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On an October evening in , as Sebastiano Giorgi and a Romanian associate skipped and swayed at a fancy Stuttgart nightspot, they were blissfully unaware that their every move was being eyed by police. In fact, they were busy with the sex workers they had taken out on the town. The first part focuses on the group in Europe, showing how a well-connected clan shuttles cocaine across the continent and moves the proceeds into the legal economy. From his base in southern Germany, Bacetto extended the network to include international gangs who wanted in on the action. Through brokers in Paraguay and Uruguay — with logistics provided by a feared prison gang in Brazil — they ship drugs to the ports of Antwerp in Belgium, Rotterdam in the Netherlands and Hamburg in Germany, often via West Africa. Once the cocaine hits northwestern Europe, the Italians take control. IrpiMedia and OCCRP used court and police documents, and interviews with law enforcement sources, to reconstruct a years-long police investigation into a network of Albanians, Romanians, Colombians, Mexicans and Brazilians, spanning not just the ports of Europe, but also the criminal hubs of Latin America and West Africa. Military police then arrested him for prior offenses. Bacetto and other central characters in the following case are still awaiting trial, and allegations outlined by police sources and in official indictments have not yet been proven in court. Multiple attempts to contact a legal team known to have represented the Giorgis have gone unanswered. From October , one of these members, Domenico Aspromonte, began phone communication with a German number used by a nephew of the Giorgis. After the nephew made a winding road trip between Germany and Italy, Italian investigators and German federal police began swapping information. After preliminary talks, German prosecutors opened an investigation into the Giorgis, and on May 8, , a joint investigation team was set up between the Italians and the Germans. This teamwork eventually culminated in the Platinum raids and arrests of May 5, With major footprints in Italy, Germany, Canada, the U. Almost four tons of cocaine, considerable amounts of other drugs, and two million euros in cash were seized. The Giorgis are no 'Ndrangheta aristocrats, but under this rigid structure, they played a crucial bridging role, buying cocaine from Latin America-based Italian brokers, arranging for it to be shipped to Europe, then selling it to smaller buyers, who distributed it to street dealers. As cover, they used restaurants and an import-export company. Police records show how they used food trucks to move cocaine from the Netherlands and Spain across the continent to Italy. According to investigators, the Giorgis imported food from Italy and sold it to other Italian restaurants in Germany, either directly or through retailers, ignoring sales taxes and apparently funnelling illegal profits back home. Others bought them simply because they were cheap. Though wanted in Italy since , Bacetto operated freely in Germany, where he was tasked with ensuring cash flow for his family, because his Italian arrest warrant was never brought to the attention of international law enforcement, the source said. According to Operation Platinum investigators and the related Italian order for custody, the Giorgi family would buy food products in Italy and sell them to Italian restaurants in Germany through companies they'd set up there, without paying sales tax. Then the German companies would be closed. At a recent press conference, German chief public prosecutor Johannes-Georg Roth estimated they evaded over two million euros in taxes in total. Reporters were unable to sample the food during a visit to the Paganini in January because the eatery was closed for winter. Despite their impressive efforts to conceal illegal activities within the legal economy, the Giorgis let themselves down in other crucial areas — especially when it came to their internal communications. They would also be undermined by one-time allies who had decided to speak to police. The Giorgis used encrypted EncroChat phones, making it impossible to intercept their communications. In one bugged conversation with his nephew Antonio, Giovanni slammed Bacetto for keeping too much of his earnings for himself and his associates in Germany, when more should have gone to the cassa comune, a family kitty used to finance drug purchases. He said he had numerous meetings with Bacetto, who travelled far and wide to seal deals, including trips to Rome and Rosarno, in Calabria, as well as to Germany and Spain. Bacetto also appeared to see himself as a major player. Fewer than two percent of these are ever screened. In , Antwerp handled up to 3. Fresh produce