wanted man until his death, everyone knows what they look like but few people have ever actually seen one. These €500 bills fill the envelopes in ‘black money’ property deals.
Southern Spain was clearly awash with hash and my next subject, Zaid, was one of the biggest names in the business.
CHAPTER 4
ZAID
With Leff and Fara left far behind still fuming in Tangier, it was time to meet an altogether different character. Spanish-born hash baron Zaid was brought up in the port of Algeciras, which itself is only separated from Morocco by the Strait of Gibraltar. Zaid owns and runs a number of warehouses in the industrial area of the city.
After disembarking the ferry from Morocco, Si headed off to his Spanish home in Murcia, while I was met by Paco, one of Zaid’s men. We drive off in his car for a night-time rendezvous with the man himself. Although Paco speaks no English, I speak enough Spanish to manage a light conversation, which is punctuated by awkward silences as the vehicle heads through the rundown suburbs of Algeciras. As we near an industrial area, Paco drives around and around the same block of warehouses at least five times. He helpfully explains that this is done in order to make sure the policeare not tailing him because he does not want to lead them to Zaid’s headquarters.
Eventually Paco parks the car and as a secondary safety measure we walk at least a quarter of a mile to a warehouse. The streets are badly lit and every time a car passes us, Paco carefully checks it out with a squint of his eyes.
Eventually we reach a big garage-type door with a smaller door built within it. Paco knocks twice. We enter to find ourselves in a warehouse about four times the size of a normal lock-up garage with an office attached to it. Five men are gathered around a small white Citroën with its rear tailgate open. The men glance up with menacing looks on their faces until they recognise Paco. One of the men turns and approaches us and introduces himself as Zaid. He’s short and stocky and walks like a weightlifter on steroids. He talks in quickfire Spanish that is quite hard for me to understand.
Zaid has only agreed to meet me because he is the brother-in-law of a lawyer I know in Málaga. Without this introduction, he tells me, he wouldn’t come near me. He considers journalists –
Periodistas
– to be ‘the enemy’. He immediately tells me how the newspapers exaggerate stories about drugs, which in turn then puts more pressure on Spain’s Policia National and Guardia Civil to arrest hash barons like himself. It is clear this sort of ‘behaviour’ infuriates Zaid. He says – like so many hash gangsters – that his drugs are doing no harm to anyone. I guess it’s his way of dealing with the ‘business’ he is in.
Meanwhile the high-pitched screeching noise of a speeddrill reminds us that the rest of his gang are unscrewing the inside covers of the Citroën’s tailgate. They then start loading small brick-shaped packs of clingfilm-wrapped hash into all available crevices of the Citroën.
Zaid explains that this shipment of hash is due to go cross-country up to Madrid where one of the city’s busiest drug dealers has a Rolodex filled with customers ready and waiting for the latest batch of high quality ‘product’.
Zaid beckons us over to the back of the Citroën as his men continue packing the car with drugs in a meticulous and measured manner. Zaid picks up one of the clingfilm bricks and squeezes it gently then offers me the chance to do the same. It feels rock hard at first but then there is a certain amount of give in it when I try a second time. ‘See? Just a few seconds of your body heat and it becomes softer,’ explains Zaid.
He tells me this one brick of hash is worth €40,000 in Madrid. He declines to tell me exactly what he is selling it on for but I presume it was probably in the region of 50 per cent of that value. Zaid in turn would have bought it from his Moroccan
Southern Spain was clearly awash with hash and my next subject, Zaid, was one of the biggest names in the business.
CHAPTER 4
ZAID
With Leff and Fara left far behind still fuming in Tangier, it was time to meet an altogether different character. Spanish-born hash baron Zaid was brought up in the port of Algeciras, which itself is only separated from Morocco by the Strait of Gibraltar. Zaid owns and runs a number of warehouses in the industrial area of the city.
After disembarking the ferry from Morocco, Si headed off to his Spanish home in Murcia, while I was met by Paco, one of Zaid’s men. We drive off in his car for a night-time rendezvous with the man himself. Although Paco speaks no English, I speak enough Spanish to manage a light conversation, which is punctuated by awkward silences as the vehicle heads through the rundown suburbs of Algeciras. As we near an industrial area, Paco drives around and around the same block of warehouses at least five times. He helpfully explains that this is done in order to make sure the policeare not tailing him because he does not want to lead them to Zaid’s headquarters.
Eventually Paco parks the car and as a secondary safety measure we walk at least a quarter of a mile to a warehouse. The streets are badly lit and every time a car passes us, Paco carefully checks it out with a squint of his eyes.
Eventually we reach a big garage-type door with a smaller door built within it. Paco knocks twice. We enter to find ourselves in a warehouse about four times the size of a normal lock-up garage with an office attached to it. Five men are gathered around a small white Citroën with its rear tailgate open. The men glance up with menacing looks on their faces until they recognise Paco. One of the men turns and approaches us and introduces himself as Zaid. He’s short and stocky and walks like a weightlifter on steroids. He talks in quickfire Spanish that is quite hard for me to understand.
Zaid has only agreed to meet me because he is the brother-in-law of a lawyer I know in Málaga. Without this introduction, he tells me, he wouldn’t come near me. He considers journalists –
Periodistas
– to be ‘the enemy’. He immediately tells me how the newspapers exaggerate stories about drugs, which in turn then puts more pressure on Spain’s Policia National and Guardia Civil to arrest hash barons like himself. It is clear this sort of ‘behaviour’ infuriates Zaid. He says – like so many hash gangsters – that his drugs are doing no harm to anyone. I guess it’s his way of dealing with the ‘business’ he is in.
Meanwhile the high-pitched screeching noise of a speeddrill reminds us that the rest of his gang are unscrewing the inside covers of the Citroën’s tailgate. They then start loading small brick-shaped packs of clingfilm-wrapped hash into all available crevices of the Citroën.
Zaid explains that this shipment of hash is due to go cross-country up to Madrid where one of the city’s busiest drug dealers has a Rolodex filled with customers ready and waiting for the latest batch of high quality ‘product’.
Zaid beckons us over to the back of the Citroën as his men continue packing the car with drugs in a meticulous and measured manner. Zaid picks up one of the clingfilm bricks and squeezes it gently then offers me the chance to do the same. It feels rock hard at first but then there is a certain amount of give in it when I try a second time. ‘See? Just a few seconds of your body heat and it becomes softer,’ explains Zaid.
He tells me this one brick of hash is worth €40,000 in Madrid. He declines to tell me exactly what he is selling it on for but I presume it was probably in the region of 50 per cent of that value. Zaid in turn would have bought it from his Moroccan
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