Busted: The Old Hand. "We Always Get Our Man". 

Do you know what that’s like? The staring match, the "Old Pro" staring at the suspect, eye-to-eye. You - feeling the sweat rising, wishing to hell it wouldn’t.

Him never missing a beat, never blinking, just staring and watching and waiting for that little bit of sweat above the eyebrows. The little silver bead trickling down the eyelid to the nose that tells the old dude - "yup, we got us a live one here for sure".

So I stood. And stared back unblinking. But I could feel the sweat rising. Damn it! "Get it under control mate" I said to myself. "Your on top of this one pal". But this guy, this old pro was just sitting it out. Shit! I just had to catch a professional on the bloody job on this day of all fucking days!

Usually the customs isles at this particular airport in this particular English-speaking country were staffed by newbies, greenies, sticks… new and trainee customs staff. Young men and women fresh out of college, entering a career in the good old Public Service. Dedicated young professionals, but green as hell under the collar. A serious smuggler could walk right past one of them with a Boeing 747 stuffed under his or her T-shirt without too much trouble.

But today, for whatever reason, whatever twist of fate, there was an old-hand sitting in with them on the end counter of the customs-check isles. The end counter - the "Red" counter. Where you go if you declare something. Where you are taken if you are under suspicion of carrying what some law somewhere calls "contraband". The old-hand just sat and watched.

From the end of the queue of arriving passengers that I stood in, I had been surreptitiously watching him as he watched everything. I could see him, now and then leaning over to give a hint to the young customs officers. I could see him moving his face, pointing at his face with his hands, telling them how to watch out for "the sweats" and which type of sweat to watch for. I could see him telling them. I could see him pulling his collar, scratching the back of his neck, fiddling with his ear, looking around himself vacantly.

Damn it! I could see him showing them, teaching them the trick of using and/or reading body-language - a trick I too was expert in. I’d learnt from experts. It was a trick I had up my sleeve to get me out the door today.

I had not anticipated the opposing team having an "old-hand" on tap giving them bloody lessons in the very shit I was trying to use to get out the door with 5 kilograms of high-grade Nepalese Black Hashish concealed in a plastic-welded, airtight cavity in my Samsonite suitcase.

So much for having a "guilt-free" appearance of confidence. This guy was going to cut at it like a damned grim reaper. But I felt sure I’d beat him at this game. I felt quite sure.

One thing nagged at me now. A few moments ago they’d run a "drug-sniffer" dog up and down the row of arriving passengers. Just a casual check. Nothing fancy. I watched as the dog approached. Nice looking dog, friendly looking handler. I was not the least bit concerned.

I knew my job and I knew how to make luggage with concealed compartments that were quite simply airtight and easily passed the sniffers. I’d already seen this case get sniffed twice. No problems. And nothing in my cabin-bag. Nothing in my pockets - look, nothing up my sleeves. I was as good as clean

I stood and watched the oncoming dog. The dog looked at me. The dog walked up to me. The dog stopped, sat with a wagging tail, bent over, sniffed my cabin-bag and let out a short, sharp bark. "Woof" he said, looking at me stupidly and wagging his tail as if I was about to give him a freaking bone. Not real loud. Just "woof". A little, short, sharp noise. Kind of reminded me of the sound of a silenced .38.

Then the handler just came up, smiled at me and said "excuse me Sir, Jack’s a little bit excited today". And with that he pulled on the "Jack’s" lead and they both went back about their duties. Nothing there, nothing to worry about. Like he said, "Jack" was a bit excited today is all.

But now I stood watching the old-hand. And my line got shorter. Two things. Nothing to worry about. A dog that got excited about nothing. An old-hand teaching the new kids. Two things. I started to get an ill-feeling but put an end to that immediately. Ill-feelings have big flags.

I passed by the passport control counter and the guy grunted at me as he stamped my passport. He did not look up at me, did not look up at his computer, did not look up from his hands and the passport he was stamping. I should have known then, in the back of my mind I guess I did know - but what could I do about it now anyway?. He should have looked at his computer screen.

