Editor's Note: About five years ago, local author Steven Womack met a pilot named Jim Wilbert who, like many people the writer has been acquainted with, told Womack that he had an interesting story to tell. "I've had lots of people come up to me over the years saying that," Womack says. "Jim is the first person who really had the goods to back it up." It led Womack to do extensive research and even to offer some of his findings in a federal court case Wilbert has filed in Nashville. This is Wilbert's story.

Jim Wilbert likes to joke that he's living every teenager's dream: he gets high, goes fast and makes a lot of noise. Only he does it legally, in a Falcon 10 jet.

A pilot with over 19,000 hours in the air, Wilbert has flown everything from cloth-covered biplanes to commercial airliners. In addition to conventional planes of every imaginable type, he's logged serious time in helicopters, gliders and rare, esoteric aircraft like the autogiro. His work has taken him all over the world, from the South Pacific, to Latin America, to the most remote parts of Canada and Alaska, Africa, Asia and Russia.

Wilbert's life as a pilot has also led him to brush a few famous shoulders as well. He flew Paul Tsongas' campaign plane during the Massachusetts senator's failed bid for the presidency. He piloted Bill Cosby's private jet, and Paul and Linda McCartney were so fond of him that when Wilbert and his wife celebrated the birth of their second daughter, the McCartneys sent them a bottle of Cristal champagne.

With all his experience and his lifetime of adventure, though, Wilbert is strangely modest. "I'm just a dumb-shit throttle jockey who's had more fun than any one person should ever have in one lifetime," he says, grinning, during an early interview. "I'm a glorified chauffeur. That's my motto: 'you call, we haul, that's all, ya'll.' "

Yet in the spring of 1996, Wilbert's life of flying and adventure took a dark turn that still haunts him. He became a pawn in an international chess game played at the highest levels of wealth, power and politics. From the financial canyons of Wall Street to the corrupt backwater capitals of tiny African fiefdoms, Jim Wilbert's fate was bandied about in a complex web of corporate and political intrigue.

Statistically speaking, air travel aboard a major U.S. commercial air carrier within the airspace of the contiguous United States is the safest way on the entire planet to get from Point A to Point B. From the moment a commercial airliner rolls off the factory floor, it is the most closely watched machine on Earth, with perhaps the single exception of a nuclear reactor. Yet with all the care, craft, maintenance and millions of man-hours and dollars invested in keeping a jet safely in the air, these pampered machines eventually grow old and tired.

So what becomes of these old birds?

The answer won't provide a great deal of comfort to the flying public, especially those who patronize airlines catering to the less developed nations of the world. The truth is, aviation regulation in third-world countries is more prone to lax enforcement than in more developed nations. And it's to these less developed countries that America's retired commercial jetliners eventually fly.

The business that gets them there is both competitive and lucrative. Companies buy aircraft retired by the majors—American Airlines, Delta, Northwest and the like—and then lease or sell them to obscure foreign airlines with names like Aeroturf, Air Berkina or Prestige Airways. Financing is flexible, deals are made on a one-to-one basis and the brokering companies are all low-profile. Often, they are located away from major urban centers, as if anonymity were a plus in this business.

One such company is C&S Acquisitions. Headquartered in New York City, its base of operations is located at the Smyrna Airport. Locals know the airport as the former Sewart Air Force Base, which closed in the early 1960s. The Smyrna Airport is immense, its main landing strip able to accommodate B-52s with ease. The C in C&S Acquisitions stands for Catsimatidis—John Catsimatidis, the 55-year-old chairman and CEO of the Red Apple Group. Born in Greece, Catsimatidis is a prolific businessman. While still an undergraduate, he opened a grocery store that ultimately grew into a string of stores now operating under the names "Sloan's" and "Gristede's"—two labels that dominate the New York City area. Over time, he expanded his interests to include oil refining, real estate, publishing and national Democratic politics. A Democratic fund-raiser and power broker on a national scale, he is perhaps the nation's most powerful Greek American.

Catsimatidis also developed a passion for aviation, becoming a pilot himself and investing in a number of aviation businesses. Ultimately, he concentrated his aviation interests in C&S Acquisitions. By 1996, Jim Wilbert had been one of his nearly 10,000 employees for almost a decade.