needs to be processed rapidly, meaning customs and law enforcement officers often struggle to screen shipments thoroughly. This makes the port a popular entry point to Europe for drug traffickers. Almost 42 tons of cocaine were seized at the port in , and some 50 tons in By , this figure had risen to around 65 tons. Each year, dozens more tons are intercepted before they can even reach the port. Throughout , investigators tracked Bacetto and other Giorgis on several trips to the Netherlands. Andy let Bacetto sleep at his Rotterdam apartment and use it as a logistical base as he moved between Amsterdam and Rotterdam to meet with Colombian suppliers. All the while, investigators were on their trail, and mapped out the path of at least one large suspected shipment. This payment needed to be settled ahead of November 25, the day the drugs were meant to arrive in the port of Rotterdam from Guayaquil, in Ecuador. Police wiretaps suggest the backpack held , euros in cash. Rather than the expected kilogram shipment, investigators believe the final total was kilos, split down the middle between the Giorgis and their Romanian associates. Investigators believe Bacetto and the Giorgis bought 62 kilos of cocaine from the Colombians in the Netherlands, 12 of which were presumably transported to Italy in December A few months later, German investigators heard Bacetto talking at his apartment in the town of Seelfingen — which had also been bugged — about another cocaine deal with an Albanian and a Romanian both living in Belgium. This deal, police suspect, involved a shipment of one-kilogram packages of cocaine. Both the Albanian and the Romanian are suspected traffickers based in Belgium, while the Romanian manages a handful of logistics companies there. Once these shipments had safely made it to Europe, the Giorgis got to work. Transporting cocaine and money in their fruit trucks, police say, they are first believed to have moved around Germany and later headed to Turin, where they were helped by relatives with the logistics. These clients were mainly other Calabrians, for whom the family reserved the largest portions of their shipments. The Giorgi then sold a smaller part to average dealers — bar owners in Turin, Sicily and Sardinia, for example. In these cases, the price climbed up to 57, euros per kilo, or between 5, and 7, euros per grams, according to wiretapped conversations between Giorgi family members. According to the Operation Platinum order of custody, the Giorgis had enough logistical capacity to supply their clients with drugs on a weekly basis. To unload illicit cargo, they had to rely on Latin American suppliers, their higher-placed Calabrian allies, or other gangs like the Albanians. Once through the ports, the cocaine began its winding truck routes. Drivers — one was paid 3, euros per trip, according to the Operation Platinum order of custody — had to mimic the routes of legitimate food delivery services following pre-planned GPS coordinates to avoid arousing police suspicions. Along the way, drivers in other vehicles would approach the truck in a pre-arranged location and remove the drugs before the truck continued on its route. The Giorgi family operated like a company, with each of the four brothers putting the cash they earned into the cassa comune, managed by Francesco. Their weekly profit came to around , euros, according to bugged conversations. Bacetto relied heavily on family members and other Calabrians to help manage his German operations. Calabrian associates also ran two German companies, one of which, GSG Food, owned the Paganini from to as well as importing and exporting groceries. In a bugged conversation, Giovanni, in Sardinia, instructed Francesco, in San Luca, to bury , euros in cash. Further conversations show the brothers were hiding fortunes in buried barrels, while always keeping at least , euros handy for regular expenses. The Giorgis had their own derogatory nickname for him — The Dwarf — but despite such jibes, Bacetto and his crew knew they badly needed the services that he could provide. Because Maluferru was so good at what he did, the Giorgis bit their tongues. For long periods, Maluferru remained a ghost to the authorities. The Giorgis, who had been ordering cocaine from him since at least , swapped rumors among themselves that he had been spotted in Brazil, the Netherlands and Mexico, and may even have disguised himself as a priest. Cracks began to appear, though, when in August police caught another break. The Giorgis were still using their encrypted EncroChat phones. Remarkably, Giovanni and Marvelli would later start reading their EncroChat conversations with Patrick Assisi out loud, describing the logistics of the operations in detail. The bugged chats revealed that the Assisis — who are known to have