The reception funcionario explained to me and Roger that although Alcala-Meco housed plenty of Basque separatists, it was by no means a prison exclusively for terrorists. The prison had housed not only Ochoa and Rodriguez but also Gaetano ‘Don Tanino’ Badalamenti, the Sicilian Mafia boss, who was extradited from Spain to America on the basis of running the Pizza Connection, a nation-wide heroin distribution ring. (The funcionario seemed most pleased that his prison, having already extradited Ochoa and Badalamenti, the world’s biggest cocaine and heroin smugglers, was now going to extradite Marco Polo, the world’s biggest cannabis smuggler.) Many high-profile, physically dangerous, and escape-prone criminals were currently here, as well as prisoners who had proved uncontrollable in other institutions. There were three different regimes operating within the prison: normal, restricted, and Artículo 10, the most severe form of incarceration imposed in Spain. For reasons unknown to the funcionario Roger, Jacques Canavaggio, and Jacques’s two gang members had been assigned to normal regime; I had been assigned to restricted regime. I felt sick. We shook hands and parted company.
The single cell was certainly Spartan. The only moveable objects were a small plastic stool and a foam-rubber mattress. The wash-basin and toilet were plastic. Everything else was concrete or steel. A window looked out on to a towering white wall. I had no possessions. They were being scrutinised by prison security personnel. I was assured that in due course I would get all I was allowed. Every two hours, to the sound of a funcionario yelling ‘Recuento’, I had to stand up to be counted through a pinhole in the steel door.
After a day and two nights’ total isolation, a normal procedure in most countries’ high-security prisons, I was permitted to have a few hours in the patio (exercise yard) with the other restricted-regime prisoners. Virtually all were Spanish, but there were a few Nigerians and a couple of armed robbers from Marseilles. The Frenchmen and a Spaniard named Zacarias, who looked like Frank Zappa, introduced themselves to me. They gave me the usual prison care packages of food and cigarettes, as well as some very welcome Moroccan hash.
I cabled my whereabouts to Masha in Palma. I filled in visiting application forms for all my family, Masha, Bob Edwardes, and David Embley. I smoked a joint and went to sleep.
Michael Katz came to see me early the next morning. The visit was through glass. From top to bottom, he was wearing my clothes. He was carrying my briefcase. I didn’t really mind, but it was odd behaviour. He had visited Judy in Palma prison. She had just been seen by the children and had been completely torn up by their visit. Katz had the impression Judy didn’t think much of him. He was right. Geoffrey Kenion was also still in Palma prison. Katz had been too tied up with matters in Barcelona and Palma to do any research into RICO. The Americans had still not informed him of the precise nature of the charges against us. There had been loads of media coverage. He was going to leave the newspapers with me, as well as some money to credit my prison account. I asked him to please find Madrid’s best extradition lawyer and send him to see me as soon as possible. I completed a power-of-attorney form for him to access my funds in Zurich.
Lying on the bare foam mattress back in the cell, I went through the newspapers. Both the Observer, where David Leigh still worked, and the Sunday Times offered the beginnings of a cogent explanation for my high-profile arrest. It went something like this.
In early 1986, Craig Lovato was one of several DEA agents working in Spain with the Spanish drug police. The Spanish drug police were tapping my phone in Palma. Lovato listened to my conversations and figured I was dope-dealing. The Spanish didn’t believe I was breaking Spanish law. Overcoming the resistance of his superiors, Lovato investigated my background and read all that had been written about me.
Lovato’s wife, Wendy, also worked for the DEA. At the time she was in Florida assisting Scotland Yard in their investigation of the whereabouts of the proceeds from the Brinks-Mat gold bullion robbery. She had her nose buried in David Leigh’s High Time, Lovato’s book-of-the-month. The British police were intrigued to learn that I was her husband’s current target. They offered to help. As a result, the DEA and Scotland Yard launched a combined operation against me called Operation Eclectic. In no time, law enforcement agencies from Canada, Holland, Pakistan, Philippines, Hong Kong, Thailand, Portugal, and Australia joined the operation in a massive orgy of international cooperation.