In February 1996, a Washington, D.C., aircraft broker got a line on someone seeking to lease or purchase used jetliners for an airline start-up in Africa. The broker called Mark Kassner, C&S chief financial officer. Kassner met with the broker and two men who represented the buyer in New York City, then arranged to have them meet with Jim Wilbert in Smyrna to see the C&S fleet.

In late February, the broker and the two buyer reps flew to Nashville, then drove out to Smyrna to meet Wilbert, who was introduced to the two men: Rene Dubois and Moumouni Dieguimde, both from Africa, they explained, and representing a very wealthy and powerful man whose dream was to start an airline that would be named after the village where he was born.

This man was Foutanga Dit Babani Sissoko. Born in the Malian village of Dabia, Sissoko would call his airline Air Dabia.

Wilbert had no way of knowing it at the time, but Sissoko's dream would become Wilbert's nightmare.

For all his wealth and political influence, astonishingly little has ever been written about the mysterious man known to friends, sycophants and victims alike as "Baba." Former Miami New Times reporter Jim DeFede has written the only extensive articles on Sissoko, in a 1997 series called "The Baba Chronicles."

DeFede portrayed Sissoko as a mysterious, cult-like figure whose immeasurable wealth seemed to come out of nowhere. Born in Dabia, Mali—a village so remote that easiest access is by air—he managed to amass a fortune of mythic proportions. He's been described as a remarkably charismatic man who can charm anyone instantly. Implausibly generous, he routinely writes large checks to "cash" and then hands them out to strangers. He donated $300,000 to a Miami high school marching band so they could buy new uniforms to march in the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade. A devout Muslim, he once turned down a massage because it was improper for any woman who was not one of his four wives to touch him—then tipped the masseuse $10,000 for the insult.

Yet equally legendary are the stories of Sissoko manipulating his employees and hangers-on, refusing to pay them for months at a time, then leaving them penniless and stranded in faraway places when they fell out of favor.

Over the next couple of months, Rene Dubois and Moumouni Dieguimde (who picked up the nickname "Alpha") lived high and fast, spent untold amounts of Sissoko's money and oversaw the negotiations for the aircraft. The negotiations and preparations were intense and moved forward quickly. The deal was finally made: Sissoko would acquire two 727-200s from C&S Acquisitions in a lease/purchase deal, along with a complete package of spare parts for his start-up airline, Air Dabia.

Late at night on March 25, 1996, Wilbert, his first officer Jerry McNiece and the rest of the flight crew departed Smyrna Airport in the first 727 for the long trip to Africa. Curiously, in a paperwork mistake that would prove devastating, a local FAA official had checked the wrong box on a temporary airworthiness certificate that limited the jet to daytime visual flight rules over uncongested areas. It seemed like a casual mistake at the time, but its repercussions were serious.

In the early morning hours of March 26, they landed at JFK, then the crew headed to Mali in Africa by way of Newfoundland and Iceland. Finally, on March 29, they delivered the 727 to Air Dabia in Lomé, a thriving, busy port on the Gulf of Guinea.

Wilbert and his crew thought their job would be finished once the 727 was delivered and signed over to Sissoko. But Sissoko had other ideas. He asked Wilbert and crew to stay on for a few days. He had urgent business in several African cities, and his own flight crews hadn't completed their training. So, for the next week or so, Wilbert and his crew operated an appallingly expensive taxi service, chauffeuring Sissoko and his entourage all over central Africa. At times, they hauled rugs, wives and, at one point, goats. But by April 9, Wilbert was back in New York City on his way home.

By the time Wilbert got back to Smyrna, though, the deal was beginning to fray at the edges. There was confusion over exactly when the lease/purchase option was to be exercised, where the shipment of spare parts was to be delivered and how it was to be paid for. Sissoko had also agreed to purchase four other airplanes that C&S had coming back from a lease to TWA. All Baba needed to do was fly to Dubai in the United Arab Emirates to make the arrangements for the transfer of funds.

Catsimatidis decided to send Wilbert back to Africa to nail down the details and to find out exactly what Sissoko expected as part of this deal. Unfortunately, as Wilbert soon learned, clarity was easier sought than gained.

