Dragons & Butterflies: Sentenced to Die, Choosing to Live (36 page)

The address turned out to be a hotel somewhere in central Bangkok, graded at barely two stars, if that. I checked in, unpacked, lay down on the bed and fell almost immediately into a deep sleep. That night I had dinner at a restaurant suggested to me by the taxi driver. He came back to pick me up.

‘You like girls?’ he asked, looking back at me in his rear-view mirror.

He took me to a strip club, where I managed to get myself pretty drunk while watching a live sex show. I partied the whole night. I had not used drugs for over two weeks, but once I began drinking the craving kicked in. I got back to the hotel in the early hours of the morning and slept until lunchtime. When I woke up, I had a shower and hit the streets of Bangkok. I sampled different foods from the many street vendors. Then I caught a taxi and did a bit of sightseeing.

In fact, my airport taxi driver became my personal chauffeur, and he had a whole itinerary planned for my evening. I got so drunk at one club that I got into a fight. I’m not sure whether this was because I was drunk, but the guy I apparently took on was huge and as strong as an ox. He could have been a Turk. We first exchanged blows on the dance floor and we were both promptly thrown out. The Turk was with a friend, who walked up to me and apologised, which I thought was nice of him. He put his hand out to shake mine and as I took it he jerked me forward and head-butted me square on the nose. The motherfucker! I had fallen for one of the oldest tricks in the book. I lashed out with my right leg and caught him in the balls, but after that things got a little hazy. Eventually we were pulled apart by the police. The guy disappeared and I went back into the club. My nose was bleeding, so I went to the toilet and washed my face. I think the manager must have been feeling sorry for me, because he gave me a few drinks on the house. I left the club at 7am and wandered down the street. I was lost. I hadn’t the faintest idea where I was staying. I was picked up by the police and eventually we worked out where my hotel was and they escorted me back there.

In the hotel lobby, a couple of taxi drivers I recognised from the day before were sitting around reading newspapers. My sixth sense started to kick in. I became convinced I was being watched. Back in my room I phoned my partner in South Africa and explained that I suspected there was a bit of heat. He told me to stop being paranoid and reassured me that everything would be okay. Afterwards I made contact with the people who were going to deliver the heroin and I was told that they would let me know where and when, which they duly did, several days later.

It was arranged that they would meet me on the fifth floor of my hotel, on the fire escape. We had a code. My contact would say ‘Chelsea football team’ and I would reply ‘Manchester United’. That was the only identification agreed. The man was a Thai. He was short and stocky. He wore his hair Elvis style, and he had these enormous sunglasses that covered almost his entire face and that he never took off for a second – the guy was definitely not taking any chances. We shook hands, and then he pointed further up the fire escape, where I could see what looked like a leather briefcase. He told me in broken English, ‘You wait two minutes,’ and then he disappeared. I did as he instructed and then I ran up the iron steps and retrieved the case. In my room I inspected it and found that it had two compartments, which I presumed had been specially sewn into it. Anyway, it had been done very professionally. These compartments were where the heroin was hidden. During the past few days I had bought a few gifts for friends and family back in South Africa, which I now put in the bag.

It suddenly struck me that I was sitting with a small bomb in my room and, truth be told, I was as nervous as hell. I wanted to get as far away from the bomb as possible, so that night I went back to the club I’d been in the night before. Before long I got into another fight. The manager recognised me. He was very friendly and gave me free drinks again. At around 3am the police raided the club and wanted to close it. A fierce argument erupted and, in my drunken stupor, I somehow got involved, but the police didn’t seem at all interested in me. Eventually, everybody was thrown out of the club except me. The manager then invited me to join him at a bar further down the street for a drink, and there he introduced me to a young Thai lady who, he said, was for me, as a token of his appreciation – no charge, he added. She was a pretty little thing, 18 or thereabouts. I had already discovered that there was something about Thai women that turned me on.

