Almost crime free

Almost crime free, although Eastern Europeans are now featuring in crime reports for petty crime to drug dealing. Criminals, specially violent ones, severely punished and can made to pay damages to victims by Criminal Courts (no need to go civil). This is one reason why for crime is very low. In Andalucia (Costa del Sol), about 50% of jail inmates are foreigners and this is expected to increase when new States are in the EU. However, problems expected with new EU entrants countries are occurring. But this will be universal throughout the EU, and the Spanish police's hands are "not tied" with political correctness

The 'British in Spain' achieved notoriety during the 1980s

The 'British in Spain' achieved notoriety during the 1980s. As a group they were stereotyped as being made up of exiled criminals, drunken hooligans and inward looking pensioners - unwelcome colonisers reconstructing their own insular 'little England'. The British on the Costa del Sol presents a more complex picture.

armed Spanish police raided a cocaine-laden trawler

When armed Spanish police raided a cocaine-laden trawler on the high seas late last month, just one member of the smuggling gang was onboard. But police knew exactly where to look for the foreigners linked to the $400 million haul. The ringleaders, a Brit and two Irishmen, were arrested back on the Costa del Sol.

If organized crime is a globalized business these days, then Spain could be its European headquarters. More than 60 percent of the cannabis that enters the continent, as well as half the cocaine, is believed to pass through Spanish territory. And for a concentration of villainy there's nowhere to beat the Costa del Sol, a sun seekers' paradise that doubles as a mobsters' trading post. Local media cite an Interpol estimate that the region is now home to 18,000 foreign criminals of 70 nationalities. Shady services on offer range from arms trafficking to prostitution and money laundering. "This is the center of crime for Europe and maybe the whole world," says Wensley Clarkson, a British crime writer who spends six months of the year at his home near Marbella, the Costa's principal resort. "It's a combination of Chicago in the 1930s and Miami in the 1990s."

The Costa's international allure presents an awesome challenge to crime busters. With 320 days of sunshine and more golf courses per head than anywhere else in the world, it pulls in the largest and richest mix of expats and holidaymakers in Europe. In its polyglot world, British residents number about 350,000, Swedes run their own newspaper and restaurant menus can be found in Russian. Where better for a foreign mobster to escape police attention or do business than among a year-round crowd of 8 million visitors? "Invisibility and anonymity are part of the problem," says Per Stangeland, a criminologist at the University of Malaga.

But the Costa's clinching criminal charm is location. Morocco, which supplies most of Europe's cannabis, is just 30 kilometers across the Mediterranean, and not far away the tiny British colony of Gibraltar makes a fat living as a tax haven and money laundry. "The Costa del Sol is a crossroads," says Letizia Paoli, an expert on organized crime at the Max Planck Institute in Freiburg, Germany. Add some historical ties with Latin America—think of the Colombian cocaine trade—and some tricky extradition laws, and it's easy to see why the Costa has become a bolt-hole known to the British tabs as the "Costa del Crime."

Up to now, the authorities have often looked away—or collaborated. Crime and tourism have combined to bring unprecedented prosperity. A booming construction industry has provided a perfect outlet for cleansing dirty money. Inevitably, that's tainted local politics. The sprawling developments that cover vast stretches of hillside testify to officials' willingness to overlook zoning regulations in return for backhanders. The 12-year term of Marbella's former mayor, Jesus Gil, who died last year, ended in a flurry of fraud and corruption scandals as well as a stint in jail.

CRIMINAL gangs are targeting British homeowners on the Spanish costas

CRIMINAL gangs are targeting British homeowners on the Spanish costas and using knockout gas to overpower their victims in exclusive resorts.
A spate of robberies and the murder last weekend of Winston Mills, 67, who was shot dead in front of his wife at their villa near La Manga, have prompted many Britons to put their properties on the market.

Some frightened residents block roads leading to their estate with sandbags every night and mount their own vigilante patrols at La Nucia, near Benidorm.

Victims have told The Times how the gangs sprayed them with an aerosol of anaesthetic gas that rendered them unconscious. One vetern British consular officer on the Costa Blanca, who was too scared to give his name, described how he was the recent target of a gang.

“I was asleep in my house with my wife, and my son was in another room. Suddenly I woke up and felt sweaty, sick and groggy for no reason. I staggered out of bed and I could hardly walk. I turned on the passage light, saw it was 5am and went to the bathroom where I vomited. I must have passed out again because it wasn’t until later that morning I realised that someone had entered the house during the night and robbed us, and I had not heard a thing.

“The robbers had even been next to our bed and stolen my wife’s jewellery and watch. They must have sprayed me with something to keep me asleep and that’s what made me ill.”

Police told him that he was a victim of skilled Eastern European gangs, mainly from Romania and Albania, who are stalking foreign residents. The police say that they are overwhelmed by the gangs’ activities. Mayors, worried about the damage being done to their area’s reputation, have promised to set up emergency task forces to cope with the menace, but British homeowners say that there is little evidence of extra patrols.

Chris Poole, a former police officer from Dudley, in the West Midlands, has set up a neighbourhood watch team to patrol the streets at Orihuela on the Costa Blanca. Worried British homeowners around Torrevieja, 30 miles south of Alicante, have set up 42 patrols.

Victims have complained that even when the gas gangsters are caught, lax laws allow them to go free. Some gang members have been detained as many as 25 times. Around Tarragona, hundreds of villas have been robbed in the past four months despite Operation Insomnia undertaken by the Civil Guard. Members of an Albanian gang were charged with 200 villa robberies. Britons who have tried to resist their attackers have been treated brutally. One pensioner was stabbed in the neck, tied up and left for dead as a four-man gang ransacked his home.

The frustration at the lack of police action led to a meeting last week between Enough is Enough (Ya Está Bien), a foreigners’ action group, and Etelvina Andreu, the regional government delegate in Alicante. She acknowledged that the extra police protection that was promised would not arrive until later this year. A spokesman for the Civil Guard said: “This is a paradise for [the criminals], with tens of thousands of villas and apartments. They go for wealthy-looking properties, especially with nice cars outside.”

Interpol estimated last year that the Spanish costas are home to 18,000 foreign criminals

ESCAPING JUSTICE
# Spain’s extradition treaty with Britain collapsed in 1978. High-profile criminals found that they could easily disappear, even after the treaty was reinstated in 1985

# The “Costa del Crime” earned its name in 1983 when the thieves behind the £6 million Security Express robbery were spotted leading luxurious lives on the Spanish coast

# Interpol estimated last year that the Spanish costas are home to 18,000 foreign criminals of 70 nationalities, including the Russian mafia and armed gangs from Albania, Kosovo and the former Soviet republics

# The civil guard in Málaga, the regional capital, has admitted lacking the resources to check each of the 15,000 Interpol inquiries received annually concerning European criminals being sought in the area

# Last year authorities in Marbella cracked down on money-laundering gangs. They arrested 41 people, froze €400 million of funds and seized a yacht, two private planes, 251 houses and 42 cars

# In June 2005 three British men were arrested in an undercover operation near Marbella that smashed Europe’s biggest cocaine-smuggling ring worth £360 million

Costa Crims

Nazi war criminals

One of the most wanted Nazi war criminals may have fled the Costa Brava for another area of Spain or Denmark to escape an intense search by Spanish police.
Investigators believe that Aribert Heim, a concentration camp doctor, now 91, who injected hundreds of prisoners with lethal cocktails at Mauthausen in Austria, may have already fled to the Costa del Sol, in southern Spain, or Denmark, according to local press reports.

