Mr Nice: an autobiography (56 page)

Two hours later, I was taken to the same room and greeted by the policeman who had stuck a gun into my stomach. He motioned me to sit down at a desk.

‘Were you really going to shoot me?’ I asked.

‘I’m sorry, Howard. I’m sorry.
Sólo para la seguridad. Lo siento
, Howard.’

A casually dressed man came to sit opposite me.

‘
Tiene cigarrillos, por favor?
’ I asked, very politely.

‘Sorry, I don’t smoke,’ he replied in an English middle-class accent.

‘Who are you?’ I asked.

‘Just part of the organisation.’

‘Which organisation?’

‘You’ll see soon enough.’

‘Where’s Lovato?’ I asked.

He jumped out of his seat and tore out of the room. Minutes later, the door opened and in walked the overweight man who’d earlier masqueraded as a member of the Policía Nacional. So this was, indeed, Craig Lovato of the DEA.

‘Hello, Howard,’ he said with a broad grin.

He then turned his back on me, and his large arse was inches away from my face. He wasn’t being rude. He was squeezing himself between a desk and a chair. It wasn’t easy.

‘I’m Craig Lovato, DEA.’

He held out his hand. I shook it.

‘How are you, Mr Lovato? Do you have any cigarettes, please?’

‘You know, Howard, I’ve never smoked in my life. I don’t know why people do it.’

‘You think it should be illegal, Mr Lovato?’

‘That’s not for me to say. I’m interested in people who break the laws, not make them. Howard, I gather you knew this was coming, and obviously that’s something I’m annoyed about.’

I presumed he was referring to Sunde and Carl.

‘I want to establish a relationship with you. Call me Craig. I want you to voluntarily extradite yourself.’

‘Give me a cigarette, Craig, and I’ll think about it.’

Lovato pulled open a desk drawer, fished out a packet of cigarettes and a lighter, and motioned me to help myself. I took several deep drags.

‘What about my wife? Let her go, and you can take me to America today.’

‘Bob O’Neill, the Assistant United States Attorney from Miami, Florida, who is in charge of your prosecution, will have to make that decision once you are on United States territory.’

‘What’s the charge against her?’

‘I’m not sure. That’s articulated by the Office of the United States Attorney, Miami, Florida. I think it’s conspiracy to import a Schedule A controlled substance.’

‘She never told me she was doing anything like that. Are you sure about this?’

‘A Presidential Organised Crime Drug Enforcement Task Force instructed law enforcement agencies of several countries to investigate certain matters relating to your criminal conduct, and on the basis of the findings, the Assistant United States Attorney, Bob O’Neill, deemed there was sufficient evidence against Judy to go before a Grand Jury in Miami, Florida. The Grand Jury returned an indictment against her.’

‘So, what is she actually accused of doing?’

‘Using her telephone to further your illegal activities.’

‘You mean she might have taken a message for me on our home phone here in Palma? That’s illegal?’

‘It would be something of that nature, Howard. Yes, it is certainly against United States law. I forget the actual statute.’

‘My wife is locked up in this jail for answering her own phone. And you want to extradite her from here to lock her up in America. I’d heard the DEA was over the top. What do you call it? Zero tolerance, isn’t it? Going around confiscating people’s pleasure yachts if there’s the remnants of a marijuana roach on board. You really are completely fucking nuts. Why don’t you extradite my one-year-old son? I think he answered the phone on occasion.’

‘Howard, I merely enforce the law.’

‘Whatever it is, Craig?’

‘Whatever it is, Howard.’

‘You don’t even have to think. It must make life a lot easier.’

‘Of course it does, Howard.’

‘What are the charges against me?’

‘Again, they are articulated by the Office of the United States Attorney, but I’m given to understand that there are fourteen charges against you, of conspiracy, money laundering, and RICO.’

‘What’s RICO?’

‘In the United States you will be assigned a lawyer who will explain this to you.’

‘I’m obviously going to fight extradition, unless you let my wife go.’