Although I found it hard to understand why the Spanish police were tapping my phone in the first place, the rest of the account made sense.
There was also a mention in the press of RICO: it stood for Racketeering-Influenced Corrupt Organisations. There was no further explanation.
A full-page article in Newsweek mentioned that I kept the loyalty of others by not killing people. The People stated that there was a £1,000,000 contract out on the life of Lord Moynihan, who was living under the protection of the United States authorities. Another report stated that Detective Superintendent Tony Lundy, Scotland Yard’s most controversial detective and soon to be forced into retirement, had been responsible for turning Moynihan against me. This was completely at odds with my previous understanding of overtures made to Moynihan by Art Scalzo of the DEA.
A funcionario returned my visiting applications. Bob Edwardes and David Embley would not be allowed to visit me. Family and in-laws only. I smoked a joint.
In an interview with the Sunday Times, Lovato said he had disdain for me and that I had a weak character. He was getting very personal. Perhaps this could be his undoing. I wondered if there was much to what Katz had explained about Lovato’s illegal questioning of me. I filled out a visiting application for him. He wouldn’t be able to resist coming to question me, further breaching American law and bending the Spanish visiting rules in the process. It was worth a shot. I gave his address as the American Embassy, Madrid.
Unexpectedly, I was called again for a visit. Behind the glass this time was Gustavo Lopez Munoz y Larraz, one of Spain’s finest criminal lawyers. His English was absolutely fluent, and many of his mannerisms were more English/ American than Spanish. Both Bernard Simons and Katz had independently asked him to come and see me. Gustavo said he was quite expensive but definitely the most experienced extradition lawyer in Madrid. He would come to see me as often as I wished. He would liaise with Michael Katz and Bernie Simons in London and with Luis Morell in Palma. He was originally from Cuba, and his family practised law in Florida. Next week he was going to Miami for a ten-day holiday. He spent a lot of time in the United States. If I wanted to by-pass the prison mail procedures to communicate with Judy, or indeed anyone else, we could write to him, and he would forward the mail. I engaged him.
I spent most of the next few days in the patio with Zacarias and Claude and Pierre, the two Marseilles bank robbers. The weather was really hot, but there was a cold shower cubicle to cool off. Nigerians huddled in shelters, gambled, and smoked dope out of sight of the solitary funcionario. A few Basque terrorists played chess. Young and fit Spaniards exercised strenuously. We walked.
‘Are you interested in escape, Marco Polo?’ asked Claude, the best English speaker of the three.
‘Aren’t we all? Why do you ask?’
‘The three of us have a plan to leave here at the end of this month. We would like you to join us. Quite a few people have escaped from here. It is not that hard. We don’t want money, but maybe you could help us after our escape with false passports. Zacarias knows where we can hide in Spain.’
Zacarias passed me a joint. He rarely took part in conversation. When he did, he spoke Spanish with a coarse Madrid accent.
‘Sí, Marco Polo. Fuga es posible, chavalo. Es muy fácil.’
‘Will anyone get hurt?’ I asked Claude.
‘Only if they do something very stupid. In time I will explain everything. You don’t have to answer now, Marco Polo. But please think about it.’
Zacarias bit off two chunks of his piece of Moroccan hash. One he gave to me; the other he tied to an AA battery with an elastic
band and threw it out of the exercise yard and over the roof of the cell block.
‘The other side of that roof is the patio for prisoners under Artículo 10,’ explained Claude. ‘We take care of them as best we can. It’s really hard there.’
The same battery came flying over the roof back into our patio. A note was tied to it. The hash had been received. It was safe to send another missile.
The lack of both incoming letters and replies to my telegrams was puzzling me. All the other prisoners were receiving mail of some kind. Someone other than lawyers would surely be trying to contact me by now. I had been there over a week. I was beginning to build up some anxiety about this when I was called for a visit.