He MUST look at his computer screen to see if any outstanding stuff is up there about a particular passenger. He knew. He already knew. The dog-handler had already reported in, The Machine had fired up. Had I looked up I would have noticed 3 sets of ceiling-mounted video cameras very carefully following every move I made. I didn’t look. Too late now anyway.

As I walked away from passport control, I was thinking "why didn’t he check his screen?". I should not have thought that. You have to play it to the very end. And it was not over yet. I should not have let those thoughts pass my through my conscious mind at all. I’d slipped. I was approaching the "green" counter now. Nothing to declare, that’s me sir.

The customs officer at that counter said "I’m sorry sir, could you please go down to the red counter". It was not a question. "Why? I haven’t got anything here to declare mate" I said. "I can see that on your form mate, will you please go down to the red counter?" said the officer.

I looked down the way, down to the "red counter". Sounded like a seat in Beelzebub’s joint. The Red Counter. And at the red counter sat the dreaded Old-Hand. And he sat there doing nothing but one thing - staring right at me. He pointed his finger at me. Then he curled it back and waved me over.

I walked, brimming in innocent confidence, right up to him and said "what seems to be the matter officer?" with a firm tone and a steady glance. "The dog son. The dog picked up a positive scent on your cabin-bag there" said the old man, pointing at the bag hanging from my shoulder. "A scent of what?" I asked.

"The dog gave a positive on cannabis and/or hashish son. You have cannabis or hashish or both in that cabin-bag you are carrying right there. Now put in on the counter and let’s see what you have there shall we?" he said.

I was a little confused. There was nothing in my cabin-bag and I knew it. I was in fact carrying 5 kilograms. But not in my cabin-bag but in the suitcase sitting right there on the trolley that I’d picked up on the carousel. The dogs from arse-hole to breakfast and back had already sniffed that suitcase many times. Nepal, Burma, Thailand. All their dogs had sniffed it. No dog had picked it up though.

Now the dog and handler walked back over. A small crowd of customs officers had gathered to watch the slaughter. The handler ran the dog over all my luggage on the trolley. A suitcase, a back-pack, a large travel-bag and a guitar-case. Zero.

The handler brought the dog over to the counter where I had the cabin-bag open and Bingo! The dog set up to howling and barking and running around in circles chasing its own tail until the handler gave him the pacifier - usually a small chunk of candy or some other sweet thing.

The old man said "OK son, stop playing around. Where is it hidden?". "Look" I said, "you have the bag the dog has detected right there in front of you. Rip it to pieces if you bloody want to mate, I don’t mind". "Let’s take a look at your suitcase and that other stuff shall we?" he said. "Sure thing" said I.

The case hit the counter with a loud thud. It was heavy, packed with wooden carvings, snake-skins, Gurkha knives, human skulls. All the usual things that you bring back from the mountains with you. The customs guys didn’t like the human skull. They confiscated that on the grounds that it’d have bugs in it. I was hoping that would keep them happy. That was the idea of the skull really.

The old hand had stepped back and just watched. The younger officers were finishing searching the case. He was watching me carefully, I could see that in my peripheral vision. I was under control. I had the situation fixed. I was safe, I could feel it. The younger officer put the last of my things back in the case. He looked up and said "do you want me to lock the case sir?".

The next two seconds seemed to me to last for a year. As I looked over and said "yeah, thanks" to the young officer a tiny breath of relief went right through me like a cool breeze. I could feel it, tingling down my back. I knew it, I knew you could see it. Immediately the sweat started. In that instance I knew in my heart that I’d blown it completely and totally.

The old hand sat, and watched, and saw my little cool breeze, caught that glimpse of sudden relief. My eyes met his, his met mine. I’d blown it.

We stared. He knew, he’d seen it, seen the relief. He stared. The bead of sweat, just one little, tiny, silver bug of liquid, spilled off my brow and onto the bridge of my nose, then on down the nose in a thin trickle. The penny dropped. That bead of sweat lost me the whole game.

Two seconds had passed. It seemed like years.

The old hand smiled. "Stop" he said to the young officer who was about to shut the case. "Leave that open" he said, "let me take a look at it again". He walked back over to the case, picked it up by one end and tipped the whole contents back onto the counter.