Spain's organised crime and fugitive units have conducted "dozens" of searches in the Costa Brava after receiving a tip from German police, the newspaper El Mundo reported. He is thought to have lived in the resort town of Roses for years. In June, police hoped he would surface to celebrate his 91st birthday.

Wilkins became persona non grata with the now suspicious British criminal fraternity in Spain.

Wilkins was also suspected of informing on Kenneth Noye, who went on the run after the 1996 M25 "road-rage" murder of Stephen Cameron. Noye stayed at Wilkins's villa. He was arrested shortly after he bought a villa near Cadiz and moved out.

Wilkins was spending a lot of his time on the Costa del Sol and neighbouring Gibraltar, organising frauds.

The remarkable tale begins in 1992 when Wilkins escaped from a low- security prison in East Anglia where he was serving 10 years for drugs smuggling. He emerged a few months later in southern Spain on the "Costa del Crime", where he was approached by one of the Yard's top undercover detectives to help set up the sting.

The idea was that Wilkins, well-connected in the murky British expatriate underworld, would introduce cops posing as dodgy businessmen to major crime figures operating in Spain and Gibraltar. They would be lured into trusting their ill-gotten gains to a money- laundering scheme that was really a police "front".
It was the beginning of a five-year operation that snared dozens of people accused of laundering money from drugs and tobacco smuggling rackets. But it has resulted in years of legal wrangling and appeals over the use of entrapment.

Last Monday the key case against 10 men was thrown out at Southwark Crown Court after 414 days in court, with the judge denouncing the sting as "massively illegal".

But the failed sting is only the most recent controversy surrounding Wilkins, whose Houdini-like ability to evade jail has caused the underworld to suspect him of being an MI6 and police informant. This ubiquitous south Londoner is said to have "grassed up" the M25 road-rage killer, Kenneth Noye, and to have had an underhand role in the 1989 Death on the Rock affair in which three IRA members were gunned down by the SAS in cold blood while travelling through Gibraltar.

It is now even suggested that the authorities "helped" Wilkins abscond from prison and that he has been given some kind of immunity to stay in Spain in return for acting as an informant.

At 6ft 3in tall, Joe Wilkins is a larger-than-life character. A good- looking man, affecting Michael Caine style glasses, he was married for a time to the glamorous dancer Pearl Read who later modelled in her bra, at the age of 56, as part of Age Concern's 1998 advertising poster campaign.

In 1972 Wilkins, at the centre of Soho turf wars, was shot at his office by a rival gangster. He took two bullets, but survived. By the mid 1980s, Wilkins was spending a lot of his time on the Costa del Sol and neighbouring Gibraltar, organising frauds.

Michael “Danser” Ahern

Spain, the gateway for much of the drug traffic into Europe, has long been a prime destination for Irish drug dealers
Michael “Danser” Ahern, was found dead last year in Portugal, shot five times in the head and frozen by his killers in order to dismember his body, prompting an investigation by police in Ireland, Portugal, Spain, the UK and the Netherlands.

A 43 year old British man, named as William Moy, was shot dead in the street in Marbella on Friday night.

The victim was shot five times outside ‘The Point’ – a club in Nueva Andalucia. He was dead on the arrival of the emergency services.

The victim had a criminal record in the U.K. and is reported to have been linked to several crimes in Spain.

Police currently have several theories about the motive and who could have been responsible.

"God of the Costa del Sol", the late playboy and Marbella mayor Jesús Gil y Gil.

It was supposed to epitomise luxury, prosperity and power. Instead, it became a symbol of the heady mix of excess and corruption which for too long was synonymous with Marbella, Spain's glittering city of fun.

The Rolls-Royce Shining Spur was the pride and joy of the self-proclaimed "God of the Costa del Sol", the late playboy and Marbella mayor Jesús Gil y Gil.

Gil thought nothing of demanding that his taxpayers fork out for the £170,000 car which transported him to every civic function, "like a Pharaoh" as locals put it. But now, three years after his death, his Rolls has – like his corrupt reign – lost its allure. The car will be put up for auction later this year in an effort to draw a line under a long and seedy chapter in the city's history.

Gil was the overweight, foul-mouthed supporter of the former dictator General Franco who ruled Marbella for seven years until he was finally ousted for corruption. He had diverted £20m of public funds to finance the football team he owned, Atletico Madrid. He died in 2004.

Sex is out in the open and men often go with prostitutes every night of the week

British mother and daughter Ingrid and Rachel O'Leary are both prostitutes on Spain's Costa del Sol. But neither feels their life of vice is sordid or risky - and they love the riches they've earned.

'We're more like sisters than mother and daughter,' says Surrey- born Ingrid, 43. 'We like hanging out together and we prefer it when we work as a pair. It's our choice to work in this game.'

Her daughter Rachel, 26, explains, 'Our punters are just like everyone else out here. You get some nice ones, a lot of dull ones and a few bast*rds, but if we're together, there's less chance of any aggro.'


Ingrid moved out to Estepona, near Marbella, two years ago after working as a call girl through a number of London escort agencies. 'There are too many girls flocking to London from all over the world, so there isn't enough work,' says Ingrid. 'Out here, though, it's different. Sex is out in the open and men often go with prostitutes every night of the week. It must be something to do with the sunshine.'

Former estate agent Ingrid and her daughter first 'teamed up' as prostitutes when Rachel came to stay with her mother in Spain six months ago. 'I'd been running a brothel and wanted to go back to prostitution,' says Ingrid. 'Rachel's husband had just left her, she was living in a crummy flat in south London, and Spain seemed a much better option. I've always been close to Rach because it's often been her and me against the world.

Elvis seen in Puerto Banus

Elvis Presley is having a grand time. He is cuddling up to tipsy girls and giving them individual verses of Return to Sender as they blush, squeal and make half-hearted attempts to escape. "Hey, baby, what's your name?" he groans, and they automatically reply: Kelly, Alise, Leanne. Elvis is, of course, an impersonator, but a very fine one; if he weren't black, Portuguese and as skinny as a rake in his baggy white jumpsuit, he could almost pass for the real thing.
Jesús Flores, owner of Ocean's 11, the Marbella bar where Elvis performs every Friday night, believes he's lucky to have him. "I couldn't do the bar without music. It wouldn't be as successful." A crawl around the nearby bars - none of which offers live music - confirms it. They're quieter than you would expect, given it is a balmy July night and the moon is turning the Costa del Sol seafront into an Athena postcard. Meanwhile, Ocean's 11 is buzzy and flirty, and, happily for Flores's bar takings, most of the drinkers are young and British.