As I walked to the visiting cubicles, I expected to see Katz or Gustavo. Instead, through the smudgy glass, I saw the heartbreaking sight of my parents’ faces, with their devastated eyes belying their welcoming, relieved smiles. We couldn’t touch each other. Quivering and trembling, we stared at each other. I was struck by the horrific reality that, failing either their extreme longevity or my ability to get out of this mess, I would never, as a free man, be able to see them again. Tears rolled down my face.
‘Howard bach, cadw dy ysbryd. Keep your spirit. We’ve just talked to Masha, and Judy and the children are all right. Well, not all right, but bearing up,’ said Mam, also unable to hold back the tears.
‘We’ll do whatever we can,’ said Dad.
‘Mam and Dad, I’m so sorry.’
‘Did you get our letters, bach?’
‘No, Mam.’
‘Howard bach, I have to ask you one question. Dad and I will do what we can whatever you did, but did you have anything to do with hard drugs or guns?’
‘No, Mam, of course not. I hate those businesses. The Americans and the media have both gone mad.’
‘Well, the newspapers, I don’t bother with, ever. I know what they’re like. They’ll write anything to sell a story, whatever comes into their heads. There was a man from the Daily Mirror outside the prison when we were coming in. He was wanting to talk to us. I said “No.” I’ll never forgive them for what they did to us in 1974 when you were kidnapped on bail. No, I won’t talk to the newspapers, ever,’ said Mam.
‘I’ve got my doubts about the Americans, too. Never mind the newspapers. All that tripe about you being the biggest in the world, owning ships and banks,’ added Dad.
‘Now with cannabis,’ Mam went on, ‘we know you’re a bit penstyff about it. You’ve always had a bee in your bonnet, for some reason. If I know it’s just that, I’ll feel a lot better.’
‘It is just that, Mam.’
‘Talking about Americans, who is this Katz fellow?’ asked Dad. ‘He’s a weird bird, that one. He asked me for some money. I said I wanted to see you first.’
‘Yeah, he is weird, Dad. I’ve made arrangements to pay him.’
‘Do you still have some money, Howard?’
‘I think so, Dad, but I don’t know how much.’
‘Now Gustavo we thought was very nice,’ said Mam. ‘He brought us here this morning to make sure we had no problems seeing you. There’s a lot of red tape, isn’t there, bach? He’s talking to the director of the prison now to see if we can leave some things we brought: books and Welsh cakes, Howard bach. He said what they were doing to you and Judy was outrageous, but he said there was hope. Dad liked him, too.’
‘Yes, I liked him, too. I gave him a cheque for £5,000. And Bob Edwardes and I are making arrangements to give Luis Morell some money.’
‘I’m sure I’ve got enough to cover that,’ I said.
‘Well, Mam and I wanted to do it. We’ve also put some money in your account here. We’ll make sure Masha and the children won’t go without, while we can. Who is this Nigel fellow?’
‘He’s Masha’s boy-friend.’
‘Is he all right?’
‘I think so. I hardly know him.’
The twenty minutes were quickly over. My parents were visiting again the next day. I was taken to the patio. The authorities let the Welsh cakes in. I shared them with Zacarias and the two Frenchmen. I complained about the shortness of the visit and not being allowed to embrace my parents. Zacarias said he could arrange for me to have a contact visit for two hours tomorrow. One of the senior visiting guards was his friend, and Zacarias himself was having a contact visit early the next morning. He would arrange things then. I thanked Zacarias profusely.
Zacarias was as good as his word. The next day, I was not taken to the visiting cubicles. I was taken to a large room with chairs and tables. My parents were sitting down, surrounded by groups of Spanish prisoners and visitors. After hugs and kisses, I sat down with them. The noise was deafening. I exchanged watches with my father. Wearing an Audemar Piquet in prison seemed silly. Dad would take care of it for me. Zacarias, quite openly smoking a joint, came up and asked if we wanted one of the bedrooms upstairs. One was free. It would be a lot quieter. Zacarias’s friendly funcionario took us upstairs to an enormous bedroom. I looked at the king-size bed. If they let Judy out of Palma, she could come to see me here. What a civilised prison system. We sat on a sofa and talked and went over everything. We talked about old times. They would come to see me as often as they could, at least once a month, health permitting.