He arrived in Africa on April 21. There, he met with Sissoko and, through translators, managed to work out enough of the kinks to move ahead on the deal. Questions regarding the flight crews were largely resolved, and it was agreed that the second 727 would be ferried to Africa. On April 25, Wilbert flew Sissoko and his entourage to Bamako, Mali, to meet the second 727. A ceremony had been planned, with prominent government officials—including the president of Mali—invited to tour the Air Dabia planes. They would stay there a few days, and then fly on to Dubai, where Sissoko would arrange payment for the four TWA jets.

But the plan didn't come together as Wilbert expected. From the moment he arrived, he sensed a certain strained atmosphere surrounding Sissoko and his men.

The two or three days in Bamako stretched into five, then six. Word would come down from Sissoko that departure was imminent, then nothing would happen. Then the schedule changed again. On the way to Dubai, there'd be another stop in Banjul, the port capital of The Gambia. The group would stay in Banjul for a few days, then fly on to Dubai to finalize the deal for the four TWA jets.

That was the plan, but it too fell apart.

At the Gambia International Airport, the crew and its passengers passed through customs quickly; someone of Sissoko's prestige and power was not often delayed. The group then shuttled to the Kairaba Beach Hotel, a luxurious hotel frequented by tourists and prestigious diplomatic visitors alike. The hotel sits by the Atlantic Ocean about seven miles outside Banjul, with a gorgeous beach, all the amenities and a fine restaurant. As the group approached in their vans and limousines, something struck Wilbert as odd: the hotel was surrounded by chain link security fences and solid walls, all topped by razor wire.

The group ate and settled into their rooms for the night. The next morning, Wilbert and Jerry McNiece sat around, waiting for someone to tell them what was next. They expected to be in Banjul two, maybe three, days at the most, then on to Dubai. After three days, they learned that Sissoko had arranged for the entire Air Dabia fleet—three 727s and a single Hawker jet—to fly into Banjul. The Gambian president, 31-year-old Yayeh Jammeh, would be given the grand tour of Sissoko's newly acquired fleet.

Wilbert and Jerry McNiece had put on dog-and-pony shows before, but never for an African dictator. They donned dress uniforms and headed for the airport. Soon, President Jammeh and his entourage, dressed in military camouflage, arrived and toured each of the jets. The tour went off as scheduled, but from that moment on, Wilbert knew something was wrong.

No one said anything about leaving Banjul. Two days later, in the middle of the night, there was a knock at Wilbert's door. Baba needed to see him—now.

Sissoko, his translator Rene Conti, Serge Comminges and several other hangers-on told Wilbert that someone at the Lomé airport had raised questions about the C&S 727s having the proper paperwork. There were other questions regarding the certifications and licensing of the jets associated with them being leased rather than owned.

Years later, Wilbert would speculate why those questions had been raised. During the time Catsimatidis was taking over a Tennessee company and morphing it into C&S Acquisitions, several people lost their jobs. Among them were two disgruntled ex-employees who went to work for the Nashville Flight Standards Office of the Federal Aviation Administration.

Wilbert would eventually claim that they and perhaps others in Nashville had made phone calls to Africa, suggesting that somehow the paperwork and clearances for the two aircraft were improper. In any case, the deal between Sissoko and C&S gradually began to fray. (FAA officials refused repeated requests for interviews.)

Sissoko decided to solve the problem by having Wilbert sign a bill of sale for one of the airplanes, giving him ownership. Wilbert explained that it wasn't his airplane; he had no authority to sign it over to anyone. Sissoko would have to work that out with Mark Kassner and John Catsimatidis in New York.

Baba was unhappy, but he let Wilbert leave the meeting. It would be the one of the last times Wilbert would be allowed to leave anything for a while.

The next few days became a blur, as Wilbert was called into meetings in the middle of the night with Sissoko, where he says he was badgered and accused of trying to defraud Sissoko. Baba wanted to know why the engine/airframe combinations had been changed. Why were the engines replaced on the two 727s? Wilbert explained that Sissoko's men, Rene and Alpha, not he, had made those decisions back in Smyrna. It was all in the paperwork.

But Sissoko wasn't interested in paperwork. He exploded—Wilbert was trying to defraud him. The 727s were bad, the spare parts package not worth the $250,000 Baba had agreed to pay. Wilbert protested again. Rene and Alpha had priced the parts themselves after getting estimates back in the States. They were the ones who decided on the price and the terms.

