Mr Nice_ An Autobiography Part 13

'I would rather be Nice than Brown, Don.'

Don roared with laughter.

'Mr Nice, we've done our s.h.i.t, and the Jewish kid, Alan, has got it. When you give me and Don the money, we don't want to have to count the motherf.u.c.king s.h.i.t, and we don't like small bills. Your s.h.i.t from Dubai weighed exactly 2,308 pounds, which means you owe me $577,000. I get that $577,000 before any other c.o.c.ksucker gets a dime. Are we straight on that?'

'If that's what Ernie did, that's what I'll do, w.i.l.l.y.'

'Yeah, I guess that is what Ernie did, so you do it. Give the money to Don.'

Don was still laughing at my, not that funny, comment.

'So how do you get a name like Nice, for Jesus Christ's sake?'

'I chose it, Don. I bet you didn't choose Brown, did you?'

'You got that right. Okay, time to go. I'll be in the Pierre Hotel until you bring me the money.'

'What room number, Don?'

'I don't know. I'll be using the name Nasty.'

Don Brown was true to his word, and after receiving cardboard boxes of dirty dollars from Alan Schwarz, Mr Nice took $577,000 to Mr Nasty.

Thai sticks were piling up in Bangkok, and Ernie wanted to do the next air-freight scam from there. I was a mere investor. Phil Sparrowhawk was also now given the privilege of investing. A ton of Thai sticks left Bangkok, and disappeared. None of Don Brown's crowd or those who worked for Richard Crimball in Bangkok could trace it. Eventually it was found lying in a freight shed in Charles de Gaulle airport, Paris. The load of 'sewing machines returning under warranty' had not attracted any undue attention, but there didn't seem any way of getting it to New York on Alitalia or j.a.panese Air Lines, the only two 'friendly' airlines. I thought of a solution. The New York company would send a large consignment of real sewing machines, this time to a newly formed company in Rome. The Rome company would find the sewing machines unacceptable and decide to return them under warranty. The New York company would instruct Alitalia to consolidate both the Paris and Rome shipments at Rome and forward them to New York. It was complicated, but it should work. It did.

I stayed in New York. Ernie decided to do another Bangkok scam. This one didn't work. The DEA busted it in New York and arrested sixteen New Yorkers alleged to be at the centre of the Donald Brown organisation. I took the next flight out of New York.

Luckily Donald Brown himself had not been arrested. Neither had w.i.l.l.y the Italian. It was still safe for me to be Nice. But there would be no more air-freight scams to New York. They had come to an end. Between 1975 and 1978, twenty-four loads totalling 55,000 pounds of marijuana and hashish had been successfully imported through John F. Kennedy Airport, New York. They had involved the Mafia, the Yakuza, the Brotherhood of Eternal Love, the Thai army, the Palestine Liberation Organisation, the Pakistani Armed Forces, Nepalese monks, and other individuals from all walks of life. The total profit made by all concerned was $48,000,000. They'd had a good run.

Judy's sister, Natasha, visited Judy and me in London. She had spent several months sailing in the Mediterranean, and had met a hashish-smuggling Californian sailor called Stuart Prentiss. They exchanged confidences, and Stuart expressed a keen desire to meet Natasha's hashish-supplying brother-in-law. Stuart had a boat and he wanted to use it to smuggle hashish into Scotland. He owned a yacht-chartering business based on Kerrera, a small island a few miles from Oban, and was confident of his ability to import hashish safely without attracting attention from the authorities. He didn't have a source of supply in the Mediterranean. Lebanese Sam was still in prison, so I tracked down Eric to see if he still had any of his Lebanese connections. He didn't. There had been all sorts of problems in Beirut: people had been killed in the war, others had emigrated, the quality of commercial hashish had greatly deteriorated, and heroin had become the export of choice. However, Eric had cultivated a connection in Morocco, Sharif, whom he had yet to use. For a reasonable price, Sharif claimed he could deliver a ton of hashish to a boat anch.o.r.ed offsh.o.r.e close to Al Hociema. We went ahead.

It proved to be a trouble-free scam. At the end of 1978, Stuart's boat delivered a ton of Moroccan hashish to his remote Scottish island. Every day for a week, 300 pounds of the load would be taken to the mainland, driven to London, and sold.

