Howard Marks' Book of Dope Stories

by Howard Marks

  The customs drugs units work mainly from information from registered informants or tip-offs from the public. They can’t start dismantling every vehicle going through the various Channel entry ports into the UK. Abroad in France and Spain there are temporary roadblocks set up along the Hash Highway. These often discover the cannabis hidden by amateurs in the obvious hidey-holes, but they are not equipped to start taking vehicles apart. Any contraband that will pass the sniffer dogs and is well secreted will get past them, assuming of course that the roadblocks actually stop the smugglers in the first place. Most consignments travelling up the Hash Highway are minded by babysitters at the front, who are in constant contact with the loaded vehicle. Sometimes there is another vehicle behind providing a rear security screen and acting as overwatch for the main men back in Spain. Every effort is made to ensure that nobody has any clever ideas about taking a wrong turn and making off with maybe half a million pounds’ worth of easily saleable merchandise.

  In 1994 and 1995 there was a growing trend to use motorbikes to carry cannabis. The ever vigilant smugglers had discovered that they were rarely stopped at border-crossing points or by roadblocks. By their very nature there cannot be any large quantities of drugs concealed on a bike, unless the gear is stowed in the side panniers or back box, but either way it would be uncovered very quickly. The smugglers quickly exploited this apparently laissez-faire policy towards motorcycles and put their carriers on to cruising bikes, thereby sending hundreds of kilos of cannabis over to the UK during the following two summers. The sight of half a dozen bikers, not long-haired yobbos but more mature, respectable citizens riding quality motorcyles such as BMWs, Yamahas, Hondas and the like, does not attract a lot of attention from police or customs officers. Furthermore, at the British entry ports bikers are the first group of travellers to be disembarked from the ferries, quickly let through immigration and customs with no more than a cursory glance at the driver’s passport. There are more and more lone operators who regularly smuggle small amounts of gear for themselves. These guys and girls are usually successful because nobody is going to tip off the authorities about them. They keep their departure dates and itineraries to themselves and travel by constantly varying the routes and modes of transport. If they are caught it is usually by chance. Sniffer dogs may catch them because they don’t have access to the vacuum-packing machines that are the foolproof method used by the professional gangs.

  The Spanish Connection, 1992

  Marijuana is for the people. Cocaine is for milking the rich

  Carlos Lehder

  Robert Sabbag

  Smokescreen – 2

  THE INDUSTRY-STANDARD wrap for bales of marijuana is threefold. The bales are first wrapped in brown paper, which is sealed with masking tape. The layer of paper is necessary because the merchandise sweats. Much like a haystack gets moist and hot in the middle, this too is organic material. And even well cured, the product needs to hold moisture if it is to maintain any level of quality. If it were wrapped in plastic alone, it would decompose as its natural juice heated up and tried to evaporate. It is wrapped in paper to absorb the moisture, then wrapped in plastic to make the bale waterproof, to protect it not only from rain and sea water, but from contamination by crude oil and bilge. The plastic is taped, and then the bale is wrapped in a burlap bag that is sewn up on the open end, making the bale easy to handle – smugglers can grab the burlap by the corners and throw the bale around.

  Smokescreen by Robert Sabbag, first published in Great Britain by Canongate Books, February 2002

  Kevin Sampson

  Outlaws

  THAT’S WHERE I think my own operation is a step ahead. I’m not a drug dealer as such. What I’m offering is in the grand tradition of Liverpool brokers. I’m really just a frontiersman, setting a tariff, bringing goods in through the port and effecting a distribution network. My role is simple. I’m a consolidator, that’s all – a consolidator. I’m at the high-risk, high-profit, zero-labour end of the market. I bring the shire in. Almost immediately, I move it on to the boys that make the real money. But I’m happy with the ratio of risk-to-gain that I deal with. I’m somewhere near the high-to-middle end of this particular chain. I deal via Bernie and mainly through Ireland. Almost all of my trade comes via the Bhoys, the Dubliners, the Irish connection. Now, these lads are fucking tasty, they are. If it weren’t for the nod from Bernie I’d half have the horrors of having to deal with the cunts. Nobody’s ever come out and said it’s the Provos or whatever, and I’m certainly not asking no questions but let me just say they’re not like most of the lads you deal with. Don’t dress up. Don’t make a fuss of you. Only have a laugh and joke over something horrible, and even then they only have a laugh with one another. You never really feel like you’re their mate, which you’re not in fairness, even though you do get them no end of tickets for the match. That’s their one indulgence, the Bhoys – they love the match.

  I’ve always left the Bhoys and Bernie to make the actual deal, the big one, the import from source. They sort it out with Turkey or Amsterdam or Colombia, depending on what the crop is, then I’ll make my deal with them. And once I’ve dealt, I move it and fast. Mainly to firms in Kirkby, Skein or Crocky – lads I’ve known for years, in fairness. But I’ll also supply reliable outfits from as far away as Middlesbrough and Norwich and Southampton. I’m a broker and I’ll go wherever there’s a sustainable and relatively docile market. One thing I’m not crazy about is stirring up the competition, by the way. Even with Bernie’s say-so, I’d rather go where there’s no feathers to ruff. A guardian angel can’t protect you all of the time.