‘Bye, Dad.’
‘Goodbye, bach. Stay strong, and remember to try to help others here as much as you can.’
‘Cheerio, Mam.’
‘Cheerio, Howard bach. Cadw dy ysbryd.’
Instead of being escorted back to the patio or to my cell, I was taken to the office of the Jefe de Servicios, the person in charge of the prison’s security. With him was a young bespectacled funcionario who spoke English.
‘Los periodistas están aquí. Quieren hablar con usted,’ said the Jefe.
The young officer interpreted.
‘Men from newspapers are here. They wish to speak with you. You do not have to. You have no obligation.’
‘Which newspapers?’ I asked.
‘El País from here in Madrid and the Daily Mirror from England and the Paris-Match from France. You are not required to speak with them.’
‘Oh, I don’t object to seeing them,’ I said.
‘But you have no obligation,’ he insisted.
‘I understand, but I agree to see them.’
‘Firma acquí,’ said a very disgruntled Jefe, giving me a form to sign.
In a well-furnished meeting room, I spent three hours being rudely interrogated by the Daily Mirror, gently questioned by Paris-Match, and heavily sympathised with by El País, who at first simply could not believe that the charges against me involved nothing other than cannabis. Each of the journalists found Judy’s incarceration outrageous. The Paris-Match lady said that in France I was already a hero. The El País interviewer explained that her newspaper colleagues were taking a great interest in the case, and I would be asked many times to be interviewed and photographed while here in Alcala-Meco.
Once again, I was starting to get turned on by the glamour of publicity, but this time I resolved to use it to advantage. Maybe if I kept Judy’s plight long enough in the public eye, either the Spanish or the Americans would be shamed into letting her go. I made several pleas for her release.
With a parting gift of a carton of cigarettes, the journalists left me in the meeting room. The Jefe, his English-speaking sidekick, and four funcionarios walked in. I was stripped of all my clothes and possessions. I assumed it was to check the journalists hadn’t given me anything they shouldn’t have, but I was wrong.
‘Howard, you are to be placed under Artículo 10. This is effective immediately and will remain effective until the next meeting of the junta [a national panel of senior prison bureaucrats], when there will be a review of all Artículo 10 prisoners. You will now be taken to the Artículo 10 modulo. You will be kept in complete isolation for a week. You will be allowed twenty minutes’ exercise a day, alone in the patio. You are not allowed to look at or make signals to other
prisoners. After a week, you may exercise in the patio one hour a day with other Artículo 10 prisoners and receive one ten-minute visit through glass each week. There will be no contact or conjugal visits. You are permitted six books, a daily newspaper, and a weekly magazine. You are permitted cigarettes. You are permitted to write and receive letters and telegrams. Once a month you may receive from your family one small parcel of food and clothes. You are not permitted to sit on your bed between 7 a.m. and 11 p.m. Do you understand these conditions?’
‘Why am I placed under Article 10? What have I done wrong? Is it because I spoke to the journalists?’
‘The junta will explain to you at their next meeting. Do you understand the conditions?’
‘And when is that?’
‘The junta will meet in December. Do you understand the conditions, Howard?’
‘No, I do not understand the conditions.’
‘I will read them again for you, Howard. If you still do not understand them, we will have to put you in Artículo 10 celdas, where you have no cigarettes, no books, no visits …’
‘I understand the conditions.’
‘Good. Sign here.’
The Artículo 10 cell block was grim, bare, and dark. The cell was filthy and full of cockroaches. Inedible and disgusting food was thrown in twice a day by some illtempered and nasty funcionarios, who wielded riot sticks and pocket tear-gas sprays. The window gave an oblique view of the patio, in which handfuls of prisoners took turns to exercise. Besides me, at least two Artículo 10 prisoners were prohibited from association with others. As I did my turn of solitary exercise, I was stared at by dozens of pairs of eyes looking out from their cells. A couple of guys waved and smiled. I waved back and was yelled at by the funcionarios for doing so.