I took her back to the hotel but the night duty clerk refused to let the girl in beyond the lobby. I didn’t know what he was carrying on about and I got really pissed off. When he started shouting at me I lost my cool. I jumped over the front desk but, being as drunk as I was, he managed to get away from me. I stumbled after him, knocked over a vase and then just started to throw the furniture around. I don’t know where the night clerk went, but once he’d ducked out of sight I took the girl upstairs to my room. In the middle of fucking her, there was a knock on the door. It was the police. I didn’t know what they were going on about either, but I took out my wallet and gave them 1 000 Thai baht each. They left and I got back into bed. Eventually, I passed out. When I woke up in the morning, my wallet was gone and so was the girl, but I didn’t imagine I would get any sympathy from the hotel management. I called Joan and explained what had happened, and asked her to wire me some money so that I could pay my hotel bill. I had to reschedule my flight because the money would take a day or two to come through.

After settling my bill and re-booking my flight, on 26 April 1994 I was taken by taxi to Don Mueang International Airport. The taxi driver was a slimy-looking man, unshaven and with short greasy hair and a pot belly. He was also an undercover cop, but of course I didn’t know that then. While I was sitting in the back seat, he kept staring at me in his rear-view mirror and trying to engage me in light conversation. In the boot of the car were my two suitcases and the leather briefcase containing 2.4kg of heroin in its concealed compartments.

I was nervous but under the circumstances reasonably calm, and I did my best to remain composed. From the moment we left the hotel, I had an uneasy feeling in my gut, a bad feeling. Fuck it, I thought, but I knew there was no turning back, even though by then I was mentally kicking myself for getting involved in this deal. I was scared, too, genuinely scared at the prospect of being caught. In the back of the taxi I chain-smoked and looked at the driver’s greasy neck. Was it my imagination or did he also seem tense? And was I imagining it, or was he actually watching me in the rear-view mirror? I don’t know. To be honest, I was so caught up in thought that I didn’t think there was anything suspicious about the taxi driver
himself
, although his constant staring and chatting were irritating me.

When I got to the airport I paid the driver and called a porter over to take my luggage. As I entered the airport building I said a little prayer. I remember asking G-d to protect me, to close the eyes of the airport security, and to allow me to pass through. I even made a deal with G-d. If I got through, I promised, I would stop using and dealing drugs when I got home. Just this one time, G-d, please, I prayed, let me through. I had never smuggled drugs internationally before, and it was now too late to turn back. I was involved. But the urge to run was almost overpowering.

I made my way to the departure lounge. It was deserted and I found this strange. Why were there were no people around, I wondered. Where were the passengers? For the departure lounge of an international airport to be this quiet I thought was pretty weird. My bags passed uneventfully through the X-ray machine – so that was good. All that was left now was for me to get through customs and the passport check without the heroin being detected. Then that was it; I would be home free. My heart was pounding, but everything was okay so far, so I told myself to stop worrying.

From then on, everything seemed to happen in slow motion. I felt detached from my own body. When the woman at customs asked me for my passport, she didn’t make eye contact with me, and this made me more nervous. Perhaps, in retrospect, she was playing for time. Her words were inaudible to me. I knew I must have looked pale, and by now I had the shakes. I kept telling myself to calm down, and to be rational. It was all good, my luggage was through. There was no earthly reason why I shouldn’t get through this checkpoint as well.

As I handed over my passport, I suddenly heard a shuffling of feet behind me but I didn’t look round. For a single moment, as the woman took the document from me, her eyes and mine locked. I could have sworn there was a look of pity in hers, but I tried to reassure myself. It was okay. It was all okay. I would be on the plane in no time, heading home, to my family, my friends and a life without drugs – just like I’d promised
Hashem
. I hoped He would stick to his end of the bargain.

Out of the corner of my eye I caught some movement and I saw a guy with a walkie-talkie in his hand. Before I could process anything, I was surrounded by heavily armed police dressed in black commando-type uniforms, their weapons drawn.

G-d, what now? My mouth went dry. I could hardly swallow. I felt myself gasping for air, my knees were shaking, and I seemed to have no control over my upper lip. No doubt I had guilt written all over my face. I felt like I was about to die. I could feel my
skin
changing colour. It felt like the veins in my head were going to burst. I needed a cigarette, but like RIGHT NOW. I needed a cigarette to calm down.