In April 2005, he was arrested by police in Sotogrande, Spain and on April 2nd 2007 he was found guilty of running one of the most sophisticated and s

Brian Brendan "The Milkman" Wright is an Irish criminal involved in fixing horse races by doping more than 20 race horses in 1990 as well as a drug trafficker who is estimated to have smuggled 3 tons of cocaine into Great Britain over a period of two years. Originally based in Britain, he had been out of the country when authorities began arresting members of his organization (including his own son, Brian Jr and former son in law, Paul S) as the result of a six year investigation resulting from the capture a converted fishing trawler, the Sea Mist, after Irish customs officials discovered 599kg of cocaine while docked at Cork, Ireland in September 1996. Nicknamed "The Milkman" because he always delivered.

Eventually relocating to northern Cyprus, he purchased a £300,000 villa near occupied Lapithos in the name of a Turkish Cypriot friend and, by 1998, his organization operated freely as the northern Cyprus government is recognized only by Turkey and thus has no extradition treaties with any other country.

In 2002, British authorities announced the capture of a top member of his organization, South African drug trafficker Hilton John Van Staden, who eventually pleaded guilty to conspiring to smuggle drugs into the country with customs officials claiming the destruction of Wright's organization.


On April 2nd 2007, after an 11 year investigation, he was found guilty of running an international cocaine smuggling empire. The following day he was sentenced to 30 years and according to his lawyers, had accepted he will die in jail.

Brian Brendan Wright, alias "The Milkman"

Spanish authorities announced that they had arrested one of the United Kingdom's most wanted criminals: Brian Brendan Wright, alias "The Milkman" in recognition that he always delivered.

Wright fled British law after being linked to one of that country's biggest drug-smuggling operations, as well as horse race fixing. He was last seen over 10 years ago in Cyprus.

flamboyant Chilean attorney Fernando del Valle Vergara. Del Valle

At the center of the investigation is the flamboyant Chilean attorney Fernando del Valle Vergara. Del Valle and 10 of his staff were originally arrested. Press reports have stated that Del Valle´s Marbella law firm is called DVA. That has led Madrid attorney, Javier del Valle Sánchez - no relation to the Fernando del Valle - to issue a statement that his law firm 'Del Valle Abogados S.L.', and which also uses the letters DVA, has no relation to the firm in Marbella.

Fernando del Valle arrived on the Marbella real estate scene in the late 1970s - early 1980s, after a brief stint practicing law in Madrid. In the coming years Del Valle, an aficionado of fine food and classical music, would become a key player in the booming real estate market in the southern coast of Spain.

It was no secret that something wicked was scratching at the underbelly of Spain's Costa del Sol.

The sunny southern stretch of beaches branded "the Coast of Crime" is a hedonist's paradise. It is the summer residence of Saudi Arabia's King Fahd, and place where jet setters and "beautiful people" arrive by the scores, its harbors brim with yachts and buckets of cash exchange hands.

It has also been an open secret that in the regional capital of Marbella much of that money comes from the seedy-side of life, linked to speculating in real estate, or dirtier crimes, such as extortion, contract murders, car-thefts, arms and drugs trafficking and prostitution. It is suspected that much of those ill-gotten gains were sent to offshore accounts. Once laundered, funds then entered back into the Spanish real estate market, as characterized by property promotions changing hands multiple times before the first habitant opened the door. In other words, real estate promotions were sold, and resold, various times - and each time the price rising - without a "physical" owner ever taking possession of the keys.

As a sign of the international crime element an Interpol report notes: "There is an exceptionally large number of Estonian and Russian professional criminals carrying out, besides a large scale hashish and cocaine trafficking, remarkable sex business in the numerous hotels and restaurants of Costa del Sol." Meanwhile, according to Online Security, "Italian crime groups' longtime investments in real estate and entertainment enterprises--particularly gambling casinos--in Germany, France, Monaco, Spain's Costa del Sol, and the Caribbean are conduits for money laundering."

Still, what was not known – or at least officially recognized – was on how large a scale international organized crime was using this playground for the rich and famous as Europe’s money laundering capital.

THE 42-YEAR-OLD ITALIAN WHO WAS ASSASSINATED LAST WEEK IN MARBELLA HAD BEEN DEPORTED FROM SPAIN TO ITALY IN 2002 TO FACE DRUG CHARGES AND WAS DUE TO A

These details were released by the government’s sub-delegate in Málaga, Hilario López Luna, after the man, Vincenzo M., died from his injuries in the intensive care unit of Marbella’s Costa del Sol hospital. He had received a single shot to the head while walking in the area between the Playa Esmeralda and Coral Beach urbanizations about one kilometre from Puerto Banús.

A man on a red motorcycle had driven up to the Italian, stopped his bike and then, without any exchange of words, fired the single shot in to his head. The killer then raced off, heading in the direction of Marbella.
Sr López Luna stated that police believe the killing was another so-called ‘settling of accounts’ between drug traffickers. The victim was from southern Italy but was officially registered as a resident of Marbella, where he lived with other members of his family.

MOUSE OVER FOR TITLES

In the few seconds it takes to pump half a dozen bullets into someone from point-blank range

It was a busy Friday evening at The Point, a bar in the southern Spanish resort of Marbella, as the mainly British clientele enjoyed the warm night air on a terrace overlooking a palm tree lined golf course.
Among the drinkers was a regular known as Gerry, a popular 43-year-old Londoner who had been living around the British-dominated neighbourhood of Nueva Andalucía for some years.

In the few seconds it takes to pump half a dozen bullets into someone from point-blank range, the calm of an idyllic Mediterranean evening was shattered. "There were several shots and everybody just hit the ground," said one person who was in The Point that night
By the time people had picked themselves up off the floor or begun to run, a blood-spattered, bullet-ridden Gerry was either dead or close to dead. An ambulance crew certified his death at the scene.

Spanish police, carted the corpses of four executed British and Irish crooks off to morgues in July

Spanish police, carted the corpses of four executed British and Irish crooks off to morgues in July alone, are keeping tight-lipped. But they obviously fear the worst. Gerry's real name, it has turned out, was William Moy. "He was already known to us," Commissar Valentín Bahut, head of the police's organised crime unit in nearby Málaga, told the Guardian. "We had arrested him in 2000."