‘You might just beat extradition on a technicality. But I’m a betting man. I’m from Las Vegas. I bet I’ll get you. What’s the code for these databanks of yours?’

‘I can’t remember.’

‘Howard, we can always get Washington to do it.’

‘Yeah, they should find it pretty easy, though they might fuck it up. How’s Lord Moynihan?’

The question threw him a little, but he quickly recovered. ‘I think, Howard, he’ll come out of this smelling like a rose. By the way, he thinks you have a contract out on him. He’s under our protection. I think I’m also authorised to inform you that Patrick Lane has just been arrested by my DEA colleagues in Miami. He is now in MCC, Miami Metropolitan Correctional Center. Chi Chuen Lo, or Balendo Lo, as you know him, was this morning arrested by my Scotland Yard colleagues. Hong Kong International is going down the tubes, Howard. Still, I’m sure you have plenty of money buried somewhere.’

‘I’ve never had any money in my life. Why has Balendo been arrested? What is he meant to have done?’

‘He was part of what we refer to as the “Marks Cartel”. He worked for you, Howard. We know that.’

‘He’s a bloody travel agent. Nothing else. What’s the “Marks Cartel”?’

‘The Office of the United States Attorney has reason to believe that Balendo Lo, or Chi Chuen Lo, which is his real name, knowingly facilitated the international travel arrangements of cartel members. The “Marks Cartel” is your organisation, Howard. You’ve not heard of the Colombian “Medellín Cartel”? Come on.’

‘I thought a cartel was a group of people who agreed on things like commodity prices. With whom am I meant to be agreeing in the “Marks Cartel”? Myself?’

‘It’s a bit like General Motors, Howard. It’s all connected.’

I was losing his drift. Either he or I was insane.

‘You might like to know, Howard, that Malik, too, is about to be arrested in Karachi.’

‘You think Pakistan are going to give him up to you guys?’

‘He’ll be the most difficult, especially given his close relationship with President Zia, which we know all about. But we’ll get him, somehow. He’s part of the “Marks Cartel”.’

‘Why have you arrested David Embley? Is he another extraditable “Marks Cartel” member?’

‘It was the Spanish authorities’ decision to arrest David, and it’s their decision when to let him go. However, I shall say to them that, in my opinion, he was simply at the wrong place at the wrong time: your house when we arrested you. I must say you have beautiful children.’

‘Can you talk to Judy, please, and let her know that there’s some chance of her being released if I voluntarily extradite myself?’

‘I don’t like talking to distraught persons. Judith is very distraught.’

‘That must limit your conversations quite a bit.’

‘I’ll see you in prison tomorrow, Howard. I must let my Spanish colleagues return to their families. They must be missing them.’

Back in my holding cell, the drunkard had finally woken up. He was screaming protests in Catalan. The Peruvian
terrorist had buried his face in his hands in a gesture of ‘Do Not Disturb’. I lay on the floor and began to feel very sad. Things looked bad, and there seemed little I could do other than collect my thoughts together, summon up whatever inner strength I might have, and let the worst day of my life slip away.

At dawn the next morning, I was fingerprinted, photographed, and asked questions about my particulars. Invariably, jailers and prison employees engaged in processing new arrivals have a propensity for misspelling names and addresses. They are most reluctant to make corrections. These mistakes often cause no end of problems further down the line. Is it deliberate? From the processing room I was taken to a reception area where Judy and Geoffrey had already arrived. David Embley was nowhere to be seen. Lovato must have let him go. Judy was in a terrible state, weeping uncontrollably and being fed tranquillisers. A jailer began to put handcuffs on her.

‘
Hombre, es mi esposa
,’ I protested. ‘
No necesitan estos
.’ I couldn’t bear to see her in them.

‘
Todos son iguales. Todos tienen esposas. Esposas, también, tienen esposas
,’ said the jailer, much to the amusement of a growing group of his colleagues. (It took a while for me to realise that the source of the humour lay in
esposas
being the Spanish word for both wives and handcuffs.) The three of us were then quite roughly handcuffed.

