Part 32 (2/2)

'I'm sorry, Howard. No.'

'Can I inform my lawyer?'

'No. But I will inform your family and your lawyers once you are at your destination.'

I was handcuffed and taken to the front gate. Roger Reaves was there, also in handcuffs.

'Howard, it's good to see you, but I've got the most G.o.dawful news. The Americans have charged me with the same s.h.i.+t they laid on you: RICO.'

'What is RICO, Roger?'

'G.o.d knows. They say I grew pot in the Philippines.'

'But you didn't, did you?'

'No, but I was going to. Yes, siree. With the Good Lord's help.'

'What's that got to do with America, Roger?'

'That's where I would have sold it. You know how much good weed goes for in the US these days?'

'But you didn't grow any weed, and you didn't sell any. How can they convict you?'

'Howard, let me tell you something about the US. Whatever those sons of b.i.t.c.hes charge you with, they convict you. I'm talking about the Feds. If it's a state charge, you can maybe beat it. I beat a bunch of them back home in Georgia. But our charges now are all federal charges. You can't beat the Feds. The only chance is to plea-bargain a sentence you can handle.'

'So you're going to plead guilty to RICO even though you don't know what RICO means and even though you didn't grow any weed.'

'You bet. If they get me to the US, that's what I'll do. For sure. But I'm praying I don't go to the US. It looks as if I'm going to get extradited to Germany. With G.o.d's help I'll get my freedom there, or maybe even before. I almost got away last night. I'll tell you later.'

We were both piled into a police van. I couldn't get my wedding and engagement rings back. I was told they'd be sent to wherever I was going. At breakneck speed we were driven to the ferry terminal in Palma docks. Glimpses of familiar landmarks such as the imposing Belver castle, the magnificent cathedral, and the windmill discotheques hanging off the cliffs made me feel desolate. Would I ever enjoy them again with my wife and children?

Fourteen.

SEnOR MARCO.

The van drove straight onto the ferry. Several armed police pointed at us with automatic rifles. There was no one else around. We were tightly gripped and marched down rickety gangways into the s.h.i.+p. At the end of a narrow corridor was a prison-type cell. We were pushed inside. The guards pointed to their rifles and wagged their fingers at us, indicating that any nonsense from us would result in our being shot. They threw in a brown paper bag of bocadillos bocadillos and shut the door with a bang. and shut the door with a bang.

'Why all this heavy stuff, Roger? Are we meant to be ma.s.s murderers?'

'I think I know why. Last night I offered the prison director, Mejuto, a million dollars if he'd help me escape. He said he would. I'd have been gone tonight. I guess the son of a b.i.t.c.h got scared and snitched on me.'

That would certainly explain it. I wondered what sort of accommodation we could look forward to now.

We sat in silence for a couple of hours, then the ferry started to move. We knew that ferries left this terminal for either Valencia or Barcelona. It would be an eight-hour trip. Roger read loudly from his pocket New Testament. He prayed and prayed. He asked the Lord for a sign of His ever-present help. None was forthcoming. We ate the bocadillos bocadillos. Roger began to look angry.

'That son of a b.i.t.c.h Moynihan must have been setting me up all this time. You did say not to trust him, but I didn't think he'd do this to me. I'm gonna kill him. I'm gonna kill the no-good son of a b.i.t.c.h.'

'That's not very Christian of you, Roger.'

'Hey! I still want him to go to Heaven. I just want him to go now. Right now.'

The security precautions that veiled our departure from Palma had dissipated by the time we disembarked at what we recognised to be Barcelona. I saw Michael Katz surrounded by an excited crowd of TV cameramen and newspaper photographers. How did he get here? We were driven to Barcelona's notorious Modelo prison. Every Spanish gangster has been there. There was none of the customary fingerprinting and photographing procedure, but watches and other personal property were taken from us. Roger and I were each given a plastic bottle of water and locked up in separate holding cells out of earshot of each other. Apart from me and my bottle, the cell was absolutely empty. There wasn't even a stone bench or hole in the ground to use as a toilet. There was no daylight. There was no noise. No one responded to my yells for cigarettes, food, writing materials, and access to a bathroom. Using the plastic bottle as a pillow, I law on the tiled floor and caught a few s.n.a.t.c.hes of sleep. I p.i.s.sed in the corner. This was a very hard way of doing time, but I knew it couldn't last. I just held on.

