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CATCH ME IF YOU CAN

at the motorcyclist and leapt into the back seat of a taxi. ‘Find me a cheap hotel,’ he said, jerking his head from side, watching out for a police tail.

When the driver pulled in at the front of Hotel Central Jakarta, at least 20 cops were swarming at the front gate – nothing to do with Marco, but he had to stay invisible. ‘Oh my god, let’s go. Take me to a shopping centre.’ He could hide among the crowds. Cops were outside the shopping centre too, but he got out anyway.

He had about $120 and bought some cheap clothes to change into. Then for the next few hours he wandered aimlessly, round and round in circles inside the shopping centre, not sure what to do, his panic rising. By 11 pm, the long corridors were ghost-like, with only a few straggling shoppers. Lights were sporadically going out and the roller doors being pulled shut. It was no longer a sanctuary of camouflage, quite the opposite. It was time to go. He walked up the steps into the night, quickly finding a cab to take him to a cheap hotel.

Without wanting to expose the passport still tucked in his pocket, he created a story, telling the receptionist his girlfriend would arrive later with ID. Once inside his room, he pulled a beer from the fridge, sat on the bed and lit a Lemon Juice joint that he’d smuggled from Amsterdam – an insane thing to carry when he was trafficking kilos of blow, but it was this insouciant confidence that had kept him untouched, until now.

He’d bought a phone card and late that night went down to reception to use it. He called Carlino, the prime investor in this run, who’d paid for the flights, hotels and equipment, and was waiting in Bali for his 5-kilo slice of the 13.7 kilos. He answered, but refused to believe Marco’s implausible story.

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