Geoffrey, although looking quite bemused, was absolutely silent. We were put in the same prison van and driven to Palma’s impressively quaint Palacio de Justicia. Geoffrey remained silent during the five-minute journey to court. Judy sobbed continually.

Emerging from the prison van was like walking on to a film set in full swing. Dazzlingly bright searchlights and thousands of camera flashes illuminated throngs of noisy journalists. We were quickly taken through them to the Palacio’s holding cells and then led one at a time to the corridor outside the
rooms of the Magistrado. This must have been the second floor that Roger Reaves had jumped out of just a few weeks ago. For sure, he had balls.

The Magistrado was a young man with a kind face. Through an excellent interpreter, he explained that as a result of a United States Government extradition request, I was to be held at the disposition of the Audiencia Nacional, Madrid. I could volunteer myself for extradition anytime I wanted. I had the right to fight extradition, and I would have the full protection of Spanish law if I did so. I asked the Magistrado if I could telephone my children. He handed me the phone immediately. I rang. Masha answered. The children sounded okay. I told them I’d get me and Judy back home as soon as I could. It was the truth, but it took a while.

We had several hours’ separate and solitary wait in the Palacio’s holding cells. A local Spanish lawyer came and, in excellent English, introduced himself as Luis Morell. Although a distant relation of my initial lawyer of choice, Julio Morell (who, it seemed, did not want to be remotely involved in this matter), he had been independently engaged by Bob Edwardes to represent me and Judy. I liked him immediately. He gave me some pesetas, a carton of cigarettes, and a change of clothing. He said he’d be over to see us at the prison as soon as he could.

The media crowds were still there as the three of us were taken back to the prison van. I assumed they were all members of Palma’s newspapers and broadcasting companies. Mallorca was, after all, a small island. Local interest was understandable. Judy was looking stronger. She, too, had been allowed to talk to the children. We looked at each other as the prison van drove up to the Centro Penitenciario de Palma, and each of us knew that the other was recalling the time Rafael once pointed it out to us and remarked that its location had been carefully chosen as one in which there was no escape from the hot sun. We got out of the van and were greeted by friendly, smiling prison
funcionarios
and trusty prisoners (prisoners trusted by the authorities), smoking cigarettes and drinking cans of beer. They relieved me of my wedding and engagement rings. I never saw them again. They debated which cells to assign us to.

‘Can I have the same cell as my husband?’ asked Judy with a humour that came from God knows where.

The
funcionarios
roared with laughter.

‘May as well try it,’ said Judy, with a glimmer of a smile. She was walked off to the women’s section, Geoffrey and I to the men’s.

We were taken to an empty prison walking yard.

‘Sorry, Geoffrey. I didn’t expect anything like this to happen. I’m sure you’ll be released soon.’

‘Don’t worry. There’s no evidence of any wrongdoing of mine. And I would hate to be in your shoes with my wife locked up. This might be very serious for you, Howard. Very serious, indeed. And I really believe David Embley is behind this. Think about it.’

I couldn’t think about it.

Surprisingly, I was put into the same cell as Geoffrey. Within minutes, a trusty banged the door, pushing under it a variety of items. It was a care package from Roger Reaves. It contained cigarettes, cosmetics, writing materials, food, beer, magazines, prison money tokens, and a note in Roger’s handwriting. He’d seen our court appearance on the news. He had some dope to smoke if I needed it.

The cell door opened. I was told to pack up my stuff. I was being taken to the
tubo
, whatever that was. The escorting
funcionarios
stopped outside a cell door over which was written in huge block letters
MUY PELIGROSO
. Inside the cell was a very empty cage of slightly smaller dimensions. I was locked in the cage. The cage was locked in the cell. The cell was locked in the prison. I watched two large cockroaches cautiously emerge from a filthy toilet hole. They were a lot bigger here than in Brixton or Wandsworth
prisons. It would be difficult to bond with these creatures. Night fell. I lay on a filthy mattress and chain-smoked until daybreak.