The Italian newspapers went on about the ‘electric shock guns’ for they were a novelty. Even the police didn’t have them, and here was some divvy dropping one in the hospital corridor as they escaped. They reported it was the first stun gun in Italy. A picture of it was on the front pages.
That day in Milan I shut the blinds, got in my car and drove to Rimini. I knew the police would be knocking on the door, they’d be hassling me. I’d have said nothing. What could I tell them? I knew it was going to happen but not the details. Well, not all the details.
Just before the escape I had been in touch with Bruno using the world’s new device, my mobile phone. It was a millionaire’s toy costing upwards of £2,000 a time. Mine was like a car phone, but it came in a little handbag you could carry around. Dad and Bruno had international ones that the FBI used.
As I drove to the seaside, knots in my stomach and my heart beating faster and faster, the search helicopters buzzed around above me. The manhunt was on. I never got a call saying: ‘It’s all right, it’s done.’ There was radio silence; you just didn’t risk it, even with the brand new mobile temptation.
It’s a three-hour journey down to Rimini and Bruno met up with me there that night. It was about midnight and we were still out. Everybody who was involved in getting Dad out came to Rimini and we drank champagne and had this massive restaurant feast. We were absolutely over the moon and happy that they’d done the job and Dad was out.
About 1 a.m. we got a call from Dad: ‘I’m fine, I’m here.’
There was a big cheer in the restaurant. Not only did they free him, but ‘Lupin’ was safely gone, another miracle escape performed.
The newspapers were full of it and yet again it was San Vittore prison that, indirectly, he’d escaped from. It was still embarrassing. They absolutely hated him for it. It was like a massive slap in the face for the prison and the police. It was a long, hot summer for them in 1991.
I kept away from Dad in case I was followed. When it was vital I was able to speak to him. He was in the Seville area at first and then moved to the Costa de la Luz, to Jerez de la Frontera, close to the border with Portugal.
I was still doing currency drops right up until it was time to make a baby run. Military service was compulsory for boys in Italy and although I was 99 per cent certain I was going to have a baby girl, I decided to give birth in England just in case. Even at 99–1 odds against having a boy who’d be eligible for conscription, I’d learned not to risk my family on anything other than 100 per cent guarantees. And guarantees with insurance at that.
I was feeling the August heat in Milan and near the end of the month, when I was eight months pregnant, Bruno and I got in a sensible Volvo station wagon and headed for Mum’s. We arrived in London late at night and were sitting at traffic lights when a car pulled up with four black guys in it wearing gangster hats.
‘What’s going on?’ Bruno asked me, worrying that it was a set-up. He had to be ready to look after Emilio’s daughter and first grandchild.
I said, ‘It’s all right. That’s how they are here.’
We headed quickly out of the city.
I went for check-ups at the Blackpool Victoria Hospital and went through all the preparations. One night a friend of my pal Dawn’s, who’d met Bruno on his last trip, took him out for a drink. They went to a pub in Blackpool where a bloke had a bit of a go at Dawn’s friend. Bruno eyed the situation up. He didn’t speak any English, but he got the idea.
When the bloke who’d taken the mickey went for a pee, Bruno went into the toilets after him. He slapped him up against the wall and stuck a flick knife under his neck. Pressing in with the knife, he snarled in Italian: ‘Don’t take the mickey. I know what you were doing.’
Then Dawn’s friend walked in – this was his local pub – and exclaimed, ‘Oh, no, Bruno. You don’t do that here.’
But as far as Bruno was concerned, this guy needed sorting out. That’s what he was like. You did not disrespect. His friend was being disrespected. But in return, out of respect for his host, he let the bloke go; white-faced, the troublemaker hurried off leaving most of his pint behind.
My daughter Lara was born after eleven hours of labour on 11 September 1991, her father Bruno’s birthday, at Blackpool Victoria Hospital. Everyone followed the script. For me it was a long but simple birth. Bruno was the proud dad, preening away. Mum was the stereotypical first-time grandma, all love and fuss. Dad was also true to form, being on the run and in hiding. But he was desperate to see his granddaughter. It was a risk but Big Brother surveillance hadn’t yet blanketed the world so we decided to take her over to him.