mostly shipped cocaine in liquid form — would be sending a consignment in 2. The Assisis said they would send a shipment of kilos, according to the conversations, which investigators told OCCRP was because the logistical costs and bribes needed for each load made smaller loads impractical. Using the trail laid out by the Giorgis and their accomplices, German police identified containers that fit the profile for the would-be Assisi shipment. But when inspections were made in Hamburg in October , no drugs were found. The detectives got luckier a month later, on November 8, when they raided a container suspected of carrying Assisi cocaine bound for the Giorgis, and uncovered kilos of cocaine stashed in packages of cotton swabs. Around this time, their agreements with the Assisis had begun to hit a roadblock, and Marvelli planned to go to Brazil to meet Patrick Assisi in person. Maluferru, though, had other plans, making a move to cut the Giorgis out, and beginning to deal with Assisi directly. Assisi, it turned out, preferred dealing with Maluferru, who was reliable, invisible, and had the keys to unlock some major European ports. The Giorgis, constantly walking a tightrope between powerful suppliers whose whims could make or break them, seemed destined to remain effective cocaine distributors with little prospect of ascending to the higher echelons of the 'Ndrangheta. Little did they know, however, that dark clouds were also beginning to hover over both Maluferru and the Assisis, and the pipeline from which they had made their own fortunes. This story was partly funded by grants from Journalismfund. Key Findings. According to investigators, the Giorgi-Boviciani clan helped oversee a multi-million-dollar cocaine pipeline from Latin America to Europe. The Giorgis played a key bridging role, buying this cocaine from faraway cartels and selling it to European buyers, who then filtered it to street dealers. As well as spreading cocaine around Europe, officials say the Giorgis moved the proceeds into the legal economy via the food and restaurant industries. Related Articles. Now, we examine their pipeline through Latin America and Africa, showing how the highly-connected Giuseppe Romeo moved drugs through corruption-plagued ports to Antwerp, Rotterdam, and beyond. Where did the organized crime group come from? What do its operations look like? And can it be stopped? See the project. June 30th, Europe , Germany , Italy , Paraguay. Show more. The Cops Catch a Break Despite their impressive efforts to conceal illegal activities within the legal economy, the Giorgis let themselves down in other crucial areas — especially when it came to their internal communications. The high-stakes industry, it seems, put a frequent strain on family relations. Credit: Alamy Containers are seen on a dock at the port of Antwerp. Join the fight. Hold power to account. Your cookie preferences. We use cookies to improve your experience by storing data about your preferences, your device or your browsing session. We also use cookies to collect anonymized data about your behaviour on our websites, and to understand how we can best improve our services. To find our more details, view our Cookie Policy. Audience Measurement Cookies. Essential Cookies. Accept my choices. Accept all. Close and accept.

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Unsurprisingly, the Ashes series has been so occluded by superlatives that it is almost impossible to separate myth from fact, interpretation from truth, cricket from bullshit. This is the problem with sport, and time. The impact of the Ashes series on the collective English memory is well documented. The connection between an Imperial-era naval victory and a Test series separated by two hundred years exactly is romantically serendipitous: both are cultural by-products of the Rule Britannia grand recit. The association, however, serves a grander narrative purpose: granting succour to superstition, plausibility and metaphysics: was there something written in the stars in the summer of ? These narratives relfect the diminishment of social life. Like Foucault, Debord questions the value of structured knowledge, its connection to subjective history and the incorporation of the past within the permanent present. More prosaically, while we believe the present only becomes meaningful when framed by the past — but we depend upon the media to provide and regulate that framework. We remind ourselves how we reached that Ashes denouement — Captain Michael Vaughan and team lifting the imitation urn amid showers of Npower branded confetti — by retracing our steps, poring over archived news reports, youtube videos, old photographs. The society of the spectacle craves spectacular events, but after their occurrence they recede into a mediatized