British body count soars as the Costa killers turn up the heat

Spanish police see the recent drug gang shootings as a worrying sign of change in the expat community

Charlie Wilson,

the most powerful villain to emerge from the most notorious British crime of the twentieth century: the Great Train Robbery. Wilson's life story is one of greed, corruption and an eventual descent into a living hell when his rivals decided to wipe him off the face of the earth - with the tacit approval of Spanish, British and US drug enforcement agencies. Although he first made his name in the underworld at the time of the Great Train Robbery, it was during his reign as a drug emperor that Wilson's reputation as an all-powerful character capable of cold-blooded brutality on one hand and immense kindness on the other helped confirm his status as a legendary criminal. Killing Charlie takes us on a roller-coaster ride through five decades of the London underworld, including a long spell on the Costa del Crime and forays into the deadliest killing fields of all: South America.Meticulously researched, it uses a strong narrative to pull the reader into Wilson's bizarre, sordid, crime-filled world - one that took him from the mean streets of south London to even harsher prison corridors, and from a quiet life in small-town Canada to the heated, manic, cocaine-fuelled Costa del Sol. A complex web of killings, armed robberies and multi-million-pound drug deals lay behind the criminal life and times of Wilson. His story also provides a history of organised crime in Britain, starting when Jack Spot faded out in the '50s as the Krays came to prominence and ending with Wilson's own violent demise in the '90s. Containing interviews with many of Charlie Wilson's former associates, Killing Charlie reveals how Wilson struck fear into many other criminals; how his love of pretty women almost cost him his life; and how he desperately tried to 'retire', only to discover the inevitable - that gangsters never rest in peace.

killing one year ago of two prominent London gangland figures.

Detectives have made a fresh attempt to break the "wall of silence" surrounding the killing one year ago of two prominent London gangland figures.
Tommy Hole, 57, and Joey "The Crow" Evans, 55, were shot as they watched football in an east London pub on 5 December 1999.

The two masked gunmen fled on foot from the Beckton Arms in Canning Town and have never been caught.

The shooting happened on a Sunday afternoon but police were surprised by the lack of witnesses.

drug dealer Scott Bradfield, from London, was murdered in October 2001.

drug dealer Scott Bradfield, from London, was murdered in October 2001.

His limbs were found in a suitcase on wasteland near Torremolinos in December and his head and torso were discovered in another case nearby.

Pat the Rat

A FLAMBOYANT Scots gangster has been arrested after a police officer was shot on the Costa del Crime.

Millionaire Pat McCadden, 52, is behind bars while Spanish police investigate the attempted murder of a fellow officer.

McCadden, nicknamed Pat the Rat, and his family live in a stunning mansion in the upmarket Costa del Sol resort of Marbella after fleeing a £1million tax bill in Scotland.

Yesterday, Spain's national police, the Cuerpo Nacional de Polic'a, refused to discuss the investigation into the rogue businessman turned drugs Mr Big.

Tarifa Tales:A Londoner has been shot dead by five bullets

A Londoner has been shot dead by five bullets in a late night slaying close to The Point cafeteria in the Avenida del Prado in Nueva Andalucía, Marbella. According to police sources the 43-year-old had a police record in Spain. Officers are investigating his death and are keeping an open mind on the motive and who carried out the slaying.
The Briton, named as William Moy, is said to have been accompanied by a group of three people before his death. The emergency services received a 091 call to say a man had been hurt in a shooting but when medical teams arrived he was already dead.
The Point is in the Aloha urbanisation and the area was soon sealed off by police scientific officers. The investigations are being carried out by the National Police drug and organised crime squad, the Greco unit against organised crime plus the specialised and violent crime detachment.
HUNT FOR BRITONS
National police searching for the two gunmen, believed to be British, who shot the local police officer in an incident that occurred last week, have found the weapons involved in the shooting. They discovered a pistol and a revolver with a silencer inside a rubbish container near the Clínica Buchinguer. They also found nearby the burnt out Opel Astra used by the duo.
In another linked operation 200 officers from the Costa del Sol Drugs and Organised Crime squad poured into the Monte Biarritz, Diana and Golf Park urbanisations in Estepona. They acted after two police officers manning a control to search for the two gunmen were run down by a car that they had ordered to stop. No arrests were made but police believe the gunmen may be hiding out in the zone.
As the Costa del Sol News went to press the shot local police officer was still in a very serious condition at the Costa del Sol Hospital in Marbella. Married with two sons, the officer was on a breathing support machine and under sedation but was said to be making a slow improvement.

Tarifa Tales
Spain’s southern Atlantic coast was a long way from the ambleside coast of Northumberland and the predictable life of Her Majesty’s Prison. At one time I had had part ownership in a beach bar set at the end of a long broad pearl white sandy strip stretching in the south from the ancient walled harbor of Tarifa an old Spanish town dating back to the conquest of Spain by the Moorish king Tariq. a small town on the southernmost part of the European continent. It is part of the province of Cadiz, which in turn is part of the Andalucian region. The name "Tarifa" is derived from the Berber fighter Tarif ibn Malik.. This town is located at the Costa de la Luz and close to the Straits of Gibraltar, directly opposite the coast of Morocco, from which the lights of Tarifa are visible at night..

It was the only building for at least ten kilometers in any direction. Wind scarred single story, with small four paned windows, six letting bedrooms. The paint sand blasted and peeling by the constant exposure to Atlantic winds. During the summer we catered for northern European windsurfers mainly Swedes and Germans who flocked to the white sands.

During the winter the Atlantic gales blew in for weeks at a time giving us the name by the local Spanish villagers as The Windy City, which in reality was a only a cluster of crumbling fishing shacks. The stone built bar was the only substantial building. The scorching summers saw that all the shacks were fully let. In the winter we were lucky if we saw another soul. It was good to be back looking out of the Salt stained window. I saw a figure lugging a heavy leather suitcase with both hands. Tall, strong, heavily built, with a graying pigtail flying in the strong wind. Knurled hands white knuckled grasping the tarnished leather handles. The black broken nails digging into the rosy pink palms contrasted with nut brown, hairy arms. He stopped for a brief rest whistling tunelessly to himself. Grimacing he heaved the old Leather handle and struggled to the door. One tattooed fist crashed into the door pushing past he roughly grabbed a glass of whisky Picking it up he drank slowly like a connoisseur, lingering on the taste, but still looking about himself eyes stopping for a moment hesitating in the doorway for a split second then moving. "You old fucker" he said as if he was debating with a group of friends "Do you have anyone staying, what's business like." I asked that there were no people staying and it would be a couple of months before we saw any tourists. "Well this'll do for me. Help me in with my case. I’m a man of simple taste, simple food patties 'll do me" a slight Irish brogue became noticeable, reaching inside his leather jerkin he extracted a bundle of notes carelessly throwing them on the bar. When I'm threw that ask for more he said. On picking the notes up I was surprised to see that they were English notes neatly bundled, with plain white bands. They had no banks name on the bands. Aggressively he spat out at me "Just call me sergeant "Id never asked his name being intimidated by his brusque manner and I didn't ask for his passport either. I was only too pleased to accept the money. His clothes were worn. They had been expensive the cowboy boots were broken heeled, the jeans faded near white. I speculated whether sergeant was his name, or was it perhaps a description of a rank he'd held, but in which army?