Sissoko would hear none of it. The only way to make it right was for Jim to sign the airplane over to him, which Jim had no legal right to do. After one particularly tense meeting, Wilbert announced that he was leaving, going home.

No, Rene Conti informed him, he was not. "If you attempt to leave," Conti said, "you will be in serious trouble."

Wilbert left the meeting anyway. He would catch a ride into Banjul, and with his international crew I.D., he could claim jump-seat privileges. Any airplane would fly him out of Banjul—to Dakar, Senegal, perhaps, or Lagos, Nigeria. He'd be home, out of this madhouse, in a couple of days.

Then there was a pounding on his hotel door again. Again, Baba wanted to see him—now. Wilbert went to Sissoko's room, where he found himself surrounded by all of Sissoko's chief enforcers: Rene Conti, Rene Dubois, Serge Comminges, Alpha. Sissoko, speaking through Conti, told Wilbert he wasn't going anywhere, not until he signed the bill of sale. Wilbert explained, in one last attempt to talk some sense into him, that even if he did sign the document, it would be meaningless. Wilbert had no authority; it wasn't his airplane.

Wilbert had always suspected Sissoko spoke and understood more English than he let on. Now he knew, as Sissoko eyed him coldly and spoke directly to him.

"You no go," he said.

With those three words, Jim Wilbert's fate was sealed: he had been promoted from glorified chauffeur to full-time hostage.

Wilbert could call his wife, and frequently did, but there was no way he could tell her how touchy the situation had gotten. For one thing, he didn't want to worry her. For another, he suspected his calls were being monitored, and Sissoko's people were controlling all lines in and out of the hotel. When he called home or to the C&S offices in New York City, the calls went through. When he tried to call the U.S. Embassy in Gambia, the lines were mysteriously down.

Anyone unfamiliar with the situation and the politics might speculate that Wilbert had become paranoid. But as he would testify in his court case some 16 months later: "You have to understand the situation here. Sissoko is all-powerful in these countries. Where he goes, there are entourages, bodyguards. He passes out money, hundreds of people camp outside his house or hotel, wherever he is staying. It's more of a cult than anything. Logic doesn't apply."

Wilbert was in frequent contact with John Catsimatidis and Mark Kassner in New York. At first, he sensed that they weren't taking this situation seriously. This was a minor hitch, a bureaucratic snafu that was going to be a hassle to untangle, but little else. During one conversation, Catsimatidis implied that government help was on the way. At least, that was the inference Jim drew.

Meanwhile, the middle-of-the-night meetings continued, always with the same ultimatum: either Wilbert signed a bill of sale or he would never leave Africa.

Finally, after nearly three weeks, Wilbert decided to make his move.

Air Senegal ran a daily commuter flight from Dakar to Banjul and back, so Wilbert timed his escape with the commuter schedule. He packed his bags and left them with Jerry McNiece, who promised that he would find a way to get his belongings back to the States. Then he dressed casually, like someone just sightseeing for the day.

"The idea was that I was going to go to Senegal to pick up a part for one of the airplanes. Everybody knew I wasn't a mechanic, but it made sense that I'd want to see the part," Wilbert says.

He boarded the airport shuttle with no problems. Tucked safely in his pockets were his passport, his pocket logbook with his pilot's license, and his international crew I.D.—everything he needed to climb into the jump seat on any international flight out of The Gambia.

But at the airport, Sissoko's people spotted him. "All of a sudden, this guy walks up in a suit," Wilbert recalls. "And he's got three guys with big guns, military fatigues, the whole bit. And he says 'Captain Wilbert?' and I said 'yes,' and he said 'come with me.' Two of the guys brought their guns down to bear on me. They took me around the back, through a back door in the tarmac, into this room. They searched me, took my passport, my crew I.D. and my pocket logbook. They roughed me up, slammed me against the wall.... I was scared shitless."

They loaded him in the back of an army truck and took him back to the razor wire hotel. From then on, Wilbert was watched night and day.

Over the next few days, Wilbert tried to get his passport and other papers back. The passport—which had technically been taken by Gambian security officials—was mysteriously "misplaced," lost in channels. Every few days, the knock would come in the middle of the night, and Wilbert would be ordered down for another session of demands. The subject was always the same: Jim must sign the papers. And the answer was always another refusal.