Nothing got busted; everyone got paid. I brought up the subject of a repeat performance. Stuart said he wanted to do just one scam a year. I said I could wait. With the profits, Judy bought a flat in Cathcart Road, Chelsea. We started doing it up.

The time had come for World-wide Entertainments to waste some of its money on legitimate businesses. In an attempt to compensate for my lack of talent in rock music, I thought I should manage and finance someone else's. At a Christmas party I met P. J. Proby and Tom Baker. Proby had sung demo discs for Elvis, toured with the Beatles in the Sixties, and had a few British hit records and West End performances to his credit. Tom Baker, a friend of Proby's, used to act in The Virginian The Virginian and was now a film director. He was looking for a suitable manager for Proby, someone with money and recording facilities. I, as Mr Nice, took on the job. and was now a film director. He was looking for a suitable manager for Proby, someone with money and recording facilities. I, as Mr Nice, took on the job.

There had not been any significant mention of me by the media for over four years. But in July 1979, it was discovered that Chief Superintendent Philip Fairweather's confidential report into my disappearance while on bail during 1974 had been leaked to the press. Britain's top crime reporter, Duncan Campbell, wrote about it in the New Statesman New Statesman, explaining that Fairweather had been summoned by MI6's legal adviser, Bernard Shelton, and told that 'a former Balliol College fellow undergraduate of Marks, who is now an MI6 officer, contacted Marks with a view to using his company AnnaBelinda, which also had a shop in Amsterdam, as a cover for his activities. He later realised that Marks was engaged in certain activities and requested him to obtain information concerning the Provisional IRA.'

I didn't pay the article much attention at the time, but this was the first admission by any British government authority that I had worked for MI6 and had been asked to spy on the IRA.

Jim McCann, after his media-inspired face-off with the Canadian Immigration authorities, had not been in France long before he was arrested in the club-house of a villa estate on the Riviera by a squad of French and German police. They locked him up in Ma.r.s.eille's notorious Les Baumettes jail and began the process of extraditing him to Germany to face charges of bombing the British Army base at Monchengladbach in 1973. Luckily for McCann, there was gra.s.s-roots concern in France about the country's failure to behave as a proper asylum for political refugees and its tendency to cave in to other countries' extradition demands. The French Government had not long ago acceded to German demands for the surrender of Klaus Croissant, a lawyer to the Baader-Meinhof organisation. There were protests, and subsequent attempts by the Italians, who wanted a French-residing supporter of the Red Brigade, and the Spanish, who wanted back a member of the Basque guerrilla group, ETA, were thwarted by determined champions of political asylum. McCann's defence was taken on by the same Ma.r.s.eilles lawyers who had successfully dealt with the ETA case. To his lawyers, McCann told one story: he was not James Kennedy, he was James McCann, a fund raiser for the IRA. To the Communist paper Liberation Liberation, he told another: his name was Peter Joseph (Jim) Kennedy, and he was a harmless underground journalist. The Organisation Communiste Internationale, a Trotskyist trade union group, rallied to McCann's cause, referring to it as 'un scandale judiciaire et politique'. McCann was overjoyed and made the following p.r.o.nouncement: Camarades. Je suis tres touche par votre solidarite ... mes circonstances personelles sont le resultat d'une conspiration entre les services secrets anglais et allemands de l'Ouest, tumeur fasciste au coeur de l'Europe democratique.

Yours in Combat, James Kennedy (McCann) The French followed the Canadian strategy and gave up. They refused to extradite McCann to Germany because his blowing-up of a British Army base was a political act, and they gave him political asylum. We met at La Coupole in Montparna.s.se, Paris.

'The Kid's a f.u.c.king legend, H'ard, a f.u.c.king legend. I've got these Trotskyite f.u.c.king snail-eaters in the palm of my hand. No one can touch me. I've got political asylum. But I need some f.u.c.king bread, man. Those Ma.r.s.eilles lawyers cleaned me out. Are you still dope-dealing, H'ard?'

'No, Jim. I took your advice. Now I'm into high finance.'

'f.u.c.k off, will you? I know you're still dope-dealing. I need you to send me some nordle from Kabul.'

'How much? A couple of ounces okay?'

'I need half a f.u.c.king ton, at least, you Welsh c.u.n.t.'

'Are you saying you've got Paris airport straightened?'

'I can straighten anywhere I f.u.c.king want to, H'ard. You know that. But I need you to send the nordle to Ireland.'