It lasted just over twenty-four hours, after which I was led out to a small exercise yard, brilliantly illuminated by ma.s.sive searchlights, and told to walk around by myself for half an hour. I was allowed my cigarettes and watch. After the walk, I was given an excellent meal of roast chicken, taken to one of the prison's cell blocks, and locked up, alone, in a normal cell. There was a bang on the door.

'Como esta, Howard?'

'Bien, gracias. Y usted? Habla Ingles?'

'Si. I speak English, Howard. I am the night funcionario funcionario. Roger is in another cell in this unit. He sends you his best wishes. Tomorrow, my friend, one of the day funcionarios funcionarios will put the two of you into the same cell. Okay? Good night, Howard.' will put the two of you into the same cell. Okay? Good night, Howard.'

'Marco Polo, quieres chocolate quieres chocolate?'

The DEA's name for me was beginning to take root. Did I want some hash? Of course I did. My best ideas came when I was stoned. I needed some now. Day had just broken.

'Si, por favor. Muchas gracias.'

A piece of Moroccan and a packet of cigarette papers appeared from under the door.

'Tienes cigarrillos y cerillas?'

'Si. Tengo.'

I rolled a small joint. Suddenly, all the cell doors were opened and over two hundred prisoners were running down the gangways and out through a large door into the suns.h.i.+ne. Each was carrying a chair from his cell. I figured it was some kind of ma.s.s break-out. So did Roger, whom I saw tearing along clutching his chair, his eyes darting in all directions. I grabbed my chair and did the same. It was not an escape. It was merely a rush to find a shady spot in the exercise yard. It was a Sunday, and prisoners could stay out of their cells all day. Roger and I sat next to each other in the sun. Within minutes, we were surrounded by gangs of other prisoners bringing us cups of coffee, cigarettes, and croissants. They knew all about us. We were pummelled with questions. Was I really the biggest dope dealer in the world? Had I really worked for the British Secret Service, the IRA, and the Mafia? Had Roger really offered a Spanish prison director a million dollars? They made us extraordinarily welcome and explained how much we would like Modelo. Everything was available here: alcohol, all manner of dope, hookers on conjugal visits, and even remote telephones. Looking around the exercise yard confirmed the existence of a somewhat laissez-faire laissez-faire regime. Groups of Moroccans, Nigerians, and Spanish gypsies were openly gambling with real money and smoking joint after joint. Ghetto-blasters boomed away. Mainlining junkies brandished syringes. Roger asked if there was any way of escaping from the prisons. The prisoners warned him to keep quiet as there were many regime. Groups of Moroccans, Nigerians, and Spanish gypsies were openly gambling with real money and smoking joint after joint. Ghetto-blasters boomed away. Mainlining junkies brandished syringes. Roger asked if there was any way of escaping from the prisons. The prisoners warned him to keep quiet as there were many chivatos chivatos (snitches/gra.s.ses) around. Roger questioned away regardless. My name was called on the Tannoy. I had a lawyer's visit. (snitches/gra.s.ses) around. Roger questioned away regardless. My name was called on the Tannoy. I had a lawyer's visit.

Katz was sitting in a lawyer's visiting cubicle. I sat opposite him. Gla.s.s separated us, but it was not as soundproof as that in Palma. Katz explained how he and Morell had been stonewalled when they had attempted to visit me the previous Friday. Katz had guessed I had been s.h.i.+pped to the mainland and had flown to Barcelona, rented a car, met the ferry, and followed the prison van to Modelo. It had taken forty-eight hours of ha.s.sling with the British Consulate, prison authorities, and judges to be allowed to visit me. Not easy at the weekend. Judy was still in Palma prison, but she and the children were as well as could be expected.

Katz's briefcase lay facing me. He leaned over and opened it. I stared inside and looked into the lens of my JVC camcorder.

'I smuggled it in,' said Katz. 'They're very loose here. I'll switch it on, and then you can give a video message to the children.'

I managed a few words.

Katz thought I would soon be moved to Carabanchel prison in Madrid. He'd come to see me there. He still didn't know precisely what Judy and I had been charged with and was still unable to find out what RICO meant. He had been too busy trying to locate and see me. He intended to get on to it right away.

At the end of our conversation, another prisoner just terminating his legal visit came up to me.

'Are you the Marco Polo?'

'I'm rapidly becoming so, yes. But my real name is Howard.'

'I know. My name is Jacques Canavaggio. I am from Corsica. We have not met, but everybody now thinks we are old partners. A week ago they arrested me in the Costa Brava with fifteen tons of has.h.i.+sh. The newspapers said it was yours. I am sorry if I make your problems worse.'

We shook hands.

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