The taxi's driver who doubled as the mail man from the village told us that he had driven him from a small town down the coast where he had got off a long distance coach. He had asked in fluent Spanish what bars let rooms on the coast. He'd been insistent that he needed a bar that was isolated, because he didn't like tourists, being a well-traveled man of simple tastes He kept his own counsel. All day he walked along the beach and threw the steep dunes clutching a pair of high powered binoculars. In the evening he sat in the bar next to the drift wood stoked fire drinking from his own bottle. Mostly he would not speak when spoken to, only stare sullenly, then spit into the glowing embers vehemently. The villager who infrequently visited us soon learned to leave him alone, and curtail their natural inquisitiveness. Every day when he returned from his walk he would ask whether there had been any calls for him, or had anyone asked for him At first I thought it was because he was expecting somebody but after a while I realized it was the opposite he didn't want to see anyone.

If anyone stayed overnight, which happened from time to time. He would look at them from behind the beaded curtain that hung in the entrance leading behind the bar, and then slip away. He became aware that I had noticed his behavior, so he asked me could I keep my eyes open and if another Englishman turned up to tell him before they met. He pressed a number of notes into my hand. This became a regular occurrence If we were alone . If I was looking after the bar, and he had been drinking whisky heavily, which had become an almost nightly occurrence only then would he start to talk. The majority was gibberish but in between the raving an odd sort of sense of cohesion would start to show threw the drunken babbling. Often it seemed as if he was talking to another person who only he could see and that person constantly argued and accused him. Of what I could not guess. Night after night as I heard this discourse with this imagined person I started slowly to realize that the personality that haunted the sergeant had been a partner in evil.. During these endless hallucinations he always spoke to the same person. Screaming crying, cackling asking for forgiveness then insanely laughing he would collapse eyes rolling in his head.

My sleep at this time became disturbed by a recurring dream. The dream was of a person hidden behind a heavy velvet curtain. As I apprehensively approached the curtain a feeling of dread would clutch me and as my hand touched the red velvet curtain and I slowly drew it back. I would awaken covered in sweat The sergeant appeared to be loosing control over his drinking and if. I awoke during the night as I often did I would hear him stumbling in the bar. muttering to himself and cursing in the foulest language. If any locals arrived as now tales of his exploits had spread to the surrounding villages. He would abuse any customer who appeared in the foulest Spanish. Far from losing customers. we now started to gain them. On the strength of the rumors that had spread amongst the surrounding villages about the strange exploits of the sergeant. The youngsters of the closest village boasted to there Girlfriends of friendship with him. Due to the renewed attention he became overly generous. Beware anyone who interrupted him during his monologues. After one particularly bad night as I supported him to his shack. I felt a hard object in his waist band. During the times he was on a drinking bout he never attempted to change his soiled clothes previously he had been clean. Now the strong smell of sweat and the odor of stale whisky followed clinging to him like a curse. Urine stained the front of his filthy jeans stale food and vomit was ground into his shirt as if a living fungus had invaded its host. The inside of the shack was chaotic. Partly empty bottles were strewn across the unmade bed there contents dripping threw the floorboards onto the yellow sand underneath . Collapsing on to the low brass bedstead he became immediately unconscious, snoring with his mouth wide open gasping for breath. The ancient leather suitcase was open curiously I stared as if mesmerized by its dark interior. The figure on the bed cursed and restlessly threw himself from one side of the bed to the other . there was a metallic clatter . A small pistol dropped at my feet I quickly bent down retrieving it from amongst the litter, slipping it into the waist band of my trousers.

It was not long after this that there occurred the first of the events that were to rid us at last of the sergeant though not of his affairs. The weather had been deteriorating. Mountainous seas crashed onto the beach the spume and spray lashing the windows. The ferocious winds threatened to blow anyone on the beach into the seas cavernous jaws. Great balks of timber were driven into the sand dunes by the ever increasing tides. It was a February morning very early a frosty morning the beach dappled with white rivulets of ice chasing the sandy furrows. The sergeant had risen earlier than usual and set out down the beach to try to alleviate the excesses from the night before. I remember his breath hanging as if smoke in his wake as he strode into the dunes. Not long after the door opened and a person entered who was a complete stranger to me. He was dressed in a double breasted jerkin. He wiped the sand from his highly polished black leather shoes as he straightened up he adjusted his silk tie.

Asking in Spanish for a small white wine and a bottle of mineral water. The accent was not Spanish perhaps south American. As I put
down The wine he asked me if I would join him. Saying that he had been in a village visiting friends, and it was there he had heard about the sergeant from the local youths. The south American explained that he had fought in many of the world's trouble spots and believed that he recognized the description of the sergeant as an old compatriot known to him personally as Bob. Who always described himself as the sergeant for that was the rank that he had held. The thought that the opportunity to visit the sergeant had been to good to miss. I told him he was out walking.

He inquired which direction he had gone. For the first time he relaxed and slowly a grin of satisfaction spread over his face. As if in a Faustian dream the countenance changed to one of complete malevolence Mesmerized by this change that had come over the stranger I completely failed to notice that he had taken the sergeants seat next to the fire. As I attempted to put the water down he leapt to his feet reached inside his leather jerkin taking out an large brown manila envelope the corners broken with age.

Fact or Fiction Tales of the 80s Buggy and the RaRa Girls

The sands of the Sahara seemed far away from this lush formal English garden set in three acres of Northumberland. Yet the gardeners mind drifted incessantly to the reds and orange of the barren desert scene. Glancing up he returned to looking at the old air force hangar and the constant movement of denim clad inmates moving under escort from one metal cage to another. The red rust glinting threw the pale cream paint as they endlessly opened and closed large iron gates perhaps that were the prompt that had his mind recalling the desert or was it just freedom. You couldn’t fence in the vastness of the Sahara, or perhaps the rust allowed him to muse on the scrap metal he had worked on. The click of steel tipped boots reminded him of his position, and the need to be ever vigilant. It was a long time since he had thought of the desert.

This sentence was coming to an end. He had been on a four-week pre-release course and within the next few days he would be released.
“You, Guvnor.” He was short , stubby ex army and hated prisoners. His finger pointed at me. I had heard him loudly boasting to other officers of how he had single handily quelled a riot my judgment was that he was frightened of his own shadow. Most prison officers were fair and relatively honest but this was the exception. I followed him into the first hangar that had been converted into a smart office block. Security was very tight. The office staff very rarely saw a prisoner. The governor stood back to door gazing out over the carefully manicured grass the decorative flowerbeds and the small bridge that traversed the water feature. The sound of the earth moving equipment broke into his thoughts and he turned as if he hand not heard us enter.
“ They building an extension to the segregation unit.” He said to no one in particular. “I will lose my climbers and some of my best flower beds. Terrible shame took years didn’t it? “
“Yes Governor.” I replied thinking it’s a prison and I don’t give a fuck if I never see another fucking flower again.
“You’ve done very well in the gardens, very well. I will be sad to loose you.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“You’re a good man really.” I looked at my escort and thought he was going to be sick. No prisoner rehabilitation for him. He hated me and the feeling was mutual. I had spent years watching his mean treatment of other inmates. He had driven many newcomers to suicide by his manipulative methods of emotional cruelty. Still there was some justice his wife had run off with another man and taken half his pension rights with her. My eyes drifted out of the window and my thoughts over the wall.