  But I do always clear everything with Bernie. Bernie’s one of our own, a very heavy hitter in London nowadays and everything I’ve ever done has been with his blessing. Right from the off. I as good as asked his permission when I moved in on them little places at the start. I targeted these little sleepy places where there was a population centre and that, but no cunt seemed to be taking care of business. Just because it’s only Nantwich or whatever, doesn’t mean the kids don’t want droogs. In actual fact, it means they double want droogs. I put that to Bernie. I said to him, if I’m standing on anybody’s toes it’s only going to be some wool dealing a little bit of weed and that. I won’t even zap ‘em. I’ll gently move them over, knowmean. That’s what I put to Bernie that first time. He knew Ged’d be against it, but he stood back and took a view. He was cool-headed, not rash and emotional like our Gerrard. Bernie told us to stay well away from Windsford but he okayed Whitchurch and Northwich and a bit of Telford for YT, cleared it with the Wolverhampton mob and that’s how I got started. Not kicking off. Not trying to take over. But supplementing. Having the arse to come in when others are hesitant. Securitising.

  He’s in business, Bernie, and that is his only criterion for decision-making. He told us that at the start, when he was talking about Cheshire and that. Does it make sense? is all he asks himself. Is it business? Not like one of them played-out Mafia things where they go on about it being, like, business and not personal and all of that baloney. The fact is that drugs IS business. Big fucking potatoes. And what I put to Bernie a couple of years ago – weird calling him Bernie after all that time, but, that’s what you call him down there, that’s what he likes to be called by the trade – is that there was a gap in the market. There was a demand for a sort of service industry – a well-capitalised mini-wholesaler who would supply the suppliers. Bit like selling on a debt, if we’re being crude about it. It’d be a specialised field but a pretty fucking handy one. I’d have to state here and now that I did devise that whole concept, by the way, but there’s a few fellas specialising in this area now. Truth is I don’t mind a few people getting on the scheme, in fact it’s been more help than hindrance. There’s been times, quite a few of them, when Ireland has wanted me to take more than I strictly want to bring in, knowmean. But I’m adamant about the right way of bringing it into this city and the right amount to ship. One thing I do know is how
the Port of Liverpool works. But there’s been times when I’ve sensed that the Bhoys are getting a bit frustrated with old JPB, little bit impatient with my safety-first tactics, and at that point it’s easy enough to bring in the fella in Ayr whose money’s burning a fucking hole in his pocket. Or there’s the young lad in Southampton and one or two others who’re playing this particular market now. Lay some or all of the risk off against them boys. And then there’s always the Boro Brothers. They don’t even recognise the word risk, by the way. To them lads, it’s all a case of jam today. I love them boys to death. I really do personally enjoy being around them. Their attitude to life is the same as their attitude to business. Go for it, lar. Is right. Go for it big. And while I tend to get a bit thingy about huge quantities and the possible repercussions of my name being stamped on a deal like that, the Brothers will dive all over it. As they often do, by the way.

  But that’s all it is that we do. It’s Futures. It’s just another way of playing the money markets is the way look at it, and just look at the money market. Completely deregulated now, it is. Retired fellas playing it from their bedrooms on little PCs. People like me are, in practice, nothing more than a second wave of suppliers who serve to supplement the main guys, and only then when the need arises. It’s a risk-free proposition. I don’t undermine no one, I don’t take from them – I fucking pay to help them. Get that. And it adds up. I’ve taken every word of Ged’s teachings and turned it into big business. Big fucking business, by the way. None of his scattyarsed heavy-duty blags for no money. I’m into big dough with all of this – and I know how it works at the other end and all too, by the way. I’ve got half an eye on the sell-by date. The smartest deal a real wiseguy will ever do is to get out. Not that I madly want to get out, by the way, but it’s just the law of averages. You do – you have to quit before you get quitted. Couple more jobs like this one today and I can maybe begin to think that way.

  Outlaws, 2001

  Roderick Kalberer

  The Scam

  THE CUSTOMS OFFICER taking a half-hour break at London’s Heathrow Airport could never explain why some passengers aroused his suspicions. It was a question of having a nose for the job and an eye for detail. Gold watches and nylon shirts did not go together. The customs officer had been wandering around the departure check-in desks when he caught sight of the suspect. He watched the man change three large bundles of sterling into guilders and Swiss francs. Businessmen who exchanged sterling at the airport weren’t exhibiting normal business acumen. Regular businessmen used gold credit cards or had their secretaries arrange their foreign exchange in advance. He watched the man deposit his baggage and then he had a word with the Home Office official on the passport desk. He waited while the suspect offered his passport for inspection, and the official memorised the name and number. Armed with the suspect’s name, Samuel Tate, the officer made out a Suspicious Movement Report. He tapped the information into CEDRIC, acronym for the Customs and Excise Department Reference and Information Computer which contained over a quarter of a million suspect names. The computer referred him to the National Drugs Intelligence Unit, the joint police and customs unit at Scotland Yard, which would provide him with access to the Police National Computer. He read the information which appeared on the screen with interest. Tate had a criminal record.