Lara was a month old when we flew to Malaga. Bruno carried out lots of checks first and we took a long route around to Dad, who was at that time in Porto Santa Maria between Cádiz and Jerez. When we got there I found out that Valeria was pregnant with a new sister for me!
Lara was a handful, and Bruno was not much help. Dad sent him off on business and I was left to cope. I couldn’t sleep, I hadn’t slept, I was turning into a basket case. Dad could see I was upset. He had on one of his smart suits and he lifted Lara, wrapped her in a blanket and put her on his shoulder. He rocked her a little and she quietened down. Then he got on the phone, explaining to me: ‘I’m getting a nanny. I want you to get some rest. I’m going to get someone in who’ll stay up with Lara.’
It was two weeks of restful bliss for me with the nanny and Valeria, who was so good, to help. Dad introduced me to Chinese food. I’d never eaten proper Chinese before because Mum couldn’t even afford a takeaway, but I loved it. I loved my dad, and the fact that he seemed able to fix everything for me, to make me safe and happy.
With Valeria pregnant, Dad was trying to find a family fortress. He planned to set up in Mozambique because they had no extradition treaty with much of Europe. He could retain his authority and still run his empire from there. It’s a sort of outlaw country and, with many Italian residents, a home from Rome. Business was booming. Couriers were bringing in all the major drugs from Germany, France and Spain, and zillions of ecstasy tabs from Holland. They were importers and exporters of the best heroin, cocaine and marijuana available. Their customers were global. In partnership with a London gang – who often dropped off million-pound instalment payments – Dad was supplying a huge percentage of the hash sold in the UK.
He had lots of organisation to do before he could make the move to Mozambique. For the time being he based himself at his villa in Albufeira, in Portugal. Between October 1991 and July 1992, he was jet-setting from the Algarve on a false passport. All over Spain and Portugal, Italy, Slovakia and, of course, making money visits to Switzerland. Which is where we went for the New Year. We spent Lara’s first Christmas with Bruno’s parents in Milan and then drove off to bring in the New Year of 1991 thousands of metres up in the Alps.
Valeria was used to a luxury lifestyle from the gun-running profits. She skied, knew her way around resorts and yachts, the jet-set and the wet-set; she had a well-developed appetite for the high life. She’d persuaded Dad that the only place to be on New Year’s Eve was Badrutt’s Palace Hotel in St Moritz.
Bruno wasn’t so sophisticated. We accidentally headed off to Saint Maurice in France, got lost for three hours, and only our 4x4 Lancia Integrale got us through the thick snow. We finally arrived late at night in the grand reception area of Badrutt’s Palace. It was gorgeous, like a palace on the side of a mountain. Valeria had booked all the rooms using false documents. I’d now got Marisa Merico on my UK passport. Dad was Giovanni Roberti. There were no Di Giovines at this celebration.
On New Year’s Eve, Lara was being looked after by a nanny in the room – the hotel had an ‘approved’ list – and Bruno and I were wandering around all dressed to the nines. We’d had dinner and there was a big function going on for the residents of the hotel. Pregnant Valeria had gone for a rest.
One of the guests partying there was Adnan Khashoggi, who for the previous decade had been known as the ri
chest man in the world. He was a happy zillionaire that New Year: a US federal jury had only just acquitted him and Imelda Marcos of racketeering and fraud. Dad was impressed by his business – and his lifestyle. Khashoggi operated everywhere and had companies in Switzerland and Liechtenstein to handle his commissions.
With him at Badrutt’s Palace was his one-time brother-in-law, Harrods owner Mohammed Al-Fayed. And there was Dad chatting away to them. They had no idea who Dad was for he used his name of the evening, Giovanni Roberti.
‘Ah, Italian! I bought the Ritz in Paris from your countrymen,’ Al-Fayed said.
Khashoggi joined in and they all began talking. Before they moved on, I heard Dad saying: ‘Let’s keep in touch.’
It was a great holiday, but as 1992 wore on I was too afraid to go and see Dad. The fuss over his escape from prison had not dissipated, the drugs were still pouring in from Morocco, and he had at least four police and security agencies after him. There were a score of fugitive warrants for his arrest.