Sprawling amongst the urban golf course of the artificial turf and the constant patter of flashing sprinklers, a palatial American Latino ranch house stood out converted into a country club with the unlikely name of the eagles. The car park was definitely inadequate for this size of the clubhouse .Tennis courts, and a large swimming pool skirted one side of the building. Cars littered the surrounding streets parked on the euro turf of the villas lawns. The entrance was down a number of wide stone steps that was in danger of becoming overgrown, with fast growing sub tropical plants. Partly opened wooden doors, bleached by the strong southern sun invited you inside. A long L shaped bar dominated the single room. The guests clad in swimming trunks and bikinis had started to drift into the interior of the poolside bar, as the hot afternoon sun faded over the Sierra del Ronda Mountains. Even though this was the south of Spain, the conversations that drifted up from the pool were all in English, most characterised by the strong accent of south London. Many of the bodies moving towards the bar were heavily tattooed loudly, calling for more rounds of San Miguel beer to counter act the fierce heat. The girls were young topless lying in groups on white wooden loungers they spread there suntan lotions and, designer sun glasses with careless abandon around the coarse grass slopes. Constantly wrapping and unwrapping there bodies in long swathes of brightly coloured clothe. They tripped on their toes towards the interior of the poolside bar, Colourful as the large butterflies that winged around them. Giggling, flirting with a group of darkly tanned men who were sat at a poolside table.

Standing at his usual place at the bar his broad shoulders resting lightly on a pillar, strategically placed by the opened door. Stood Mick sipping from his own goblet. In his mid fifties The Mediterranean sun had burnt his face over the years to a deep mahogany brown. Clear blue eyes set above a pronounced hooked nose, flickered restlessly over the people stood at the bar.
Dressed in a modern, French designer suit, white silk shirt and flamboyant tie. A confident successful business executive he smiled easily dispensing free rounds of drinks. Casual nod here, a handshake there. Enquiring after family and close friends. Quickly with his east end accent, ready cockney wit he put people at ease. Chatting to his manager he was discussing with knowledge the merits of the new pop group that were appearing that night. He felt at home here. Much of his life had been spent in the licensed trade.

Tonight was a charity night in aid of orphaned children. In contrast to those that knew him it was hard to understand that this man who gave so freely to charities, had gained a reputation as one of the most feared drug dealers in Europe. It was rumoured that he boasted amongst his close friends to the killing of eleven men. What he did not admit or ever include was that a number of his victims had been law enforcement. He had perfected his murderous skills in London during the gang wars.
His reputation for ruthless violence commanded respect from the most feared gangs. In the bar that night he was the perfect host. The chameleon’s ability to change was the attributes of this sociopath this man he could effortlessly kill with about the same amount of thought that went into one of those winning smiles.

A blonde loosely held his hand hidden behind there backs she was taller than him, with a full figure. The tight white dress she wore showed off her trim body. Interestingly she had only one blemish scarring he otherwise perfect body her cheeks were scared by a blush of recurring small irritating spots. She attempted to hide these with expensive face creams, taking this into account she was still attractive. Mutually they shared a number of characteristics. a hatred of all authority and a love of cocaine. At this time she was negotiating on Micks behalf with a drugs cartel. A snub nosed revolver remained in her cosmetics bag. The sting in her tongue was just as lethal, waiting till men became overconfident she delighted in putting them down. She headed a social set of like minded divorcées between them they ran a selection of up market bars, shops and nightclubs in the surrounding resorts which had become glittering playground for European rich. The blondes name was Julie. Mick was looking forward to his charity night.


It was his charity gala night. Guests had been arriving during the course of the evening, nothing got started till late and tonight was a charity auction, and the colourful goods were laid out on fifteen trestle tables. The L shaped bar was crowded. People were standing four deep at the bar. Ensconced in his usual position with a small army of black bottles of champagne covering his area of the bar, which he dispensed only to celebrity guests. He acknowledged his friends and celebrity arrivals. Amiably he smiled at the young pretty teenage girls who were arriving in droves. This was one of the most popular evenings of the social calendar. His girlfriend revelling in his reflected glory. They looked the perfect couple.
A number of women had attempted to hold this social position all had failed. None had been able to gain the respect of this man until now. He was pleased in his choice and enjoyed showing her off, Feeling secure in the bosom of his criminal family. Tonight he was going to teach them a lesson .It had been a long time since he had been so elated. He smiled to himself so those Scotsmen thought they could cheat him.

As if thinking of the devil conjured them up in they walked. Accepting the pats on the back and the free drinks. From his vantage point he could see them both moving off with an adoring crowd of micro skirts swaying into the bustle of the bar. He noted that neither had acknowledged him. They were talking to a wild gang of new dealers. Probably laughing over some new scam they had cooked up at his expense. The auction started slowly, a few bargains went then greed took over, with the alcohol flowing the auction Started to become a personal competition between the dealers to show who was making the most money. Goods were being auctioned for twice, three times and in one case six times their value. Everybody’s attention was being concentrated on the auctions. No one thought to look over towards the entrance the lanky man clad in black was briefly framed in the door giving quick thumbs up to Mick before slipping back into the night. The Scots whose party had grown considerably decided to go on to an exclusive club in the port. Leaving the auction on mass they moved to the door at last acknowledging the Mick they waved carelessly across as they headed for the door. The club was built with a peripheral road that ran round its grounds. The party decamped to the selection of high-powered cars most with British plates.

The bottles beside Mick jumped on the bar Mick crouched as the glass from the mirrored bar cascaded around him. Mick did not move he remained crouched close to the floor. The first explosion crump thudded across the bar followed by the siren wail of the burglar alarm a woman screamed then sobbed more glass fell. The first was on the main road the second on a peripheral road. After the explosions all that could be heard was one man laughing at the bar. It had been the best joke he had for years. Walking to the door of the club he gave a faint bow to his guests. Starring out into the barmy night sky the clouds of black smoke could be discerned against the neon signs, now and then the flare of burning petrol lighted the roads still smiling Mick was driven off into the night.

