way the local gangsters ran Al-Qaeda out of the Rif Mountains has become part of Ketama folklore. ‘The Moroccans are very proud of getting rid of the terrorists,’ explains Zaid. ‘They feel they showed great loyalty to their country although what they really did was take the pressure off their own activities because the Americans are always pressurising the Moroccan government to close down the hash fields in the Rif Mountains.’
Back in that Algeciras warehouse, Zaid’s men continue using their power tools to screw back the door linings of the little Citroën hatchback before it heads off up to Madrid. Zaid inspects the car after the operation is completed and claps two of his men on the back, congratulating them for a job well done. Now more relaxed, Zaid’s voice softens as he talks about his career as a hash baron.
‘I don’t deal in coke or anything else like heroin or crack because I know the prison sentences are much higher if you’re caught,’ he explained before I even asked. However, Zaid claims that even the hash trade is suffering from the worldwide recession, which has hit especially hard in Spain. ‘It’s certainly true that up until about five years ago the profits on eachshipment of hash were much greater. It’s a strange situation because the demand, especially here in Spain, remains very high although people have less money so it will slow down eventually. But the costs involved in smuggling it from Morocco are increasing by the month. Today, we have to build in all sorts of expenses, which simply didn’t exist a few years ago.’
Zaid was open about nearly all aspects of his criminal enterprise but was rather more reluctant when it came to discussing his family and how his ‘career’ affected them. ‘I have a wife and two children. I’m a regular sort of guy in many ways. I pick my kids up from school some days. I take them to the beach. We go on vacations together. My wife knows that I am involved in a risky business. That is all she needs to know. It’s important to remember that if I shared my knowledge with her then that would endanger her life because there are a lot of bad people in this game and they would stop at nothing to find out more about my operation.’
Zaid bear-hugs his two men before they drive off in the Citroën for the six-hour journey to Madrid with that shipment of €1 million worth of hash hidden in the vehicle. Before they leave the warehouse, Zaid and two other men check that it is clear in the street. Zaid then waves them off into the darkness for a trip that will personally earn him many tens of thousands of euros.
As Zaid is shutting the big double doors to the warehouse, he notices a vehicle parking up on the pavement about a hundred yards from the entrance to his building. He nodsat his two associates and they lock up the doors while I watch them from inside the poky little office attached to the warehouse.
Outside, Zaid strolls casually towards the vehicle parked further up the street. It is only then, as I continue watching from the office, that I notice there are two men sitting in the car.
For the first time since I met Zaid earlier that evening, I feel a sense of danger and risk in the air. His two men who closed the doors remain silent and they urge me to keep quiet by putting forefingers to lips. So I am left with no option but to watch Zaid as he continues to walk towards the car with the two men in it.
The man on the passenger side rolls down his window and Zaid leans in. There is an exchange of words. Then I catch a brief glimpse of Zaid getting an envelope out of the inside pocket of his jacket and passing it to the man in the car. Zaid then strolls casually back towards us.
Three minutes later, he is back inside the warehouse.
‘Relax,’ says Zaid. ‘Two tame cops who needed paying. They come round here every week and sit there until I give them some money. We look after them, they look after us.’
That night, Zaid and his men
Back in that Algeciras warehouse, Zaid’s men continue using their power tools to screw back the door linings of the little Citroën hatchback before it heads off up to Madrid. Zaid inspects the car after the operation is completed and claps two of his men on the back, congratulating them for a job well done. Now more relaxed, Zaid’s voice softens as he talks about his career as a hash baron.
‘I don’t deal in coke or anything else like heroin or crack because I know the prison sentences are much higher if you’re caught,’ he explained before I even asked. However, Zaid claims that even the hash trade is suffering from the worldwide recession, which has hit especially hard in Spain. ‘It’s certainly true that up until about five years ago the profits on eachshipment of hash were much greater. It’s a strange situation because the demand, especially here in Spain, remains very high although people have less money so it will slow down eventually. But the costs involved in smuggling it from Morocco are increasing by the month. Today, we have to build in all sorts of expenses, which simply didn’t exist a few years ago.’
Zaid was open about nearly all aspects of his criminal enterprise but was rather more reluctant when it came to discussing his family and how his ‘career’ affected them. ‘I have a wife and two children. I’m a regular sort of guy in many ways. I pick my kids up from school some days. I take them to the beach. We go on vacations together. My wife knows that I am involved in a risky business. That is all she needs to know. It’s important to remember that if I shared my knowledge with her then that would endanger her life because there are a lot of bad people in this game and they would stop at nothing to find out more about my operation.’
Zaid bear-hugs his two men before they drive off in the Citroën for the six-hour journey to Madrid with that shipment of €1 million worth of hash hidden in the vehicle. Before they leave the warehouse, Zaid and two other men check that it is clear in the street. Zaid then waves them off into the darkness for a trip that will personally earn him many tens of thousands of euros.
As Zaid is shutting the big double doors to the warehouse, he notices a vehicle parking up on the pavement about a hundred yards from the entrance to his building. He nodsat his two associates and they lock up the doors while I watch them from inside the poky little office attached to the warehouse.
Outside, Zaid strolls casually towards the vehicle parked further up the street. It is only then, as I continue watching from the office, that I notice there are two men sitting in the car.
For the first time since I met Zaid earlier that evening, I feel a sense of danger and risk in the air. His two men who closed the doors remain silent and they urge me to keep quiet by putting forefingers to lips. So I am left with no option but to watch Zaid as he continues to walk towards the car with the two men in it.
The man on the passenger side rolls down his window and Zaid leans in. There is an exchange of words. Then I catch a brief glimpse of Zaid getting an envelope out of the inside pocket of his jacket and passing it to the man in the car. Zaid then strolls casually back towards us.
Three minutes later, he is back inside the warehouse.
‘Relax,’ says Zaid. ‘Two tame cops who needed paying. They come round here every week and sit there until I give them some money. We look after them, they look after us.’
That night, Zaid and his men
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