Friday, May 2, 2003 | 5:06 a.m.
EVER WONDER who is behind those "Nigerian" spam e-mails that pitch a deal to make you rich?
I found out it's not anyone who appreciates good old-fashioned American sarcasm.
You may have seen the offers amid the junk mail in your own in-box, supposedly sent from some troubled African national and characterized by sob stories, polite language, and the sweet promise of money.
The basic scam is: The foreigner needs your help investing his money, or he needs to borrow your bank account for various reasons. In exchange, you get millions of dollars. You give him your financial information, plus money for transaction taxes, fees, attorneys and bribes to get the transaction started. Then the crook disappears.
Lately these bogus offers have increasingly flooded my in-box. So I tried to annoy one of them for a change.
Below are excerpts from my e-mail exchanges with "Dr. Ismaila Kewa." Kewa said he was "Director of Engineering & Project of the Nigerian National Petroleum Corporation," whose company gave him $105 million to award to two contractors. Ismaila gave one contractor $64 million and wanted to put the remaining $41 million in my bank account, fooling his bosses into thinking I'm the second contractor. (Silly bosses!) For this I'd get 30 percent of the money. The deal is "100 percent risk and hitch free," he said. Apparently a "mutual acquaintance in the Nigerian Chamber of Commerce" recommended me.
I responded: "Dear Dr. Kewa, Thanks so much for including me in this wonderful venture. Please say hello to my friend in the Nigerian Chamber of Commerce -- I haven't seen that crazy cat since our days together in Tupperware club! I must say securing that $41 million was brilliant, although cynical Americans might call it 'embezzling.' I'd love to help. I'm on the lam and I could use a few million since my last 'business venture' with Vito the Hook went south. My wife has been bugging me for mink earmuffs and a house in the Hamptons, you know how it is, Is. As you suggest, I have some great investment ideas (Those Chicken Dance Elmos are still gold, dude, gold!) And be assured that I agree with you that this transaction is based entirely on trust and the fear of God. I trust you completely, Is."
I signed it: Dr. Benjamin Grove, Starship Enterprises, Inc., LLC, DDS.
(Now, I freely admit that I didn't disclose to Ismaila that I was a journalist, although I did eventually. But Ismaila didn't disclose upfront that he was a scam artist, so I let the ruse unfold a little.)
Ismaila replied with a private telephone number that I was supposed to call. (I didn't.) He wrote: "When you call insist to speak with me and ask me for the password and I will reply you with *****HA50***** ... otherwise hang up and call again. This is to maintain the high level of confidentiality required for the success of this transaction. Please bear with me."
I responded: "Dear Is, I am having difficulty reaching you at the number provided. Please call me on my private line." (I gave him a bogus number). "Per your security precautions, when a man answers, call yourself the Barber of Seville. He'll tell you he is Phyllis Diller. At that point say: 'A wop bop a loo bop a lop bam bam. Tutti frutti. Oh, rutti.' You will then be transferred to me. Call me Bob Saget. Then we can begin the transaction immediately. Thanks!"
Ismaila replied: "I am very upset with the way our transaction is progressing. I do not believe you have provided me with your accurate contact information in good faith. Please call me so that we can discuss better as we are behind time. I await your call. Regards and God bless. Dr. Kewa."
I wrote back: "Is, I have decided to have my lawyer here in Washington look over this deal. His name is John Ashcroft. And I want to run this by the U.S. Secret Service here in Washington, which investigates financial fraud. Did you know that? I forwarded them your information. If someone is knocking on your door right now, you may want to hightail it out the window. Regards and God bless."
I added, "P.S. I'm a newspaper columnist and I'm going to write about this, so you also might want to change your alias."
I haven't heard back from Ismaila.
The Nigerian scam dates to the 1980s when con artists -- often crooks who actually are Nigerian -- sent hand-written letters to U.S. businessmen, according to a State Department report. The scammers used to dig through trade journals, business directories and newspapers looking for names and addresses.
But the Internet and e-mail make the scams far more efficient. The "419" scams -- named for the Nigerian penal code for fraud -- have reached "epidemic proportions" according to the State Department.
Why? People fall for it.
Somewhat unbelievably people are taken in by these con artists, although the Secret Service doesn't know how often it happens. As few as 5 percent of victims report the crimes out of fear or embarrassment, by one estimate, so many times the bad guys get away.
Victims fit a wide variety of profiles, from children to the elderly, Secret Service Special Agent Brian Marr told me. They include Internet-naive do-gooders who genuinely want to help a suffering foreigner, and those who are simply looking for a get-rich-quick deal, Marr said.
The scammed can lose more than their money. Many are lured overseas to complete transactions. Federal authorities say some have been beaten, extorted, even murdered.
Marr said the Secret Service has had some success nabbing the bad guys. The agency works with foreign authorities and even operates an office in Lagos, Nigeria, Marr said.
But the Secret Service can't keep up with one of the most widespread cons on the Internet. In 2001 the agency got 33,000 complaints about the e-mail scam, Marr said. In 2002 it was up to 346,000 complaints. I'm sure the agency had heard about Dr. Ismaila Kewa before, but I did in fact forward his information to Agent Marr.
Incidently, "scam baiting" for a laugh is hardly original. People have created entire websites to post their hilarious conversations with the e-mail hucksters.
As for Ismaila, he's probably still out there. Maybe this is him in an e-mail I just got from a Francis Okumagba, a Nigerian bank officer who says a rich bank patron recently died with no kin, leaving $15 million. He wants my help embezzling it and requests my "confidential" telephone number. "Please appreciate the fact that doing business over the Internet is risky," Francis explains.
Finally, a 419 con artist who speaks the truth.
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