I did go and see my baby sister Giselle after she was born in Zurich in June 1992. She was a beautiful baby. Valeria couldn’t use the Di Giovine name on her birth certificate so she used her own name. It was about four weeks before Valeria took Giselle to Dad in Portugal but I went back to Milan. I was still afraid for him. A lot of my family – my cousins, my uncles – were going up and down on business trips. The cops followed them and that’s how they caught up with Dad in Albufeira on 31 July 1992, as part of Operation Kingpin.
The Portuguese, Spanish and Italian police all arrived – more than 100 of them on the doorstep – and arrested everyone at the villa, including Grandpa Rosario, Uncle Guglielmo and Valeria. Luckily, Valeria’s mum Aurelia was there and she could look after my little sister Giselle.
We were in Sardinia on a three-week holiday. Bruno’s sister Silvia, Auntie Angela and her boyfriend, and a group of others were there with us. When we got the call about Dad’s arrest they all looked at me.
I left Bruno and Lara there. Lara wasn’t even a year old but I knew Silvia was great with her. I flew to Milan to get money to bankroll whatever I had to, and caught another flight down to Lisbon. I’d never been to Portugal in my life. I stepped out to the taxi rank at Lisbon’s Portela Airport and looked for a youngish, hungry guy at the wheel.
‘I need to go to the Algarve, Albufeira.’
The driver was delighted. He wanted a few hundred quid and I offered him more. I needed his help. I had the name of the villa but nothing else, not even the street name. It was big news that this great Italian Mafia guy had been arrested five days earlier. I was paying in bundles of lire. The taxi driver must have known.
Dad was still being interrogated in the cells in Albufeira three days after his arrest but they let me speak to him. Among all his stuff they found Mohammed Al-Fayed’s business card with his private number on it. They had to check Al-Fayed out, but when they saw he was legit they left him alone.
Valeria had been released. She decided to get out of Portugal as fast as she could so she left Giselle and her mother and flew to Vienna. She just went!
Dad was in the same clothes he had been arrested in. He was wearing a necklace I’d bought him for his fortieth birthday a couple of years before, a twenty-one-carat gold chain with tiny balls of gold on it, and that was sweet, important to me.
He seemed flustered: ‘Help the baby, help Aurelia, but just be careful…’
He told me where the villa was. Aurelia was in her late sixties and frightened to death. She had the baby to look after and her money was running out. No wonder she was delighted to see me.
But I thought, ‘You know what? This is too much. I’m not staying here. What if they come and arrest all of us?’
Valeria’s mum didn’t speak Italian or English. She had a Slovakian passport but Giselle was on her mother’s passport. I thought: ‘My God, how am I going to get this baby out of the country?’
We had a solicitor in Malaga who was very well in with Dad and at midnight I paid the taxi driver to take us to Spain. As we drove, I planned it. Giselle would have to be Lara at the border so she could get through on my passport. We rolled up with this old Mercedes belching diesel and handed over the two passports. Giselle was asleep.
The customs guy asked, ‘Baby, Lara?’
‘Yes, yes.’
We were in Malaga at 6 a.m. Within a couple of hours the lawyer was on the case, Giselle and her Nan were asleep in a hotel and I was on the phone making more arrangements. Valeria moved fast when I spoke to her. She was in Bratislava but through our contacts we managed to get Giselle her own passport. Within a week I had her mum and Giselle on a flight to Slovakia.
Dad expected to be on a flight to freedom. He’d been taken to a high-security prison between Lisbon and Oporto, and Bruno had been to check out the area. He’d done a helicopter reconnaissance. While I was looking after Giselle and her grandma, Bruno was planning to spring Dad from the jail. It was simple – they were going to go in shooting and whisk Dad out by a rope ladder dangling from a helicopter. He and Dad did a $1 million deal with Theodor Cranendonk for an armed chopper and a platoon of mercenaries to provide the distracting firepower. It was all set up but something in the prison kicked off and the guards found out about it and the helicopter escape didn’t happen. Dad remained in jail.
I was twenty-two years old, with a baby daughter. I also had a baby sister I felt responsible for. And Dad. And Bruno. And Mum in England.
The political and police pressure was on us all.
There was an international business to run.
And I had to face up to men who’d think nothing of shooting me dead.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
LA SIGNORA MARISA
Tutto èpermesso in guerra ed in amore.
[All is fair in war and love.]