If anything positive came out of the incident at the Banjul airport and the subsequent confrontations, it was that now everyone was finally paying attention to this situation. Catsamatidis and Kassner in New York seemed to realize that not only was their deal in danger, but one of their most valuable employees was too. Reached this week by the Scene, Catsimatidis downplays Wilbert's story and says that the machinations in Africa were indeed sketchy but not quite as dramatic as Wilbert says. "You get what you call the African shuffle," the businessman says dismissively. "Can the same thing happen if you shipped an airplane to some Arab? Yeah. If you shipped an airplane to some Israeli? Yeah."

In any case, Sissoko sent two of his most trusted lieutenants—Moumouni Dieguimde (Alpha) and Serge Comminges—to New York to negotiate Wilbert's release. Even today, eight years after his hostage ordeal, Wilbert is still unsure about what happened in those negotiations. As Serge and Alpha bargained with Catsimatidis, there seemed little evidence of federal involvement. Whether Wilbert's employer ever sought government help for him is a matter of conjecture. In any case, none ever came. Catsimatidis tells the Scene none was needed. "He was not in a jail," he says of Wilbert. "He was in a luxury hotel. He was there while we were finishing the transaction."

It seems undisputed, though, that he could only move around within the limited confines of the Kairaba Beach Hotel compound. Watched constantly, under relentless stress, his health began to suffer. At first, it was simple weight loss. But the longer he stayed in Africa, the more ill he became. He was losing weight at a frightening rate and was plagued by fevers and a general malaise. As his doctors would later explain, there are tropical diseases throughout Africa that modern medicine still doesn't have names for.

Then, on June 11, 1996, it was over as suddenly as it had begun. Jim was hustled out to the Banjul airport, where he was put on one of Sissoko's 727s—to be piloted by his friend and former first officer, Jerry McNiece.

On the afternoon of June 12, Wilbert finally set foot back on U.S. soil. No one from C&S Acquisitions met him at the gate. Instead, he was once again confronted by Serge and Alpha.

"They drove me to LaGuardia airport," Wilbert recalls. "On the way, I was warned that everything had been worked out between John and Sissoko and I'd better keep my damn mouth shut, because Sissoko's arms were very long. He knew where I lived, knew I had a family."

Wilbert's release had indeed been negotiated, and the agreed upon ransom was $315,000, according to transcripts from New York court proceedings in which Catsimatidis' company sued Sissoko and included Wilbert in the claim as well. Catsimatidis, however, says whether it was a "ransom" is in the eye of the beholder. "Different people like to fantasize in different ways," he says. "The best solution was, we gave them a discount from the agreed upon price, and that was it. You want to call that a ransom or you want to call that a business transaction."

A week after his return home, Wilbert and his family drove north, stopping in Pennsylvania at the Hershey factory, and then on to his wife's parents in Connecticut. It was badly needed downtime for them all.

In the weeks and months after his return, Wilbert's health continued to deteriorate. His weight dropped further, eventually bottoming out at 138 pounds. His breathing became more difficult, the fevers and sweats more intense all the time. Finally, his doctors decided he had malaria and began treating him for it, but the medication didn't work. For months he was in and out of the doctor's office, with no improvement. He went into the hospital for tests and, while there, his condition suddenly worsened. He went into intensive care, and his wife prepared herself for the worst.

Doctors decided to open him up, and what they found shocked them. Wilbert had contracted a rare form of bacterial pneumonia that settles on the outside of the lungs. As the bacteria grows, it congeals into a hard shell, prohibiting the lungs from expanding and contracting in normal breathing patterns. Wilbert didn't know it, but he was slowly suffocating to death.

The operation was long and brutal, the incision continuing from the middle of his back around his left side and across the abdomen. Doctors literally scraped the hard shell from his lungs, then sewed him back up, pumped him full of antibiotics and waited.

Eventually, Wilbert recovered, but it took a very long time.

In many ways, the physical damage Wilbert suffered paled in comparison to the emotional and mental stress. Sissoko's people had threatened him. He had been in risky situations before as a pilot, but this was different. This time it wasn't just his life on the line. Finally, he worked through all the emotions and came to the healthiest resolution possible. He decided to get even.