atemporality. Thus, it seems scarcely credible that Andrew Flintoff was once a talismanic all-rounder, long before he was a washed-up, would-be-boxer raconteur: the Ricky Hatton of the cricket world. Technology continues to take us to strange new destinations: in over-by-over blog feeds, digital photography, online articles and comment pieces, retrospective blogs, cricket books, cricinfo reporting, empirical data and interpretation-shaping analytics bamboozle the armchair enthusiast, while social media further flattens the traditional structures of sports reporting. Despite — or perhaps because of — this manipulation, our psychological muscle memory kicks in during these recollected moments of tension, despair and jubilation. This is, naturally, grist to the mill of Debordian thought, for whom the spectacle takes over and lives our lives for us: we ceased to exist except within the mediated narrative of a televised sporting contest and the binary possibilities of the outcome: victory or defeat. Situationism presents a bleak picture of our inability to think critically — and yet these unifying instances of national sporting success leave us emotionally exhilarated, breathless, incapable of assimilating what we have witnessed: a form of collective trauma in reverse. The Ashes series is inscribed upon and embedded within the personal histories of those who were there to watch and record it. Every England supporter remembers where they were for that last Test at the Oval in September: the skunk-haired repatriate upstart Kevin Pietersen putting England over the line with a mature and assured stand. Every Australian supporter no doubt remembers it too. Over 7 million people watched the final day of the rain-delayed fifth Test. A significant number wagged off work. One wonders what impact that had on the national economy. As for me, I was blissed out: sunning myself on an Alghero beach in north western Sardinia. I missed the whole show. At the start of that summer I was living in a shared house in Brixton with three people I barely knew. These were somewhat self-inflicted. None of us behaved well. The least said about the other relationship, the better. In hindsight, had either relationship survived the spring of my memory of that summer would be very different. In truth it helped that my housemates were so unlikeable. The male nurse I rarely saw, as he was working in Southampton while living in London. Whenever he was around he behaved like he was auditioning for Big Brother, all high-camp hysteria. The female nurse and her biker boyfriend — who always parked his fucking bike on the front doorstep — regularly enjoyed noisy sex under my bedroom. Neither lifted a finger to clean: I once found a mudslide of shit on the outside of the downstairs toilet bowl. Sharing our top floor garret, the Portuguese guy and I gelled well. Added to that, it was a particularly hot London summer — sultry and inebriated, dusky and druggy. The city sweltered in a hazy heatwave from late June until mid-September. Brixton, Clapham and Stockwell were engorged with horny, inebriated and laissez-faire twentysomethings. The top floor of the house was stifling: I often left my window open all day. Everyone was hot and hungering for something. It was a rare place to be — but I remained single for well over a year. I cannot recall drinking as much, or taking as many mind-altering substances, as I did during that period. Most weeknights I drank courting oblivion to avoid the animal sex below. Most weekends I drank all weekend. I had a friend living in Clapham and we spent days watching the cricket while getting steadily drunk. Most Saturday nights were spent out of my tree on ecstasy at the now-defunct Telegraph on Brixton Hill, or Fabric in Farringdon. A bag of magic mushrooms was passed around. Going for a pee, I saw a bathmat come to life, swirling like a sea anemone. Nostalgia is, by its very definition, inherently bogus. That was the summer when jubilant crowds filled Trafalgar Square as London was awarded the Olympic Games, pipping Paris as host. On 21 July, four more young Asian men attempted to blow themselves up in central London, prevented only by the deficiencies of their homemade bombs. The following day, a year-old Brazilian student, Jean Charles De Menezes, was mistaken by police surveillance teams for one of the would-be bombers and was executed on a tube train at Stockwell station which I passed through every day. London life took on a Sodom and Gomorrah quality. News tumbled in us. The grainy camera phone footage from the tube trains; CCTV film of the four bombers departing Luton; the still of a double decker bus ripped apart like a can of corned beef; the x-ray of a bombers backpack and its lethal cargo; the bloodied, bandaged man in a suit; the woman with