ITALIAN SAYING
I needn’t have worried. Like any good CEO, Dad had a system in place. He could run the business from wherever he was, whether in a horrendous Portuguese jail or in an outlaw haven like Mozambique. Deals were still going down and there was merchandise and money to deal with.
Yet my head was spinning. My priority was Lara. I went to see my mum, to my little getaway. Blackpool had never seemed so welcoming.
Bruno went to southern Spain to pick up the pieces and keep the operations safe. If rivals thought we were vulnerable they’d have tried a very unfriendly take-over. They were always waiting in the shadows.
The year before I’d put 10,000 US dollars into the Midland Bank Trust Corporation on the Isle of Man to cover a rainy day in Blackpool. Then there was all the money in Switzerland. Among the accounts at Coutts in Geneva, Dad had set up what he called a ‘trust fund’ for his children. It was a busy account. I’d put a little more than £1.6 million through it in a calypso of currencies. Dad had dipped in and now there was just short of $400,000 left. I had to act fast or risk it being lifted by the cops after Dad’s arrest. I opened up an account with Mum at the National Westminster Bank in Cleveleys near her home. A local businessman, a friend from my teenage years, gave me a reference as a favour, without knowing what was going on. The transfer of $385,211.54 went all the way around the world, including Nassau in the Bahamas, before it got to Cleveleys on the Lancashire coast. I wasn’t trying to be clever or devious about any of this; it’s how bank transfers worked in 1992. It took two weeks to get there and by then I’d left England.
Mum and I had spent 2 September at the beach and had an early night with Lara, then Bruno’s mum called around 2 a.m. to say that he’d been arrested. A lad in Spain had contacted her to let her know that Bruno had been picked up by a police squad in Malaga on 7 September.
Dad, and now Bruno! It was his twenty-fifth birthday and Lara’s first birthday on 11 September. Bruno was going to come to England and we’d been planning to celebrate with a party at Mum’s. Instead, I was with Lara on a flight from Manchester to Madrid, where they’d sent her dad from Malaga. I had a long black-and-white flowery dre
ss, and Lara on my hip. It was boiling hot and the prison was disgusting, one of the worst prisons I’ve ever been in. At the visitor contact point I couldn’t see where he was. We had to talk through cut-outs. We couldn’t touch each other, could only hear each other’s voices. Lara was sitting there with me and I burst out crying.
Bruno muttered, ‘Don’t get upset. Please.’
I couldn’t afford to stay upset for long. I was on permanent prison visits for the next eight months to see both Bruno and Dad. I kept everything together, from Milan to Blackpool, because Nan had her own problems, ducking and diving with her deals, and she never left home any more.
I didn’t want the ‘trust fund’ money to sit around in the Nat West. Mum was a signatory to my account so I got her to pick up the money. She went on her second-hand 1986 Honda Spree moped, which had one of those Miss Marple baskets on the front while the rear end belched smoke. It always needed a service. She went and got the cash and stuck it in a zip-up bag in her moped basket and brought it home again.
We’d found a massive metal box with a lock in the loft and when the cash was put in there I paid £1,000 to someone I could trust to look after it in their home. I invested £10,000 of the money into a garage business with my girlfriend Naima’s husband James. I wanted to help them but also to legitimise myself and show an income source, as a silent partner in a business. I put another £10,000 in the Bradford & Bingley building society.
In November 1992 I started looking for a house to buy, and by the following month I was the owner of 7 Sheringham Way, Poulton-le-Fylde, Lancashire, which cost me £89,950. Cash. Now I had somewhere for Lara and me if we needed to escape. It’s an address I will never forget, but I didn’t live there straight away as I was still based in Milan.
Every weekend I would fly to Madrid on Friday night and on Saturday I’d visit Bruno. In the evening I would fly to Lisbon and see Dad on the Sunday then I’d fly back to Milan. Once a month Bruno and I would be allowed a conjugal visit. He’d bring the sheets from his cell and they’d lock us in a room with a toilet area for two hours and let us get on with it. I felt sorry for Bruno and I still cared for him as the father of my child, so I would close my eyes and imagine we were on a beach somewhere rather than in a prison cell. The theory of conjugal visits was that they gave the men an incentive to behave inside. Most of them didn’t. Being Madrid, there were a lot of Colombians and they all but controlled the prison.
Mafia Princess Page 15