He went to Catsimatidis and told him he was going to sue Sissoko for everything he had, but Wilbert says Catsimatidis asked that he hold off until the Air Dabia deal was finalized. Catsimatidis tells the Scene that he never negotiated with Sissoko after that deal. "We sued the guy in federal court; we sued the hell out of him," Catsimatidis says. "We provided Mr. Wilbert legal representation."

In any case, Sissoko was about to get his.

In late July, 1996, Serge and Alpha traveled from New York to Miami, where they met with a Florida firm that deals in used helicopters. For some reason no one can to this day fathom, they were in a desperate hurry to buy helicopters and made a deal to purchase two Vietnam-war era Bell helicopters for $270,000 on behalf of Sissoko. The only problem was that the company that sold them the choppers couldn't ship them. Serge and Alpha frantically rushed around Miami trying to find anyone who could ship two helicopters to Africa. In typical fashion, the two bumblers threw money around, shot their mouths off and bragged how they were part of a movement to overthrow various African governments. Not surprisingly, this drew the attention of the local branch of U.S. Customs, who soon discovered that Serge and Alpha had not applied for the necessary export licenses.

Serge and Alpha—unaware that they were being trailed now by customs agents—arranged to have the two helicopters trucked to Miami and loaded on a cargo plane. Customs agents came in the next day and seized the helicopters before the plane could take off. At this point, the case was a civil one. Sissoko would pay a fine for not getting the license, then get the licenses, and the choppers would be good to go.

But Serge and Alpha decided to handle the situation the way these matters are handled in Africa. After clearing it with Sissoko, they offered customs agent Jeffrey Outlaw $30,000 to let the helicopters go. On Aug. 23, Serge, Alpha and another Sissoko lieutenant, Miriama Darboe, met Outlaw in the parking lot of the Miami Airport Hilton hotel and handed him $5,000 as a down payment. They were promptly arrested.

Meanwhile, Catsimatidis had emerged as a key national Democratic fundraiser, and, according to a Miami New Times story, he arranged to have Sissoko invited to the White House for dinner with President Bill Clinton on Sept. 6, 1996. (Catsimatidis denies this, saying that, at the time, he was arranging dinner parties on behalf of the Democratic National Committee. Because Sissoko's name was in his Rolodex, Catsimatidis says, his secretary faxed him an invitation. "All he got was a Xerox of a proposed invitation," the businessman tells the Scene.)

He may never have gotten Secret Service clearance, though. In fact, Sissoko's chance to break bread with Clinton was foiled when Interpol executed a warrant for his arrest in Switzerland, charging him with attempted bribery of U.S. Customs officials. Sissoko responded to his arrest by hiring Miami's top attorneys and a host of other lobbyists and representatives, including former Indiana Sen. Birch Bayh.

After two months in a Swiss jail, Sissoko dropped his fight against extradition and was flown to Miami, where he was promptly charged with attempted bribery and violation of federal export regulations. When booked, he used President Clinton as a reference. Somehow, this failed to impress local court officials. His bail was set at a staggering $20 million, the highest bail ever set for a defendant in the Southern District of Florida.

Sissoko paid it within a matter of hours and was freed.

He then bought several condos and private residences in Florida, moved in his wives and his entourage, and went on a campaign to build his public image and fight the charges against him. He gave away hundreds of thousands, perhaps millions, of dollars randomly. He enlisted the help of prominent African Americans, including the actor Sherman Helmsley. Birch Bayh flew to Washington and worked the halls of Congress, enlisting the aid of Sen. Barbara Mikulski, Rep. Barney Frank and other heavy hitters in an attempt to lobby the Justice Department to lighten up on Sissoko. The African American members of Florida's congressional delegation—Carrie Meek, Alcee Hastings and Corrine Brown—were especially passionate in their defense of Sissoko. Rep. Brown ultimately paid a high price for her involvement with Sissoko; the House Ethics Committee subjected her to a full investigation regarding gifts she and her family accepted from Sissoko, including a Lexus for her daughter. Ultimately, she was cleared in the investigation, but her reputation was stained by the experience.

While all this drama was going on in Miami, Catsimatidis included Wilbert as a plaintiff in a lawsuit in New York federal court, seeking damages against Sissoko for unlawful imprisonment and mental distress. By this time, however, Wilbert was at the end of a long line of claimants against Sissoko.

