THE DEVIL'S CHAUFFEUR: The Sartor Files
Some men drive cars. I drove secrets.
For almost four decades, Mario Pilgrim sat behind the wheel of a black Mercedes S Class and watched the most powerful people in the world forget he was there.
Sheikhs. Royalty. Politicians. Oligarchs. Arms dealers. Criminals. A cocaine priest. A Prime Minister's voice borrowed down a phone on the King's Road at midnight.
They called him Sartor. Latin for the mender. The fixer. The last phone call before everything falls apart.
This is his memoir. Noir, dark, and wickedly funny. The world behind the tinted glass that nobody was supposed to see. The envelopes. The secrets. The silence that paid better than anything else.
A boy from Naples who learned that charm beats strength every time.
A man who became the most trusted invisible person in London.
And somewhere in Epping Forest, buried since the nineties, half a million pounds in vacuum packed Irish punts. Two men went back to find it many times. Suits. Small shovel. Both high on cocaine when they buried it.
They never found it.
Good luck.
The bones are real. The blood is real.
My name is Mario Pilgrim. They call me Sartor.
If you want to know more you know where I am.
