the trigger?
Anton had all the answers – he commanded the subject matter like no one I had previously spoken with and he knew exactly when to disclose it. For now, all we had to be aware of is that we were driving through Hezbollah territory; that all the stores we were surrounded by were Hezbollah owned, and that they played a critically important role in their money laundering strategy.
“Diab Fattah was a collector”, Anton said. “He collected for the Hezbollah. This was his neighborhood before he was promoted and sent north to the US”
And just as he said this, he parked the SUV across the street from “La Gran Dama”, Diab Fattah’s swimsuit store.
“This is his place…”, Anton snapped. “This is where we’ll get the shot”
We stared at the store as if waiting for Diab Fattah to mysteriously appear and pose for the photo; but instead, we were faced with three large and unfriendly looking Arabs – all packing heat and a serious attitude.
A shiver crawled down my spine and I just knew this was only the beginning of something terrifyingly dangerous. The crew turned to me as if hoping for me to call it quits and end the investigation right then and there; instead, all they got in return was a huge nervous smile and a thumbs-up.
I know… they thought I’d gone “loco”!
For more on “Guerrilla Filmmaking – A True Story”, and the hunt for DIAB FATTAH, come back to storyrocket.com next week.
See you then,