Phil Sparrowhawk - Grass

To Marisa, Casey and Phillipa. The girls in my life. And thanks to
Imogen for her work and effort.

Philip Sparrowhawk August 2003

Martin Knight would like to dedicate this book
to Harry Knight (19202003)

*For a variety of legal and emotional reasons, some of
the names in this book have been changed.

In other cases, my memory has failed me I have problems
remembering all my names, let alone others.

Phil Sparrowhawk

with Martin King and Martin Knight

This edition 2004

Copyright Phil Sparrowhawk with Martin King and Martin Knight, 2003

All rights reserved

The moral rights of the authors have been asserted

First published in Great Britain in 2003 by

MAINSTREAM PUBLISHING (EDINBURGH) LTD

7 Albany Street

Edinburgh EH1 3UG

ISBN 1 84018 892 8

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any other means without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who wishes to quote brief passages in connection with a review written for insertion in a magazine, newspaper or broadcast

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

FOREWORD BY HOWARD MARKS

It would be imprudent to say for how long the dope smuggling partnership Phil Sparrowhawk and I shared lasted, but during the time it did, we visited several dozen countries together, smuggled countless tons of Thai marijuana and a few tons of hashish, and made millions of pounds. I have never known him smoke a joint. And we are still the best of friends.

Phils mood, temperament and demeanour never alter. His appearance is constantly nondescript (ideal for a man in our line of business). One could never tell whether Phil was on his tenth million or down to his last pound note. He was a working-class boy, equally fired by the desire to acquire wealth as the quest for adventure. If Phil had been born a century earlier, he would have read the Boys Own paper and become a big-game hunter, exploring far-flung lands in his spare time.

During 1974, I skipped bail and became a fugitive. Disappearing itself is quite simple: one could jog in Iraq or do business in Afghanistan (a task I later entrusted to Phil). If cheating mortality is neither permitted nor desired, one could take the hardcore option of checking into any Third World prison (also experienced by Phil). Forget heterosexuality, good nosh, and breathtaking vistas; but theres plenty of dope, libraries and gymnasiums. Most people, however, prefer freedom.

The two most important parameters relating to successful disappearance are position and appearance. At constantly new locations where one is unknown, appearance is irrelevant. On the other hand, if ones appearance is constantly changing, it doesnt matter where one is. Playing safe, I decided to change my appearance and travel. I rented a bedsit, stayed inside, either shaved or grew a moustache and beard, adopted a radically new hairstyle, and varied the takeaway diet. Bedsits were boring, so I filled idle moments by applying to the DVLC in Swansea for a few provisional driving licences. I used any names that came to mind and once obtained one in the name of Elvis Presley. The Swansea computer didnt bat an eyelid; it didnt remember the 1950s. I got loads of junk mail in different names. I joined cheesy clubs and got bits of plastic that looked like credit cards. I got real. I got a life. In fact, I got a few lives and supplemented them with different clothes, walking sticks, crutches, eye-patches, scars, wigs, shades, wheelchairs and spectacles. I then took driving tests with the provisional licences and got Post Office Savings accounts with full licences as identification, and with those I got bank accounts. But passports remained elusive. My first meeting with Phil arose out of this need for false identity: a common acquaintance had suggested he could be useful.

Various passports are available in the criminal marketplace, but, ideally, one wants a passport actually issued by one of the passport offices (so that it withstands todays sophisticated border checks) and one wants as few people as possible to know the name (so friends cant grass you up). There are plenty of people, for example certified lunatics and the terminally ill, who cant travel abroad. There are others who have no intention of visiting different countries because they dont trust foreign beer. Filling in an application form with the appropriate details was easy. The tricky bit was getting it countersigned by someone who existed. It seemed much easier to get it countersigned by someone who didnt exist by renting another bedsit in another name and become a referee. But there are only so many rooms one can rent. I needed someone who could give me an address that could be anyones and answer the phone as whoever I chose. (The only check the Passport Office was ever likely to make was to telephone the referee and ask if hed countersigned the application and photograph.) I asked Phil if he could help. He said he would. The rest is his story.

I found Grass a delight to read. Some of our combined history I had forgotten, and much of Phils life before and after our partnership was unknown to me. Phils extraordinary pragmatism and relaxed attitude to his circumstances and surroundings shine and reveal themselves throughout his book. Only he could spend years in a Thai prison and actually enjoy the experience. Sit down, skin-up, and read.

Howard Marks,

Spain

August 2003

Part One

THE END

SPACE INVADERS BANGKOK, THAILAND

JULY 1988

Ive tried not to count my blessings ever since. Its asking for trouble. I know I was feeling good that morning because I remember every tiny detail of the entire day; for reasons that will become clear it has etched itself in my memory. The sun was already up and out as I walked out of my door and hopped up into my red Suzuki Jeep. Before I pulled away I glanced over at my house and bathed momentarily in a feeling of wellbeing. I was a successful businessman. Inside, still asleep, were my lovely Thai girlfriend and our wonderful young daughter; I had plenty of money in the bank and enjoyed a jet-setting lifestyle I would never have dreamt of in my younger days. Actually, I did dream about it, thats why I followed the path I did, but I suppose I never really believed Id get there.

When I turned on the ignition, the radio came on and the plummy but comforting voice of the BBC World Service newsreader floated around the car. My general sense of contentment and absolute control of my destiny increased. Mrs Thatcher was riding high in the opinion polls; she had been in power nearly a decade now and I was hoping for another ten years. Since the retaking of the Falkland Islands a few years earlier she had re-established the perception of Britain as a world power. Maggie was widely believed to be pulling Ronald Reagans strings and he in turn was forcing President Gorbachev of Russia to slowly disarm. The Cold War was thawing, the world was becoming a safer place and suddenly there was an illusion that the Brits were running the show again. For someone in my line of work this could only be for the good. Being British gave you a degree of automatic respect in foreign parts and you were less likely to be suspected of being up to any nonsense.