He kept holding the edge he’d picked the case up by. Looking at me he made the movements of weighing the case. His eyes went up to the ceiling (where you keep numbers in your head apparently, names you keep below). His eyes went down to the floor (like I said, where you keep names).

He looked at me and said "you know, this is damned heavy for a plastic suitcase, what is it? Reinforced or something?" I looked at him and said "yeah, what? What are you saying? What do you want?". "We want to know firstly what is in this suitcase that appears to be empty but is not, and secondly we want to know where the fucking hell in this suitcase is whatever the fuck it is you are hiding from us here and now you little shithead!"

He had become quite suddenly angry. "You are busted my son, do you know that, busted you little shit". I jumped back, a little shocked at the anger he was showing. "Hey, don’t come on so heavy man, what’s the problem with you anyway?" I said, "You know you got me, I know it too, so what’s the big deal? I’m carrying already, OK? Guilty, OK? Now get off my case!". I too was getting a little hot under the collar by now. Just a little.

He dropped the case back onto the counter and said "The big deal is this. If that is heroin you have in there you are going to go inside for so fucking long it ain’t funny no more, you understand me son?". "Yeah, I understand and It’s not heroin in there anyway, OK?".

I later found out that his daughter was in serious trouble with a heavy addiction to heroin - hence this old professionals reaction to the possibility that I was a low-down heroin smuggler. Which I ain’t and never, ever will be. I have had friends die in my very arms on that shit. I’ve had friends steal everything they could from me to pay for their smack. I don’t do heroin - for business or for pleasure and I have no problem with governments who hang heroin smugglers.

No, I smuggled Hashish - the Prince of Drugs. The "savior". Best damned drug in the world. No hangover, no addiction, no psychosis in normal humans. "God’s Gift" I’ve heard it referred to as.

"What have you got in there then son? Grass? Gold bars? Live lizards? What?" said the old hand. "Hashish" I said, "about 5 kilos of Nepalese Black". He raised his eyebrows and said "We’ll just see then shall we? If it’s hash, I’m not really even interested."

He grabbed the bag and took it over to a set of scales to weigh it. Looking back over his shoulder and indicating 3 federal police standing over by a door he said "But those federal agents over there will be real interested, that’s for sure".

The feds heard this and one of them broke away from the group, came over to me an very politely introduced himself as Senior Detective Carson of the Federal Police Drug Squad. He indicated his two friends, told me their names and ranks then said "So, you reckon it’s just hash you got there eh?". He looked a little bored and frustrated, like he’d just missed a great highway car pile-up. Or a good, big bust. I could see these boys had been waiting to do a big heroin bust, get that big star on the report card.

"Hash is going to give you some time in all the same, you know that do you?" the fed said. "Yeah, I know that" I replied. He took out a cigarette, offered me one, I took it. Lighting his and my cigarettes he said "Not as bad as smack, but still you could do up to 8 years or so, unless you cooperate with us and tell us who your contacts here are. Shit mate, 5 kilograms of hash, why’d you do that mate? Who set this one up for you?". He said.

"Oh come on" I replied, "this is a one-off, if you guys are out today fishing for the organized crime Mafia connection guy, you are really in the wrong pond mate.". I took a long draw on my cigarette, "I work alone, always have, always will. There is nobody here to pick me up. There are no contacts here. There are no contact there. I purchased from a taxi-driver I vaguely knew from a previous visit to Nepal."

"OK, we’ll see about that later when we interview you properly, for now come over and help these customs idiots here. They can’t seem to find the concealment you’ve created in that suitcase", said the fed.

We both walked over to another counter in the corner where three young customs officers were looking over the suitcase, trying to find the seam or the join. There wasn’t one. They needed me. They could not find the join. I started to show them were the hidden secrets were but one of the officers said "hang on, not here in public. We don’t want the stuff falling out over the floor here mate". "OK" I replied. The young officer gestured with his hand at another officer. "Over here, take him and the case to interview room five. Get the people from forensics up here too, they need to take a look at this" he ordered.

The younger officer looked at me and said "c’mon mate, let’s go now". We walked over to a doorway and through that into a corridor beyond. Door to interview rooms lined the corridor and we made our way to the door marked "5". Inside was a large interview desk and chairs with recording equipment, a large white examination table and the compulsory "interview room" lamp stood in another corner.