One of the men, who seemed to be in charge, pointed to my luggage, and in broken English demanded to know if it belonged to me.

I remember wondering if this was some kind of a trick question, as I was the only person at the check-in point and obviously the luggage was mine. Before I could even answer, though, one of the cops reached for the leather bag and repeated the words: ‘Bag this belong to you?’

For a split second I wondered what would happen if I said no. Juggling with the notion that there was no way they would find the drugs hidden snugly in their secret compartment, I tried to look normal.

‘Yes,’ I said, ‘that bag is mine.’

My heart was pounding, and now my throat was even drier. Why had I ever agreed to do this? What had I been thinking? How had I ever thought I would get away with it?

I was instructed to follow the men in the black uniforms and was led to what I assumed was the airport’s security office. I was ushered into a small bare room that had a table and two chairs in it, a typical interrogation room, the one we’ve all seen in the movies. Except that this was not a movie. It was real and it was happening, and it was happening to me. How could this be? Maybe I was dreaming …

The walls of the room were a dull yellowish colour, and it struck me that the lights were very bright. There were no windows. Suddenly I felt so small. It was as if I didn’t even exist.

First they emptied my personal stuff from the leather case – the gifts for my family were scattered all over the table. Foolishly, I still thought there might be a small chance they wouldn’t discover the secret compartments, but this thought was dispelled in the very next second. Without even the slightest hesitation, one of the policemen took a Stanley knife and methodically proceeded to slash the mid-section open. I felt like my heart was outside my body, my throat was still parched, and now I also had a queasy feeling in my bowels. Blood pounding in my temples was making me dizzy. Oh G-d. The man started to pull out the plastic bag filled with heroin. Surely this was a bad dream? It was happening on the big screen and I had fallen asleep at the cinema. I wished that was true but I knew it wasn’t. This was happening to me, now, and it was my worst nightmare come true. I felt claustrophobic. The room was closing in on me.

When I suddenly received a blow to the head, I realised that it was indeed a nightmare, but a waking one.

There was a lot of activity now, people talking over each other, adding to my confusion. A kit to test the heroin was produced, and I watched as the solution turned purple. There was a triumphant murmur among the cops. The test had proved beyond a shadow of doubt that it was pure heroin, and I had been caught red-handed.

I felt sick. I needed a cigarette. I knew I had to come up with a story fast. I’ve always been good at talking myself out of sticky situations, only this time it was different. I knew I was in big shit. Minutes later, cameras started flashing in my face. Reporters from the Thai TV stations had appeared as if from nowhere. Perhaps they had been there even before I arrived in the departure lounge. Journalists were shoving and pushing each other out of the way, so eager were they to get a picture of me, and they were relentless. I felt as if I was already facing an execution squad.

Despite all the evidence to the contrary, I kept on telling myself it was all a bad dream. It had to be. This just couldn’t be happening – not to me, Shani Krebs! Oh G-d, what about my mother, my sister Joan and my brother-in-law Malcolm? And their kids? What if they were watching this on TV? Could that happen? I covered my face with my hands to block out the invasive cameras. My head sank to my chest. I felt humiliated and ashamed.

Once the parading in front of the cameras was over, I was taken to another room further down the passage, which was secured by several undercover narcotics agents. That greaseball slimy taxi driver, now with a victorious grin on his face, was standing beside the entrance. I noticed he had a police badge clipped to his belt. I wanted to punch him in the face.

In the room was a young American guy, about ten years younger than me. I later learnt that he had been apprehended a few hours earlier with 4kg of heroin hidden in a suitcase. I was questioned by an agent from the Drug Enforcement Administration (DEA). Bizarre as it may sound, it was almost comforting to me that he spoke to me in English and also treated me in a civilised manner. He explained what the procedure would be from here on in. I asked him about my luggage. He told me not to worry; they would bring it to the police station they were taking me to. Then I was cross-examined by the Thai Drug Suppression Unit. It went on for what felt like hours. It seemed like every bit of life was being drained out of me. The bottom line was that I was BUSTED! I knew it, they knew it. I felt numb, sick to my stomach. I wanted to die.