'What? Shannon again?'

'Dublin. It's nearer that f.u.c.king Welsh ferry of yours. You know people in Kabul, do you?'

'Only the same ones you know. Why don't you ask them yourself?'

'Well, Durrani's f.u.c.king dead, and that c.u.n.t Raoul thinks I ripped him off.'

'Did you?'

'Of course I f.u.c.king did. I had problems, man. It's better you ask him, H'ard.'

'If I ask Raoul to send dope to Ireland, he'll know it's for you. He's not going to go for it. But I do have someone in Bangkok.'

'Where the f.u.c.k's that?'

'It's the capital of Thailand.'

'I've never f.u.c.king heard of it.'

'It used to be called Siam.'

'What f.u.c.king use is that? I need nordle, not cats.'

'Jim, the nordle from Thailand, Thai sticks, is some of the best in the world.'

'I know what f.u.c.king Thai sticks are, you stupid Welsh f.u.c.ker. I was smoking them last night.'

'Well, I'll send you some of those.'

'Okay, H'ard, but it's got to be done quickly, and no f.u.c.k-ups.'

Phil Sparrowhawk was still living in Bangkok. I flew there to see him and checked into the Hyatt Rama Hotel as Mr Nice. Phil introduced me to Robert Crimball, Ernie's Brotherhood of Eternal Love a.s.sociate. There would be no difficulty airfreighting Thai sticks to Ireland from Bangkok airport. The marijuana had already been harvested and dried. But there was one problem: the marijuana had not yet been tied on to sticks, and this would take some time. Robert felt there would be market resistance to Thai marijuana not presented in the traditional form, entwined around a six-inch stick. I said that might be true in America, but in England, if the dope got you stoned, there would be little market resistance. London heads would be quite likely to return the bare sticks complaining that they didn't get you high.

I stayed in Bangkok for just one night, then went to Hong Kong to pick up money that Patrick Lane had arranged to be collected by Mr Nice from the Hong Kong & Shanghai Bank. Phil came with me, and I gave him the money. I flew from Hong Kong to Zurich and then took a train to Lugano to meet Judy and Amber. We were now resettling in Campione d'Italia. A few months earlier, Patrick Lane had moved his home and tax haven consultancy business from Campione to Ireland. The business had not made a single penny. Still, his presence in the Emerald Isle might prove useful.

McCann had rented a smart executive home near Fitzpatrick's Castle in Killiney, the Beverly Hills of the Dublin area. Judy, Amber, and I moved into it for a week. The scam worked fine, and McCann brought round a large van full of tins of Thai marijuana. There was a total of 750 kilos. As in the old Shannon days, I used a few friends for driving the marijuana from Ireland to England or Wales. I had also agreed to use two friends of Phil. He had promised them some work.

There were a total of fifteen cross-Channel runs. Thai marijuana was much bulkier than hashish, and each car could only take 50 kilos. Phil's two friends, who included English international soccer star Eddie Clamp, did the last run. They got busted by Her Majesty's Customs and Excise at Liverpool. This was the first-ever proof to the authorities that large quant.i.ties of dope were being smuggled through Ireland. It had been happening for over eight years. The method of entry remained unknown.

'We'll do another one, H'ard, but none of your f.u.c.king burglars, Third-Division Scottish footballers, and academics on that f.u.c.king Welsh ferry. This time the Kid will bring it over. You understand me, do you?'

'How are you going to bring it over!'

'As bananas.'

'Bananas?'

'Our Gerard's got a fruit company. They take fruit from Southern to Northern Ireland every f.u.c.king day. And they take it from Northern Ireland to Scotland.'

'Don't they get stopped and searched, Jim?'

'According to you Brits, Northern Ireland is the same f.u.c.king country as Scotland. So how can there be any Customs? I thought you were a f.u.c.king dope smuggler. You should know these things, man.'

'I'm talking about the land border between Southern and Northern Ireland, Jim.'

'That's no f.u.c.king border.'

'I know, but they still have Customs and searches, don't they? Like the Welsh ferry.'

'f.u.c.k the Welsh ferry. And no f.u.c.ker searches the Kid. If the boys can take guns over every day for the struggle, and farmers can take their pigs over to get bigger subsidies, I'm f.u.c.king sure I can take over some f.u.c.king bananas.'