One of the officers came in and placed the empty suitcase on the table. Two more young customs officers came in and sat on chairs. The old-hand had gone. The three feds all walked in and sat down, the one who had spoken to me indicating to me to sit down also. I sat down and immediately got up again as the customs officers collectively said "get him over here, we can’t open this thing". I walked over and simply unclipped the aluminum trim from around the inside of the case.

I indicated to one officer that I needed to use a screwdriver I could see he had in a tool-case. He looked over at the feds, asking with his eyes "can we give this guy this weapon". The feds nodded back in approval. He handed me the screwdriver and I proceeded to scratch hard at a certain spot where I’d intentionally undermined the strength of the plastic-weld to allow me to access the join easily and disassemble the case without damaging it too much. I liked the case. I wanted to keep it.

The case was a work of art. Pure and simple, art. It had taken myself and a young Nepalese friend all of three full days of work to build it and load it with the Hashish. I had taken a set of miniature electric tools over with me for the job. A jigsaw, a sander, a drill, a polisher and grinder. Those tools, six tubes of silicon purchased in Kathmandu, some black plastic-weld strips I’d brought along.

The biggest job was getting the hash itself into the right shape and form to fit into the false bottom. A whole day of cutting and kneading the sticky, black resin.

Before leaving for Nepal I’d purchased two identical top-of-the-line Samsonite suitcases. The bottom cut carefully out of one and fitted with minute bevels and joins into the bottom of the other. For the clean run into Nepal, simply loaded with some boards of timber and no silicon to seal it. Even that passed detection all the way in.

Disassembled in Kathmandu and loaded with the specially shaped hashish embedded in many layers of silicon, the whole case reassembled and the joins closed with plastic-weld. The joins then ground clean and polished to the point of total invisibility. The aluminum trim around the inside edges of the case would throw up interference against X-ray and conceal the joins under even that level of scrutiny.

Between each and every stage of the whole reassembly; soap and hot water, a thorough wash down of the hands and body and new, clean clothes; the dirty clothes disposed of.

A lot of care and work went into that case. And now I was peeling it open with a screwdriver like some piece of fruit, showing it’s illegal-smile type contents to the gathered officialdom and police.

They were impressed. "Best concealment I’ve ever seen" they said. "Damned clever of you " they said. "Neat work son, very neat" they said. "You’re busted and going to jail now" they said.

I stared down at the 5 kilograms of hashish in the bottom of the case, wrapped in its multi-layer silicon coating. I stared at the hashish in the case and for some reason, right then and there I remembered another lump of hashish. A much smaller one. A nice, neat, little block of black I’d been carrying around in my bag in Kathmandu. No wrapping, no box, just a raw lump of hash bouncing around in my bag.

"Oh god" I thought as I stood there staring at the hash in the suitcase. The bloody hash I had in Kathmandu! In the bag! No wrapper! Oh shit, the same bag. The fucking cabin-bag goddamnit! That’s what the dog sniffed. That is what brought me unstuck. The hash had rubbed off onto the inside of my cabin-bag four weeks ago. The same bag the dog sniffed. By god those dogs can sure sniff something up, can’t they?

Later I sat in the car, headed for the Federal Police building in the city. After several hours of interview I’d convinced them (seemingly) that I worked alone and there was nobody else for them to worry about. I’d also convinced them that there was not a name in the world I could (or would) give them.

The feds treated me with a great deal of respect. Tried to frighten the shit out of me a few times, but just in fun. Fun? While you are getting busted? Fun? When you know you are doing the "Go To Jail - Do Not Pass Go - Do Not Collect $250" routine? Fun? Sure… fun! And so was jail. Christ! Never had so much fun in all my life as I had in jail. And it was a long time in too.

You can have fun in a dark, deep, wet hole if you really want to. Just a state of mind, that’s all. I think it’s called "stupid"?

I did my time inside. Not too long, just enough. Paid for my crime. Got cured of my criminal tendencies completely! No bullshit! (just ask the Warden) And the suitcase now? It’s up in the Federal Police Museum. The hashish? Back on the street I’d imagine, as usual. And me?… Ended up in… well that’s another story.

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