They Thought I Was Dead: Sandy’s Story

36 27 July 2007 — Roel Albazi

Roel Albazi sat at the marble oval table in his apartment above the pizzeria in Shoreham. He had long ago learned never to be knocked down by any adversary and within a week of his home being trashed, while it wasn’t perfect yet, it was habitable again, filled with rental furniture. But despite that, and the whisky inside him, he was feeling nervous as hell. And knocked again. By a new adversary.

Sandy Grace.

It was 8 p.m., Friday evening. Skender Sharka, patched up with a few bandages on his face and arms, and Tall Joe sat at the table either side of their boss. All of them had a glass of Chivas Regal, filled by Albazi from the rapidly emptying bottle on the table.

‘OK, so this is the update on this woman,’ Albazi said. ‘I don’t know what interest this Greek guy, Nicos Christoforou, has in her. Maybe he wants to fuck her.’

‘Or has already?’ Tall Joe suggested.

Albazi did not react. ‘Nicos Christoforou is a piece of work. He makes out he’s all Mr Nice Guy, telling the world he only deals in cannabis because in his heart and soul...’ He paused to place his hand on his chest, in mock solemnity and, mimicking Howard Marks’s Welsh accent, said, ‘I do not believe in hard drugs.’

Both his colleagues grinned.

‘That asshole Nicos tells everyone that he wants cannabis to be legalized because of all its health benefits, so he announces that’s what he’s doing, that he’s on a mission to convert the world to the magical healing wonders of cannabis, of hemp oil, grass, weed, ganga, whatever the hell you want to call it. That may be true — but what he’s saying about himself is complete crap!’

He refilled everyone’s glass then went on.

‘I’ve found out all about Nicos Christoforou, thanks to the Song Wu research team. He’s got links with drug corridors from Thailand, the Philippines and two cartels in Colombia. He’s supplying Class A drugs into Spain, via Valencia, and to Jersey in the Channel Islands, and he has supply networks around the world. Most of his stuff comes into England through Liverpool. In 1996 he was imprisoned on a twenty-five-to-life jail sentence in Zanzibar on a drugs importation charge, before escaping on a yacht in 2001– after some bribery. Zanzibar still have an international warrant out for his arrest — but of course not in the name of Nicos Christoforou, that is some alias way down the line. The warrant is out in his real name, Constantine Angelos.’

‘Where does he live, boss?’ Sharka asked.

‘Good question,’ Albazi replied. ‘He seems to live out of a suitcase. The last permanent address anyone can find for him was a villa in a fancy suburb of Athens, twelve years ago. He had a wife and two children who were blown up by a car bomb intended for him. That’s when he changed his name and vanished — until he ended up in prison in Zanzibar.’

Tall Joe said, ‘So this Nicos’ — he waggled his hands in the air — ‘might be the clue to finding Sandy Grace?’

‘Or whatever she’s called now, yes,’ Albazi said. ‘She was due here yesterday at 12 p.m. with all the money and she was a no-show. She’s not responded to any of my messages. She had agreed, absolutely no question, to turn up to see me with the £150K she owes. She never showed, so where is she?’

‘You need to hear this, boss,’ Tall Joe said. ‘I have traced her to Gatwick Airport and a Sandra Smith, who I’m sure is her, took a flight to Amsterdam and disappeared, but good news was told to me in a boozer at lunchtime today by a mate who’s a private pilot. One of his regular clients happens to be Nicos Christoforou.’

Suddenly he had Albazi’s full attention. ‘Seriously, Joe?’

‘Seriously. He regularly flies him in and out of the country, mostly from Shoreham or Goodwood, or if it’s a jet then from Biggin Hill.’

‘Flies him where?’

‘Jersey, mostly. Spain sometimes — Valencia is a regular round trip.’

‘I guess Nicos flies privately because he’s got stuff he doesn’t want to put through an airport scanner, right?’ Sharka said.

‘That would be a pretty good guess,’ Tall Joe replied.

‘Your pilot friend,’ Albazi said, thoughtfully. ‘He’s bent, right?’

‘Bent as the proverbial nine-bob note.’

‘How much of a bung would he need to tell us when and where he’s flying Nicos next?’

Tall Joe gave an impish smile and made a circle with his forefinger and thumb. ‘He’s already told me that, boss. Tomorrow morning. He’s got two passengers — Nicos Christoforou and a lady.’

‘Called?’ Albazi asked.

‘Sandra Jones.’

Albazi smiled and nodded slowly. ‘When people change their names, they often keep their first name because it’s easiest and it feels familiar. I think there’s a pretty good chance this Sandra Jones is Sandy Grace, yes?’

‘No question,’ Tall Joe said. Skender Sharka agreed.

‘I’ve seen the copies of their passports filed for the flight plan.’ Tall Joe put his laptop on the table and pulled up the photo page of a passport. He turned it so Albazi could see it clearly.

Albazi studied it for a moment. It was Sandy Grace’s face, but she looked quite different with long, wavy red hair. He nodded. ‘It’s her, for sure. Nice work.’

‘Always!’ Joe said.

‘Do you know which airport and at what time they are flying?’ Albazi asked.

‘I do, boss. Tomorrow. Biggin Hill on a chartered Citation jet, which my pilot friend flies, to Valencia. Scheduled departure time 10 a.m. They overnight in Valencia and then the jet drops them off in Jersey the next day.’

‘That’s very interesting, Joe,’ Sharka said.