a paper mask covering her face; identities subsumed by the spectacle. We learned the personal stories much later. The city was divided into those who had been directly affected by the bombings, and those for whom it seemed like a bizarre simulation. The first suicide bombing to take place on British soil was committed by its own citizens, payback for the invasion of Iraq and perceived persecution of their Muslim fraternity. Suicide bombings rocked Iraq every day that summer, killing scores of innocent Iraqis and turning Sunni against Shia in a spiral of fratricidal madness. For the unscathed and otherwise-unaffected of London, walking their commute home on the evening of 7 July was recast into a supreme act of self-sacrifice and solidarity with the bombing victims. In reality, every day felt like it might be your last. Another irony of history: the first test at Lords got under way on 21 July, the day of the copycat bombing attacks. Situated alongside the palpable terror of that month, the Ashes should have been an irrelevance. Instead, while the aftermath of the London bombings dominated the front pages, the country collectively seemed to seek out something hopeful on the reverse. We needed heroes to offset the tragedy; here was our counter-narrative to the terror. Sport and war: the connection was inescapable. Cricketing fortunes wax and wane. Even the West Indies show small signs of returning from the wilderness of the s. Which just leaves England scratching about for runs and struggling to find any consistency. Ten years ago things were very different. Modernisations overseen by the ECB and the tutelage of Fletcher stimulated stability and strength in depth within the team. The victory in not only reclaimed the Ashes after eighteen years, it also confirmed the end of a period of sagging ineptitude that had dogged English cricket throughout the largely unsuccessful captaincies of Michael Atherton and Alec Stewart. The eleven men assembled for the first test at Lords shared a vulpine hunger. It is the first - and last - time I can recall England having two rock-solid opening batsmen and an effective four-man pace attack. Michael Vaughan's shrewd captaincy. Kevin Pietersen casually hitting Shane Warne for six after six. Yeoman Matthew Hoggard striding to his mark. Steve Harmison's bouncer drawing blood from Ponting. Andrew Flintoff and his bad shoulder. Flintoff and his Red Bull. Flintoff and his century. Flintoff's over to Ricky Ponting. Flintoff commiserating Brett Lee. Flintoff and the sideways tongue and the shaved head and the emphatic nod and the Christ-like posture. Flintoff urinating in the Downing Street garden. Even if they had been able to bottle the winning formula, Flintoff probably would have drunk it on that open topped bus. England were ably assisted by rumoured division within the Australia camp and the fading abilities of its leading lights. If Brett Lee hadn't been ill. If Shane Warne had caught Kevin Pietersen. If Jason Gillespie had regained some form. If, if, if. Small margins, big gains. It was all over by the following winter in Australia: homesickness, illness and injury scattered the squad. A Vaughan-less England with Flintoff at the helm were thumped five-nothing in Australia in The psychological toll of the tour forced Trescothick home. Harmison also suffered. By the end of the Ashes whitewash, the team which had been almost a decade in the making had fragmented irreparably. National interest in the team stemmed in no short measure from this fact - that and the fact that there was no international football tournament for the nation to pin its hopes on. Everyone could, and did, watch the cricket. Sky figures for recent Ashes series pale into insignificance against the 7 million who watched the final day's play at the Oval: the proliferation of plurality continues to shred social and cultural cohesion. The impact of a sport being awash with money at the highest level has been its disappearance from our TV screens and the dwindling of grassroots participation. The summer of was bookended by two moments of jubilation in Trafalgar: in the centre, terror, horror and fear. At the time few picked up on the symbolic resonance of England's cricketers crossing the capital on an open-topped bus. We were too tied up in the Flintoff myth, the joy of the moment to assimilate it. But it was there in the crowds lining the streets, just as we had done on the morning of 8 July. Perhaps the Ashes was governed by spectacle — but what a spectacle. Those of us who had grown up during a decade of atrocious cricket could scarcely forget it; a nation of bereaved and ruptured families, healing survivors and traumatised witnesses needed it. Photo credit: Tim Jenkins for The Guardian.

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