Phil sent another load from Bangkok to Dublin. On a late summer's morning, I sat in a rented car just outside the ferry terminal at Stranraer on the west coast of Scotland waiting for the arrival of the ferry from Larne. McCann's fruit lorry was meant to be on it. Jarvis sat in a large van in a car park a mile away. I watched every vehicle drive off. There was no fruit lorry. There was no answer from Jim's telephone in Killiney. I gave up waiting and set off for London, listening to the car radio. The lunchtime news described how a big articulated truck running north from the docks at Cork with a load of South American bananas had pulled into a lay-by on the main road just south of Dublin. A rented van was parked in the darkness. Men from both vehicles emerged and began to talk. By chance, a courting couple at the other end of the lay-by were watching the proceedings. A man with a strong Belfast accent spotted the couple and screamed, 'f.u.c.k off out of here.'

The couple left and called the police. A patrol car arrived at the lay-by. McCann confronted it with a pistol. A policeman got out and kicked the gun out of McCann's hand. McCann dived into a car and drove it into a hedge. He was overpowered, yelling, 'I did it for Ireland.'

The Irish Army bomb disposal team blew open the truck doors. There was no bomb. Instead, there were twenty-one tea chests full of Thai marijuana: the largest bust in Ireland.

Seven.

MR NICE.

During the late 1970s, most of the twenty-eight tons of marijuana that Americans smoked every day came from Colombia. Hundreds of tons a month were loaded on to large freighter ships in Colombian ports. These mother ships would anchor miles away from the South Florida coastline and offload, several tons at a time, to a fleet of smaller craft that would land their cargoes at private moorings and deserted beaches. Some of the imported marijuana would be sold in Florida, while the rest would be distributed to other dope-smoking populations. The first of these operations was the brainchild of Santo Trafficante, Jr., the chief of the Florida Mafia. Trafficante had inherited this position from his father, a partner of New York Mafia boss Salvatore 'Lucky' Luciano. Trafficante had set up casinos in Cuba in 1946 but was jailed when Fidel Castro took control in 1959 and ousted the Mafia. For some reason, Castro allowed Trafficante to leave Cuba with all his money. On his return to America, the CIA paid him to a.s.sa.s.sinate Castro. Trafficante took the money and tipped off Castro. According to Chicago Mafia leader Sam Giancana, Trafficante was then asked to a.s.sa.s.sinate President Kennedy. The rest is uncertain, but Trafficante was certainly efficient, and Colombian marijuana was flowing in at such a rate that its wholesale price began to plummet. Consumers wanted something different. Eventually, ton loads were being sold on the streets of Miami and Fort Lauderdale at the rock-bottom price of $200 a pound, while hashish and Thai sticks were fetching $1,000 a pound. In London, the situation was very different. Moroccan and Pakistani hashish was plentiful and affordable at 300 a pound, and any decent marijuana would be similarly priced. It had always been possible to make a profit by smuggling hashish from London to America, as I had done with the rock-group scams, but now the low price of Colombian marijuana in America had made it equally possible to profit by smuggling marijuana from America to London. A few small consignments had made their way over, and Trafficante and his underlings were pleased to make some foreign-exchange earnings. They thought of the possibility of smuggling large quant.i.ties to Europe, not from America, but directly from Colombia. Trafficante, Louis Ippolito, and Ernie explored the thought. Ernie was happy to do any amount. Trafficante wanted to do a minimum of fifty tons. He thought anything less wouldn't be economically feasible.

England's consumption of marijuana and hashish was about three tons a day, considerably less than America's twenty-eight tons. One to two tons was, and still is, consumed in London every night. But to sell that amount took longer. It would be difficult to sell more than a ton of Colombian marijuana a week, every week. Fifty tons would last a year.

Stuart Prentiss was ready to do another scam into Scotland, but he wasn't able to handle fifty tons. He could get away with importing fifteen tons, but he would need money in advance to buy another boat. He could store five tons for as long as was necessary, but that was it. The other ten tons would have to be quickly taken from Kerrera, preferably by boat, and stored elsewhere. Another landing place and some suitable storage facilities were needed. The Florida gangsters grudgingly accepted these terms.

