The Devil’s Luck

The merry adventures of an old-school marijuana smuggler: a believe-it-or-not biography

CHAPTER 1 - The Jeep

I was at a crossroads. It was one of those moments when life can split into radically different directions.

I stood on the hill, watching chaos unfold at the harbour down below. A truck had crashed into a line of cars as it came off the ferry. Sirens shrieked, horns protested, and loud voices shouted at one another in Greek.

In the middle of it all was my jeep. In the jeep was a money bag containing over a million pounds, along with three passports, none of which were in my real name.

The car was surrounded by enraged policemen and customs officers.

I’d have to find another way off the island, with nothing in the world but the contents of my pockets.

And after that?

After that, I realised – once I got my breath back and my heartbeat stopped deafening me – I was screwed.

My brain went into overdrive, sliding down all kinds of tunnels. Potential escape routes. High-speed action scenes. They all had one thing in common: They ended with me behind bars.

Clearly, there was no option.

The jeep was my only chance.

I’d have to go back down.

Nothing bad had happened yet, I reminded myself.

The jeep was still sitting there, as yet unsearched. Plain and white, it was an innocent-looking, typically ex-pat car. The extra passports and cash were behind the door panel on the driver’s side; the kind of hiding-place no self-respecting customs officer could possibly miss. Very slack of me, but then I hadn’t expected this. Nobody ever got stopped here.

I’d taken the money to Crete because I was retiring, and you can’t put money in banks. I was getting out of the game. At last, after all this time, I’d had enough of it. Everybody was stealing from me. I didn’t know who was straight and who was a policeman, who was telling the truth and who was lying. I was just constantly getting robbed, and friends of mine were doing things behind my back.

I’d met a nice girl and it was time to get out. I’d decided to leave Crete. I would get the ferry out, then drive down to Spain and settle there, somewhere quiet. Start a business, go straight. Make an honest living. In my mind, I was already sipping a mojito with my love, safely tucked away in some faraway Spanish village with not a worry in the world.

The sun was already low when I got to the port in Crete. I drove the jeep into the harbour and parked up behind the line of cars. The ferry was coming in and it wouldn’t be long before I was out of this superficially pleasant yet acutely hostile country. I confess that I was utterly sick of Greece.

I locked the car and strolled up to the counter outside the office to buy my ticket.

And there, something happened that had never happened to me before.

When you have a false passport, you have to make sure you know your name and date of birth, of course. You have to spit them out without hesitation. You also have to be able to copy the signature accurately. I’ve got plenty of experience with that; I’m well-practised. I can change anything I want.

Normally, you just show your passport, and they wave you onto the boat. I’ve been on boats so many times, in and out, and I’d never had a problem. Until now. One guy – an older guy – gave me a funny look. He took my passport and inspected it with obvious suspicion. He looked up at me again. Then he handed me a piece of blank paper and said:

“Sign your name there.”

So, I signed it.

“Again,” he said.

I signed it again.

“You,” he said, pointing a fat finger at my nose, “wait here.”

Obediently, I stood still, like a schoolboy at the teacher’s desk, and he went off. A minute later, he came back with another customs officer.

I smiled at them as they came towards me, but my mind was racing: “This doesn’t look good. This is really starting to look bad. If they catch me, I’ll lose my passport. They might search the jeep, and then I’ll also lose my money. I’ll end up in bloody prison again.”

“Come in here and wait,” said one of the officers, inviting me into the office. “We’re going to check some things out.”

My first thought was escape. I entered the office. The jeep was close by, next to the kiosk. I fiddled with the keys. Up until now, they were treating me fine, they were just investigating. I wasn’t in cuffs.

“You can sit there,” they said, pointing to some couches.

Meanwhile, the ferry was unloading. Cars were waiting to embark and I was wondering what to do, when suddenly, a big truck drove out in front of the office and slammed into the line of cars, hitting at least four of them. The driver must have been drunk. Lots of drivers drink on the boat. So now, all hell broke loose. Everybody ran out of the office, shouting. My accusing officer jumped straight up to the driver and dragged him out of the truck.

I watched them from the window, thinking:

“Fucking hell.”

I couldn’t go out of the office door because there were two officers standing right in front. Yelling, waving their arms in the air, making a big fuss. Typical Greek style. So, instead, I turned to the lady at the reception desk and sweetly asked to use the toilet.

I went to the toilet, found a small window looking out towards the back, and climbed straight out. Before anyone knew it, I was gone. I’d left the docks and run all the way up the road, all the way to the top of the hill, when I stopped and looked back. I could see a huge commotion going on down there with the truck. The Police were there, lights were flashing, a crowd was gathering.

I started pacing up and down, wondering what the hell I should do.

The officer had one of my passports. The other two passports were in the jeep. My money was in the jeep. Without them, I was fucked.

Again and again, I looked down at the whole circus.

In the middle of it all was my jeep.

My only way out.

I started walking back down the hill.