The room in the British Embassy was small and cramped the chairs in a semicircle, a projector had been up behind the semi circle. The men sat in this room were members of a drug task force formed to combat organised crime targeting specific individuals and they had a serious problem. The tall middle-aged man with the large beer gut Started his introductions then clicking on the inevitable power point presentation apologised for the lack of coordination, the room which by now was increasingly hot Started to explain who, they had been tasked to take out. The lights were switched off and the face of Mick smiled down on the assembly. A few grunts of acknowledgement came from the darkness. A detailed appraisal of what he had been doing latterly was given drug contacts, Yugoslavs money laundering connections, and Russian arms dealing connections, strangely some Palestinian connections that gave another grunt of disapproval. Out of focus photographs of the Irishman, a Columbian, an American quickly flashed up on to the screen with prison numbers and security file numbers underneath. Next were photographs of a Moroccan and a long distance shot of the oil platform in the Moroccan desert? Slowly and methodically the senior inspector explained the problem. Mick had become to successful, a criminal venture capitalist with little to no risk. he had organised a criminal gang that had become truly international earnings were more than the G.N.P of most third world countries, a ready army of willing Volunteers were constantly swelling his ranks. He controlled over sixty per cent of drug smuggling and distribution in the United Kingdom. Latterly his links with the Ulster defence force, and the killing of the to Glaswegians had been the final score. The Spanish government acknowledged the problem were prepared to cooperate fully. If the British were prepared to supply specialist officers they would wave all extradition rules and allow him to be taken out of Spain.

The next set of photographs were hard to distinguish red black some yellow, they were of officers that had it was suspected been murdered by Mick, his particular calling card was to wrap them in chicken wire and threw them into deep water. His girlfriend in a small bikini was next flashed onto the screen gaining a number of ribald comments report was circulated from Interpol on the blondes crimes. There was an intake of breath; underneath pictures of at least four bodies each bound with wire with single neat bullet wounds to the temple was the blonde’s name. No more comments but a slight intake of breath could be heard make no mistake the female can be deadlier than the male.

Next a detailed plan of how they expected to snatch Mick. A photograph of the boat plus photos of the crew. The plan was very detailed a large map of the Southern Spain showed his known movements with photographs of the houses he was using and known associated and there residences usual itinerary was also handed out. The snatch was to take place early in the morning as he left the penthouse. It must have the benefit of surprise there would be no second chance, and it was believed that he was getting ready to move to Morocco. It was known that he was negotiating for a house. He was also negotiating to purchase a house in Portugal. Both these options needed to be checked out. Two officers were to be infiltrated into the gang, posing as Israeli criminals. They were to arrive by boat. Mooring in Puerto Banus, a close friend of the governors would introduce them to the gang. The Israelis had agreed to furnish profiles, and criminal records. Obviously that was only open to circumcised officers. There code name would be roundheads. The operation was to be called operation Cavalier. A clear warning was given the Spanish police did not know that the operation was on. If anyone was captured by the Spanish the British government would deny all knowledge of this operations far as the foreign office was concerned this operation did not Exist, and this meeting had
never taken place.

The house was set in magnificently kept gardens. The entrance was reminiscent of a roman temple .The dining room and kitchen being open plan leading to a sunken lounge the fitted settees were in white leather. Exotic animal skins covered the floor. A laser music system twinkled its lights in the corner. The high patio glass door lead onto a gold and silver patio. A black lacquered minstrels gallery overlooked the main saloon ,doors Opening onto individual suits of rooms with circular waterbeds. Black silk sheets and a mirrored ceiling gave some hints into what the owners business waste ran the largest and most expensive house of pleasure in Amsterdam. This was her house on the coast.Her husband was a drugs dealer they were separated now but it was very amiable.Some of her top girls were taking a well earned rest with her.The governor relaxed in a black circular Jacuzzi sipping from his crystal goblet beautiful girl fro Singapore catering to his needs.His girlfriend sat downstairs helping to organise the barbeque.It was to be a special thank you to the columbians, who had succeeded in smuggling the largest amount of cocaine to ever arrive in Spain.They were now richer than there wildest dreams.Bowls of cocaine were being set out on the tables.The top caterers from Marbella had been arriving all day.An enormous west Indian who looked after there distribution was setting up the barbecue which needed three burners.The large kitchen looked like a well stocked liquor store.Two of the girls danced to the salsa beat on the hifi.The guests had been asked to come by taxis so as not to make the local police suspicious.There had been a strong rumour that a special police squad from Madrid had been sent down to extradite the govenor,but these rumours permantely came and went,usually private law from England looking for someone who hadn’t paid there maintaince to the exwife.The governor came down the stairs in white suit looking as if he had come out of a Hollywood movie of the sixtys.The first guests were arriving .The columbians arrived dressed in Puerto Banus style they had ignored the instructions.The new Ferrari testarossa carelessly parked across the drive that they had bought for cash that morning. The matching gold Rolex watches said it all they had arrived. Laughing they both moved in on the two smartly dressed girls dancing in the centre of the room. Taxis and limousines were turning up like stacked up aircraft above Heathrow, many had arrived from England on there own aircraft. The smaller villains were also arriving this was going to be a bash to remember. Quickly the governors newly acquired body guards asked the more dubious ones to leave, one who stopped to argue got a sharp cuff around the ear before being thrown down the steps
The party had moved into distinctive groupings .The Costa gangs, from Marbella, Fuengirola and Torremolinos. The London gangs both old and new who operated on different banks of the Thames sat out on the grass or the loungers drinking whisky or beer. Inside members of the social set partied, not fitting in they tried to work out what the common denominator was between all these differing people. The people lounging on the grass or by the barbeque needed nothing explaining. The common denominator was on the table bowls of white powder that were so rapidly being used in the centre of the room constantly changing group of people kept snorting this white powder that was worth ounce for ounce more than gold. The qualifications for this party were that you were either a dealer or a user of this snow white powder. There were few takers for the food but the drink was flowing. The voices and the music becoming louder and louder. No one took much notice as the elderly man flanked by the two Israelis arrived, that is exempt the governor who had his usual excellent all seeing vantage point. He was interested to meet the two Israelis, who came so highly recommended. Both looked as if the were ex army, he laughed at himself as he thought or police. He must stop taking coke it always made him paranoid. He had checked there credentials with the local police and they were almost as well qualified as him. They didn’t look very relaxed, well he thought
There he goes again. Looking upwards he could see entwined bodies on the stairs The three newcomers moved into the centre of the party. The elderly man seeing some friends from the old days in the east end slid off to reminisce. The tall thin man who he know was in conversation with was world famous from his exploits of robbing a Mail train. He was around the same age and they realised they were almost next door neighbours. The tall man had not changed from there chats in the prison yard all those years before and was like an old pro asking if they might have some mutual work together. It was at this time that he realised that he could make a handsome profit on the betrayal of the governor. He new that there was no love lost between the two men perhaps he could put a scheme together to grab the cocaine. If the two Israelis did there job correctly, he could get away with millions of pounds worth of cocaine. He would have to be careful but it was possible to succeed. He arranged a meet with the tall train robber. Sucking on a hollow tooth that he used to do when concentrating he settled his eyes on the Singapore girl who was lighting up a large joint. Introducing himself he propositioned her immediately. They pushed past the entwined groups on the stairs into one of the suites of rooms. Laying on the cool satin sheets he stared as she slipped out of the figure hugging dress. She crossed to the bed grasping his penis between her lips she nibbled his penis. He lay back dragging deeply on the joint, plotting ,scheming he liked the plan and The thought of the new money acted as an aphrodisiac.
They had driven him back in the morning he could not get the thought of stealing the cocaine out of his head. Perhaps half, No the loath needed to know when they were to grab the Governor. He new he had to act quickly. For security reasons there were only a few staff left in the villa. It would have to be before they lifted him .He had to be above suspicion. It came to him why not substitute the cocaine with another white powder. It would take them more than a year to sell that much cocaine. He reasoned to himself. He telephoned the tall man .They arranged to go out and for a round of golf. The deal was explained .He would stash it at his house that was so conveniently near by. They would only take half leaving the rest. The elderly man did not tell him about the British police. He wanted no one to know that he had turned into an informer; also he intended to take off with the other half when the police had taken care of the governor. He drove to the port, passing under the barrier he arrived at the Israelis berth. The vessel was a medium range trawler yacht built in Taiwan. She was spacious, practical with a saloon set amidships. A powerful transmitter turned to the frequency of the British embassy in Madrid was crackling away slightly off station. As he arrived on board the Israeli switched off the radio. Sitting down they interrogated him at length, asking for the names of almost everyone at the party and details of the different groupings. He noticed one had a portable voice activated tape recorder which he had placed onto of the chart table. They talked him for a two hour period not stopping, just taking carefully rehearsed turns. All the time in the back of his mind he was waiting for the opportunity to ask when they were to kidnap the governor. He did not need to ask. It was to be tomorrow they told him. The coke had to be moved fast. No time to substitute the drugs. It would have to be straight theft. Leaving the yacht. He rang his old friend on the car phone. In coded language he told him to break in and take the drugs. The understanding was immediate. He headed the car for the villa were he new the governor was staying.

