Former Comanchero boss  Amad ‘Jay’ Malkoun releases autobiography called ‘The Consultant’

EXCLUSIVE 

Amad ‘Jay’ Malkoun has been a champion kickboxer, horse breeder, strip club owner and a drug trafficker whose crimes led to him spending 10 years behind bars.

The onetime Victorian boss of the Comanchero outlaw bikie gang, who handed over local control of the club 11 years ago, has now reinvented himself as a true crime author. 

While in in Melbourne’s Pentridge jail Malkoun became friends with Gregory David Roberts, the bank robber and escapee who penned the best-selling novel Shantaram.  

Malkoun has now written an autobiography called The Consultant which his publisher describes as ‘a compelling narrative of violence, contradiction and redemption’.

These days the the 61-year-old divorced father-of-three is apparently a family man of deep religious faith whose survival into middle-age might be considered a miracle.

Publicity material for the book says The Consultant is ‘both an unprecedented tour of the underworld, and a compelling exploration of a man who has lived a hundred lifetimes in one and is now ready to tell his story’.

Malkoun recounts the most notorious chapter in that story when his past caught up with him in Greece five years ago and assassins tried to take him out with a car bomb.

Shockwaves from that explosion were felt around the world as Malkoun’s friends and enemies – as well as law enforcement agencies – tried to narrow down who was behind it. 

The onetime Victorian boss of the Comanchero outlaw bikie gang, who handed over control of the club 11 years ago, has now reinvented himself as a true crime author.

This is an edited extract from The Consultant by Jay Malkoun (RRP $36.99, Penguin) which is now available in stores and online:

March 1, 2019 was just another day: breakfast, school run, quick gym session – a run-of-the-mill Friday morning in sunny Athens. Until they blew up my car and me along with it.

Let’s rewind a little. That morning I’d started the day in my family villa in the Greek beachside suburb of Glyfada. Up early, earlier than usual, I felt strong, aggressive, healthy, ready for another day of single-parent challenges. I tinkered around for a bit, checked this and that, then woke the kids and got them ready for school.

We had our routine: uniforms on, washed and ironed the night before while they did their homework, teeth brushed, faces washed, down to the lock-up garage, bags in the boot of the Merc, then a moment for prayer.

I pushed the pedal down and we raced along to the school. As I pulled into the car park, I heard a loud screeching noise start up from the right side of the bonnet. I quickly turned off the engine and rushed the kids out of the car. My brand-new Mercedes-AMG had never made this sound before. I’d never heard any car make a noise like this. I was a bit panicked that something was seriously wrong with my motor, a very f***ing beautiful one that I was already very attached to.

Jay Malkoun has written an autobiography which his publisher describes as ‘a compelling narrative of violence, contradiction and redemption’. He is pictured with his ex-wife in 2014

I waited a few minutes before I started the car, and all seemed okay. The ignition sparked and the low, proud roar of the engine sounded as it should. I made a mental note to take it to the deal­ership for a check-up, relaxed into the leather seat, hit the gas and took off to the gym, my usual second stop of the day. I gave the weird sound from under the bonnet no more thought.

I had a lot of things on my mind that morning, but the notion that the noise could be a danger to me wasn’t one of them. Day to day, I kept my eyes open for threats, even while I worked out at the gym and tried to relax. 

The life I’d led meant that there was always the possibility of violence around the corner – but just because death might come for you at any minute, that’s no excuse not to live your life. I’d just finished up with training, was distracted, my mind on the day ahead, when I climbed behind the wheel of my Merc, put my foot on the brake to start the ignition with the door still open and reached for the starter button, and the car bomb exploded.

I knew straight away it was a bomb. The airbag pushed my head back and against the seat of the car. It exploded into action in sync with the bomb, and then disintegrated as quickly as it had appeared. The airbag did its job and protected my face, so the blast didn’t knock me out. I stayed conscious and saw it all happen in real time. My instincts screamed that the danger had only just begun.

The Consultant is ‘both an unprecedented tour of the underworld, and a compelling exploration of a man who has lived a hundred lifetimes’. Malkoun is pictured right in 2012

The car landed with a heavy thud, and when I felt the shock in the suspension, I realised it must have been lifted airborne from the force of the explosion. My ears were f***ed from the pressure of the blast, the ringing in them so loud that it blocked out all other sounds, but I could see through the smoke and debris. I reached up and felt my ears were bleeding. Nose too, although I could smell the smoke, which confused my senses. 

First the intense smell of the flaming wreck – burning rubber and chrome. Then an unbearable stench of burning flesh hit me. I looked down at my legs and saw that the skin there was engulfed in flames. The car was f***ed and on fire, and my legs were f***ed and burning. But that wasn’t the most urgent problem.

F***, there’s going to be a shooter for sure, was my initial thought. If the bomb had only torn a few strips off me, then any professional killer would have to finish the job with a tool. No chance I was going to let that happen. I wasn’t going to die that day.

