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coast and ferry its valuable cargo back to a British port under cover of darkness. A chance, at last, to infiltrate the very heart of this huge cannabisconglomerate. Step aboard SO10. Undercover operators required.
    I was up for it but had to admit I hadn’t the best sea legs and would throw up on a cross channel booze cruise let alone hack it against an Atlantic storm. My guv’nor decided I wasn’t crew material, not through a queasy tummy but because I’d been involved in the protracted surveillance operation watching suspects in bars and hotels and my face might trigger alarm bells. We couldn’t risk it. Although I’d never spoken to any of them and had worked in various disguises, my face might have registered with one of them thinking, I know that bloke from somewhere. Maybe I’d moved up close in a bar trying to hear a conversation or followed someone into the gents to see if a meet was going on. It was decided the undercovers on the boat would need to be guys who’d had no contact at all with the suspects. I was disappointed in a way because I knew we were hitting big-time operators and the drug haul was going to be massive. But professionally, it made sense for me to stay with the land-based team.
    We had two blokes among the SO10 ranks who were suitably qualified for the maritime mission on the pick-up vessel. As part of their training schedule they had been sent on specialist courses to acquire nautical skills. One had a skipper’s licence, the other seagoing skills which would equip him to handle pretty well any crisis, all part of SO10’s rigorous training programme paid for by Scotland Yard in the ever-expanding and diverse battle against crime. We had people trained in anything from armaments to accounting ready to swing into action at a moment’s notice. Even against the mighty Atlantic. Once we knew the gangsters were looking for a boat and a crew we were able to effect theintroduction of our undercovers, two of the bravest cops I’ve ever met. Mick, whose surname must stay secret, was the potential skipper. He was a guy I had the utmost respect for, personally and professionally. His skill and courage were unquestioned. Hard as nails, dedicated to the job. Through the contacts we had made with unsuspecting gang members, we arranged the hire of a British-registered fishing trawler for the Atlantic voyage. I can’t say where or how this was done because they still use the same methods against drug smugglers. But one thing was for sure about our little boat. This would be its biggest catch.
    The surveillance and intelligence-gathering had by now gone on for over eight painstaking months. Tension mounted as we neared the time for Operation Dash to be launched in the hope of smashing the world’s biggest drugs syndicate right out of the water. We followed the suspects, we photograped them, we logged our evidence in mounting dossiers. Our units were fed information by international police units on the movements of the two big players, Feviet and Locatelli. These were master international criminals with a lifestyle to match, flying in and out of Britain and half-a-dozen other countries – Canada, France, Italy, Spain, you name it –they had contacts there as part of their crooked enterprises. They lived high on the hog in the process with only the best hotels and restaurants good enough for their lavish tastes.
    By now the three key members – Mills, Locatelli and Feviet – were having regular meetings in London. We watched them having dinner one evening at a five-star hotel in Mayfair and with a hastily acquired search warrant decided to give their room a spin. Feviet had booked in and the other two had joined him there – itwas a perfect opportunity to look for incriminating evidence. We desperately needed pointers to exactly where the big drugs trade was due to take place. We had undercover guys in the restaurant watching the suspects stuff their faces, appearing to be casual diners as well, but