Pulling up in the driveway. He walked in .The governor was pleased to see him. The table was set for five people; the Filipino cook set an extra place. As he sat down at the table, the blonde sat next to him The Irishman was sat on his right hand side, a large whisky being placed in front of him large bruise that was being partly disguised by the use of makeup, showed on the blondes cheek. The Moroccan arrived nervously dragging on a Marlboro, followed by clouds of smoke. The governor was feeling secure he had been assured that his residents permit was to be renewed. The blonde had been starting to use larger and larger amounts of cocaine which she had mixed with ecstasy tablets .The results had been predictable, there was a cut of point when the brain shut down. That point had come last night when she had closed up into the foetal position, with her flashing back to her child hood. The screaming had unnerved the governor. Who had stared to beat her round the head, which made her worse in the end they had had to call a Spanish pracicante who they had used in the past to patch up members of the firm. He had knowledge of severe addiction problems, and had told them that the effects of these drugs combined would take sometime to disappear. At this moment she felt strange her brain seeming to have a will of its own, flashing into a childhood scene. She thought she was going insane. The first course was being served it was thin strips of Scottish salmon. The phone rang.The governor pushed back his chair. It was one of the servants from the large villa, who had been hired by the governor. There had been a break in at the villa but not to worry strangely enough they had only broken in to the sauna and Turkish bath area. He explained that he believed it was children as all they had done was destroy the Jacuzzi and thrown talcum powder all over the room. The blood drained from the governors face, he stared to shake, they had hidden the coke under the bath in a carefully built
Waterproof hiding place.

He said nothing motioning the elderly man to the door. He told him to drive to the villa. The governor running his hand threw his hair continuously. Even though he did not smoke he light one, his head spinning with the intake of smoke. He stared at the cigarette end. The large Mercedes swung into the driveway Pulling up by the central palm trees. The governor had the door open before the car stopped he was running to the door of the bath house. Which was off its hinges swinging in the light evening breeze. Looking threw the door he could see the sides of the bath thrown to one side. The gun pushed into the elderly mans ear made him push himself into the seat. The quite confident voice of the Israeli telling him to relax. The governor had thrown himself to the floor. His dark clothes turning white as his hands scrabbled into the dark hole in the floor, one of the bags had burst, which explained the white talcum powder .It was coke. The sub machine gun was pointed at his chest as he turned over. He looked up into the Israelis eyes.He thought it was another drug gang until the handcuffs clicked round his wrists. The Israeli escorted him to the Mercedes. The elderly man had been cuffed and was now sat in the back of the Mercedes. The Israelis pistol trained o0nhim from the front seat, he was talking into a portable radio to the British embassy. The elderly man was in shock he had not suspected that they would move this quickly. He wondered when they would release him. The governor had been thrown none to gently into the back seat. The Mercedes moved out of the driveway heading down the coast another salon car moved into the lead one quickly coming in behind. Both rang in to the middle car. The convoy moved up to sixty miles per hour moving in and out of the traffic. They had a strict schedule to keep to a flight was due to take off in one hours time to London’s Heathrow Airport. Just outside the border town of La Linea the convoy stopped. An ambulance was parked by the side of the road. The elderly man was very impressed and wondered when he was to be released. He was not expecting his jacket to be ripped open or the white-coated ambulance attendant to plunge the Needle into his arm. Just before he lost consciousness. He saw that four men had wrestled the governor to the floor. The other attendant had been kicked, and was rolling on the ground clutching his private parts leather jacketed man had pushed the needle in through the sleeve of the shirt.
The plane taxiing on the tarmac of Gibraltar airport, was awaiting its passengers. The ambulance with siren wailing approached the border. The attendants had radioed ahead and there were no hiccups. In the back of the ambulance the two men were sleeping .Swathed in bandages they looked as if they had been involved in a serious accident. The Spanish border police waved the ambulance threw. At speed with the siren still wailing the ambulance stopped by the charter jet. Both men were unloaded strapped to stretchers doctor was waiting on board to check there respiration, and awaken them.He was A little worried about the elderly mans condition. Who was moved into the first class section? The pilot revved up. Taking off he quickly banked the plane away from Spanish airspace. The governor had regained consciousness, staring at his surroundings. He was in the cargo hold of the large jet. Strapped to a stretcher senior detective explaining that he was being returned to Britain to face charges relating to the murder of a customs officer. If he was to behave he could sit in the main body of the aircraft. Enjoy refreshments and ready him for questioning in Britain. Sitting in the first class section the elderly man could not understand why he was being returned to England. The detective chief superintendent sat across the aisle, calmly he explained that for him to remain alive, he would have to be charged and remanded in custody it would mean him staying in custody for a number of months. Then he would be released, probably with a suspended prison sentence due to his years and health. He stared at the chief inspector, his mind trying to grasp the loss of the cocaine. He new his friend would not believe his luck, and would not wait for his release. If nothing else he was a realist. He took the glass proffered to him. Well he would have a free life with his daughters. He chinked glasses with the chief inspector. There would always be another deal._

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