Peter Whitehead, the person from whom I had obtained World-wide Entertainments' office in Soho, bred falcons for the Saudi Arabian royal family in the tiny village of Pytchley in Northamptonshire. The building looked completely innocuous from the outside, but inside, fierce falcons occupied a complex of enormous purpose-built cages. It was ideal for storing marijuana.

Peter Whitehead also continued his profession of producing and directing films. He would sometimes have to rent locations in strange places. In Scotland, one can rent stately homes with land down to the sea. Whitehead could make a film at a location rented for the purpose of landing and storing marijuana. It was an excellent front.

The following letter was written on stationery headed 'World-wide Entertainments Inc., European Head Office, 18, Carlisle Street, London', to the Lochaber Estate Agents, Fort William, Inverness-shire: Dear Sirs,During the winter period, our company will be producing a semi-doc.u.mentary film located in the Western Isles, and set in the latter half of the last century. We intend to rent a large lochside property capable both of accommodating the staff (about 6 to 10 people) and of featuring in certain parts of the set.We would wish to a.s.sume tenancy by about December 1st of this year and stay for a minimum of three months. Adequate funds are available for the right property. If you have anything which you might consider suitable for our purposes, would you please let me know as soon as possible?Yours faithfully, Donald Nice.

Conaglen House, a baronial mansion on the coast just by the entrance to the Caledonian Ship Ca.n.a.l at Fort William, was available for 1,000 a week.

James Goldsack, after a brief spell of being in prison and a long spell of being a junkie, was now back to perfecting his business of wholesaling marijuana and hashish. Jarvis, Johnny Martin, and Old John were also keeping body and soul together in similar fashion. The three of them should be able to sell a ton a week.

Patrick Lane was now in a position to move almost unlimited quant.i.ties of money from one part of the world to another. If given cash in London, he could credit it to any account in the world. Patrick and his family moved from Limerick into an expensive mansion overlooking Hyde Park.

Karob was a deep-sea salvage tug, an ideal craft for smuggling large quant.i.ties of contraband. Salvagers could be found anywhere on the ocean without attracting suspicion. If questioned, the captain could claim to be acting on a tipoff of a boat in distress. Communications between salvage tugs were often covert and coded. Loading and unloading equipment was in abundance on the decks. In December 1979, was a deep-sea salvage tug, an ideal craft for smuggling large quant.i.ties of contraband. Salvagers could be found anywhere on the ocean without attracting suspicion. If questioned, the captain could claim to be acting on a tipoff of a boat in distress. Communications between salvage tugs were often covert and coded. Loading and unloading equipment was in abundance on the decks. In December 1979, Karob Karob picked up fifteen tons of Colombian marijuana and steered through the hot Caribbean towards the chilly and stormy waters of the Irish Sea. Stuart Prentiss's two 40-foot yachts, picked up fifteen tons of Colombian marijuana and steered through the hot Caribbean towards the chilly and stormy waters of the Irish Sea. Stuart Prentiss's two 40-foot yachts, Bagheera Bagheera and and Salammbo Salammbo, slipped north from the island of Kerrera into the maze of deep-sea lochs round the Inner Hebrides. Salammbo Salammbo returned to Kerrera with five tons of Colombian marijuana. Prentiss's family and friends unloaded the cargo. returned to Kerrera with five tons of Colombian marijuana. Prentiss's family and friends unloaded the cargo. Bagheera Bagheera took ten tons to Conaglen House, where four large three-ton box-vans were waiting. Tom Sunde, Ernie's number one, was there to help unload. By his side were eight vegetarian New Yorkers, friends of Alan Schwarz, who had been flown in for the occasion. They had no idea where they were. Jarvis took five tons to the falconry in Pytchley. James Goldsack took five tons to a stash he had in Ess.e.x. On New Year's Day, 1980, fifteen tons of the highest quality Colombian marijuana lay poised to hit the streets of England. It was the largest amount of dope ever to have been imported into Europe, enough for every inhabitant of the British Isles to get simultaneously stoned. took ten tons to Conaglen House, where four large three-ton box-vans were waiting. Tom Sunde, Ernie's number one, was there to help unload. By his side were eight vegetarian New Yorkers, friends of Alan Schwarz, who had been flown in for the occasion. They had no idea where they were. Jarvis took five tons to the falconry in Pytchley. James Goldsack took five tons to a stash he had in Ess.e.x. On New Year's Day, 1980, fifteen tons of the highest quality Colombian marijuana lay poised to hit the streets of England. It was the largest amount of dope ever to have been imported into Europe, enough for every inhabitant of the British Isles to get simultaneously stoned.