In Miami, the case against Sissoko was weak; the customs agent had clearly been encouraging Serge and Alpha to offer him a bribe, and at one point, Sissoko is heard on a tape telling Outlaw that he didn't want to do anything illegal. If it was illegal for Outlaw to take the "gift," then Sissoko didn't want to offer it. This, along with Sissoko's money, no doubt, accounted for the passionate defense that Sissoko's team was giving him.

Finally, in January 1997, Sissoko pleaded guilty to a reduced charge of authorizing an illegal gratuity. In March, he was sentenced to the minimum penalty possible: four months in jail followed by four months of house arrest and a $250,000 fine. With credit for time served in Geneva, Sissoko owed the government precisely 43 days. Even then, it would be six months before Sissoko served his time. Attorneys representing the government of The Gambia filed an appeal, claiming that Sissoko deserved diplomatic immunity.

Eventually, Sissoko served his 43 days in federal prison, then retreated to his luxury condominium to serve his house arrest. Wilbert says that, at Catsimatidis' urging, he flew to Miami and met with Sissoko in an attempt to settle his lawsuit out of court. The meeting went nowhere, but at least Wilbert could walk out when it ended.

One month into his term of house arrest, Sissoko's attorneys cut a deal with U.S. District Court Judge K. Michael Moore. Over the strident objections of federal prosecutors, Sissoko donated $1.2 million to a Miami homeless shelter. Days later, Sissoko boarded a plane for The Gambia.

Several months later, a scandal involving the Dubai Islamic Bank would erupt into worldwide controversy. More charges and lawsuits were filed against Sissoko. Several DIB officials wound up in jail, and the lawsuits stretched all the way into the U.S., with the Dubai Islamic Bank suing Citibank for processing the bank transfers, as well as putting liens on all of Sissoko's U.S. holdings.

As a result, Sissoko, against whom there are still charges and lawsuits pending all across the globe, disappeared. When Wilbert's civil suit finally came to trial, after all the depositions were taken, the interrogatories and motions filed, Sissoko never showed up to defend himself. In a default judgment, Wilbert was awarded $1.4 million in damages, an amount they've never been able to collect. Catsimatidis was awarded a similarly useless judgment.

Wilbert continued to work for C&S Acquisitions, which occupies a small, secluded building nestled on a country road surrounded by Tennessee farmland. For a long time after his return from Africa, Wilbert didn't fly. He says his relationship with Catsimatidis deteriorated over the next few years. Little by little, he felt shut out of company affairs, with less and less to do all the time. On Aug. 28, 2003, he was told that Aug. 31 would be his last day.

In the years since his kidnapping, Wilbert has struggled to continue his career as a pilot. As a result of the charges leveled against him by local FAA officials over the 727s he flew to Africa, his flying record had blemishes. He began a long battle to get the violations removed, ultimately enlisting the help of the Aircraft Owners and Pilots Association and Sen. Bill Frist. Ultimately, he won his case, got his record cleared and has gone back to flying professionally. He recently flew Travis Tritt to several concert dates on his latest tour.

Over the past few years, Wilbert has tried to find the truth about what really happened while he was being held in Africa. Was the local Nashville FAA office involved? Did Catsimatidis enlist the help of the U.S. government to get him released? His attorney has filed several Freedom of Information Act requests with the government, none of which has produced any information.

Finally, Wilbert turned to federal court here. He recently filed a federal civil lawsuit against Catsimatidis, the FAA and the Department of Transportation, along with a number of other individuals, seeking damages arising from his hostage saga. His attorney claims that Wilbert only recently came to believe that Catsimatidis was negligent in seeking help for him during the ordeal in Africa, which is why he's only now taking action against his former boss. The local attorney for Catsimatidis, Penny Harrington, says the statute of limitations—one year—is simply up and that there's no point in arguing the merits of the case. She also says that Wilbert has exaggerated his experience.

And, says Catsimatidis, "I like Jim Wilbert. I know him for 20 years, but he's looking for pie in the sky right now.... Unfortunately, I don't have any pie. He's grabbing at straws."

What is not in dispute, however, is that Sissoko is one hell of a bad guy. And Wilbert was at his mercy.