The thoughts running through my head weren’t of my wounds or burns, but my kids. I’ve got kids to look after. Can’t let my family down. My body had taken a hit, but in my mind I grew twelve feet tall, ready to take on anything in order to survive. The adrenaline had kicked in hard – I felt no pain, only clarity. My thoughts were calm. I knew that I was at war and what I had to do. This would be a defining moment.

The most notorious chapter resulting from Malkoun’s time as an international gangster took place in Greece five years ago when assassins tried to take him out with a car bomb (above)

My car door was hanging open, so I stuck my head out and looked around for a gunman. He would be easy to spot – some blacked-out c*** in a cap worn low to mask his identity running my way with a pistol, ready to pump a clip into me as quick as possible then keep moving. I would have to give him my right side, give him a low profile to shoot at, shield my head with my arm and hope for the best. There was no-one to be seen, but that could change any second. 

I knew there was no more vulnerable position to be in when you’re under fire than behind the wheel of a car, so I made myself move. First, I needed to get clear of the burning wreckage. In order to extract myself from the vehicle, I swung my body around into the exit position, pulled my legs out then braced my arms against the doorframe so I could use my upper-body strength to pull myself out, all while digging my right knee into the door.

In that position, wedged between the door and the car, I could sort of balance on my left leg but instantly realised something was wrong. When I tried to stand, I felt I was not at my usual height. Somehow, I was shorter, significantly shorter. 

I looked down at my leg and saw I was standing not on my foot but on my shin bone, just above the ankle. My legs were completely mangled and my feet were totally f***ed. The blast had ripped through my lower legs and broken both of them off where the ankles met the foot. Now just a bloody mess where meat and bone hit the raw road.

Shockwaves from the explosion were felt around the world as Malkoun’s friends and enemies – as well as law enforcement agencies – tried to narrow down who was behind it

One foot was blown to the side and hung limp – it was hanging on by just a bit of skin. So walking wasn’t an option, but I figured I could sort of crawl. I hauled myself out and onto the path and started inching away from the wreck.

Visibility was f***ed through the flames and thick smoke all around me, but I could make out a strange guy approaching.

He had his phone out, filming me, with a look of fear on his face.

This is it, I thought. Because I didn’t know this man and he was clearly panicked, I took him to be the shooter – a young kid, in over his head, too late to back out now. I’d seen plenty like him before.

But he wasn’t a killer, just a passer-by. I yelled to him to come and move me. I needed to put as much distance between me and the wreck as possible. He grabbed me and started dragging me away, making my bare bones scrape against the road. He was a skinny guy and couldn’t really lift me, so he wasn’t that helpful.

‘My legs were completely mangled and my feet were totally f***ed,’ Malkoun writes of his injuries sustained in the car bomb. He is pictured with a doctor recovering in hospital 

Seconds later a person on a moped stopped, and I thought that this would be the bullet for sure, because it was standard operating procedure for Greek gangland shooters to ride up on scooters. I motioned to the first guy to be careful – this new bloke could be an executioner – and recoiled from him, resisting being moved towards the scooter rider. But again, no, not a killer, just a passing student who had stopped to help. Together they picked me up and carried me out into the middle of the road. F*** knows why they thought that was the best place to put me! They were distressed. Me? I was focused.

There’s a video of it, taken of me lying burnt and bleeding on the street calmly working it out in my head. Because I’d realised that there was no shooter. Nobody was waiting to take that final step and make sure I was dead.

I’d realised that my enemies had one big chance to take me out and they’d missed. The question was, who had done it? Who was crazy enough to have a crack at me with explosives in the middle of the day? But still dumb enough to f*** it up so badly? While my body lay there bleeding, my mind ran a mile a minute with potential suspects.

Since the day of the explosion, my phone was blowing up with theories. The bomb had made international news, and all my friends and colleagues from across the world each had their own opinion on who’d tried to kill me.

I really can’t think of a single thing I did in Greece that would motivate someone to come after me. The local guys had made it clear they had a problem with Australians and tourists coming in and operating in their territory, but I wasn’t doing anything to put a target on my back. I kept my head down, operated in the shadows. There was nothing of substance. I couldn’t think of anyone who had a problem with me. No-one.

Who knows? You meet the wrong person, say the wrong thing, they take it the wrong way. People hold grudges for a long, long time. Perhaps one of those grudges had inspired an old enemy to finally make a move? And that enemy tried to eliminate me. Unsuccessfully. Who was that? Who can say?

If I were looking for an answer, I’d have to go back. Way back, more than fifty years and 15,000 kilometres, back to Melbourne, when I first started putting noses out of joint.

Malkoun has now written an autobiography called The Consultant which his publisher describes as ‘a compelling narrative of violence, contradiction and redemption’