While the builders were fixing the bathroom at Cathcart Road, Judy, Amber, and I moved into a 500-a-week flat at Hans Court, Knightsbridge, directly opposite Harrods. We would have breakfast of caviare omelettes at the Caviare House. Judy became pregnant again. I asked her to marry me. She refused. She would marry me only in my real name. No Mrs Nice for her. But she did approve of our getting engaged. We threw a disgustingly lavish party at Hans Court. The food was limited to caviare and foie gras, the drink to Stolichnaya and Dom Perignon, the decor to swans carved out of ice, and the sounds to the Pretenders. Peter Whitehead married Dido Goldsmith, daughter of Teddy and niece of Sir James. I was Peter's best man. Bianca Jagger was Dido's best lady. Our daughters met. Jade played with Amber.

Every head in England was stoned. The streets were awash with Colombian marijuana, and everyone knew it, including the police and Her Majesty's Customs and Excise, but they couldn't bust any. It was selling at the predicted rate of a ton a week, but the Florida gangsters couldn't believe sales were so slow. Something had to be wrong. Were they being ripped off? They thought so and strong-armed Ernie to agree that they send some representatives to England to make an inventory of unsold marijuana. The Florida representatives were Joel Magazine, a Miami defence lawyer, and a Sicilian with the unlikely name of Walter Nath. They stayed at the Dorchester Hotel. While checking the quant.i.ties of unsold marijuana, Nath also made private enquiries with his own London friends to determine whether they could sell the Colombian marijuana at a faster rate. Nath's friends unwittingly introduced him to an undercover officer of Her Majesty's Customs and Excise, who followed him to Scotland, where he was with Stuart Prentiss checking the marijuana stored there. Stuart Prentiss noticed they were being followed, lost his pursuer, and threw a few tons of marijuana into the sea. For the next few weeks, large bales of Colombian marijuana were being washed ash.o.r.e on the Scottish coast, smoked, handed in to the police, and eaten by sheep and deer. The news media were amused. The Florida gangsters were not. But sales carried on.

Marty Langford helped out by occasionally driving marijuana to London from Pytchley, where Jarvis's friend, Robert Kenningale, was keeping an eye on the stash while feeding dead rats to the falcons. Marty also kept in touch with McCann's wife, Sylvia. While British Customs Officers were closely watching London dealers and Scottish beachcombers making fortunes out of Colombian marijuana, McCann's trial for the importation of Thai marijuana into Ireland began in Dublin. McCann had been beaten up by the IRA while awaiting trial but had recovered sufficient poise to mount an inspired defence: he was tracking down an enemy of Ireland, an agent of MI6, who was poisoning Irish youth by importing marijuana. The name of the agent was Howard Marks, who used the alias Mr Nice. McCann was acquitted.

I sent Jarvis out to Campione, where I had stored my Mr Nice pa.s.sport and other Nice doc.u.mentation, instructing him to bury the pa.s.sport in the public gardens in Campione. There it remains. I kept noticing strange things: clicks on telephone lines, the same unfriendly faces wherever I went. I was being followed. But if they knew who I was, why didn't they bust me?

I was sitting at the bar of the Swan Hotel, Lavenham. I had become very paranoid at Hans Court and had booked a weekend break in the name of John Hayes. Judy was settling Amber into bed. The hotel provided a baby-listening service, and she was going to join me at the bar before we had dinner. Two men about my age came up to the bar and ordered their drinks. I had ordered a Tio Pepe sherry, and I took it to a vacant table. Suddenly, one of the two men grabbed my arm.

'Can I see your watch?' he asked, and firmly put a pair of handcuffs on his and my wrists.

I recovered quickly enough. It was fairly obvious I was being nicked.

'We are Customs Officers and we are arresting you.'

'Why am I being arrested?'

'You are being arrested on suspicion of being involved in a cannabis drugs offence. Do you understand?'

'Yes.'

'What is your name?' asked one of the officers.

Maybe they didn't know who I was and thought I was a regular dope dealer.

'I'm not saying.'

'Why not?'

'No comment.'

'Are you staying in this hotel?'

'No comment.'

'Are you staying here alone?'

'No comment.'

'Turn out your pockets.'