  The gate for the British Airways flight to Amsterdam had closed and the customs officer made his way to the departure gate to retrieve the flight coupon. The details would show where and how the ticket was bought, and whether there was a connecting flight. As he looked at the ticket details he was sure of one thing. Samuel Tate was still up to no good. He had bought the ticket for cash. That was not illegal, but businessmen usually bought tickets with credit cards or had accounts with travel agencies. Curiously, he noticed the ticket was made out to Mr Yate, and not Tate. It was probably a slip of the typist’s finger, but it could also be an alias. There was also a flight connection to Geneva five days later. Cash and Switzerland suggested one thing. Dirty money. Someone, somewhere, would welcome the snippet of information about Samuel Tate.

  Meanwhile, Samuel Tate sat in the aisle seat of the British Airways flight to Amsterdam, travelling business class, a Financial Times on his knee. Over the years he had worked hard to create the image of old money and blue blood. After all, policemen thought twice before they apprehended the upper classes. Only English gentlemen of the old school smelt a rat. His immaculate dress sense was the result of frequenting Saville Row tailors where obsequious salesmen offered advice. ‘Oh no, sir. It’s not done to wear a handkerchief in the top pocket of a town suit. Perhaps I could interest you in a pair of platinum cufflinks, sir? Not the gold ones in this instance, sir, if I may say so. Gold is correct for daytime use, but it’s very common in the evenings.’ His sartorial elegance had been an expensive exercise, but it was the details which made all the difference.

  Tate’s family was nouveau riche and the blood was red, but who gave a shit about all that. He certainly didn’t. He peered through the porthole of the plane, watched the grey tarmac speeding past, and imagined his silver Mercedes racing along under the wing tip. He felt the sudden lurch as the plane became airborne, and he relaxed. Despite his apparent ease, airports made him nervous. There was always the fear that he might be stopped as he boarded the plane. Always the fear that he had overlooked something. Perhaps they knew he carried another identity. Perhaps he hadn’t spotted their surveillance.

  He was tall and slim. His dark hair was turning grey at the temples. He wore spectacles with heavy frames, which on close inspection proved to contain lenses of clear glass. They rested on a bony Roman nose. He had a high forehead from which the hairline was receding, and on which the lines of age and worry were being slowly etched. His mouth was small and straight. He was wearing a double-breasted pinstripe suit. He looked fifty, ten years older than he really was.

  Tate’s thoughts were broken by something unpleasant. A man had changed seats and was now sitting across the aisle from him. He was wearing a shiny blue suit which could have done with cleaning. He was somewhat greasy. Thirty years old. Why did common people always lack style when they tried to look smart? Why did they bother to dress for flights? Then Tate noticed his footwear. The socks were nylon. The shoes were well used, but they had a thick composite sole. He always looked at a person’s shoes. ‘You can tell a gentleman by his shoes,’ his mother once told him. Gentlemen and policemen, Tate had learned.

  Tate felt a flutter in his stomach. He knew why. He was paranoid. He knew all about surveillance. There were those small incongruous signs; the builder’s van parked opposite his flat all day, and not a builder in sight; the dry-cleaner’s van which no business could afford to leave idle; odd incidents at bars when he caught people looking at him.

  The plane hit an air pocket. Tate looked up and realised the man was addressing him. ‘What?’ he said.

  ‘I said, it’s worrying how the wings flex in these planes.’

  ‘They’d snap off if they were rigid,’ Tate replied, curtly.

  ‘Do you have a plane of your own?’

  Some people have no idea about personal space, thought Tate. Especially the police. Again there was the little flutter in his stomach. ‘No,’ he replied.

  ‘Oh! It sounded like you did. Do you often use the shuttle?’

  ‘First time,’ lied Tate. He hadn’t once looked the man in the eye. He was definitely a member of the other firm. No one else would have the gall to pursue a conversation in the face of such taciturn resistance.

  ‘It’s my first time as well. I’ve a meeting in Amsterdam. Where are you going?’

  ‘Amsterdam,’ replied Tate, ‘unless you’re planning to hijack the flight.’

  ‘Oh no. I’m going there on a business trip.’ This one had absolutely no sense of humour.

  ‘I might have guessed. You are travelling business class, after all.’ Tate laboured the point.

  ‘Yes, I’m in the textile industry. We’re having
a hard time in Europe. There’s a lot of competition from Turkey, India and the Far East.’

  Tate didn’t reply. He hoped the man would shut up.

  ‘What’s your line of business, if you don’t mind me asking?’ The man chirped again.

  Tate minded very much. ‘Investment consultant,’ he snapped, and wondered how to terminate the conversation. One thing was sure. He wasn’t under surveillance. After all, if you could see the buggers then they weren’t watching you. They’d have stopped him at the airport and asked him a question or two if they were interested. They weren’t shy, but they were tenacious; and this little sod didn’t look like giving up.

  The flight was turning into a nightmare. He had some greaseball sitting next to him, who might or might not be a policeman. Next time he’d travel on a plane which had a first-class option. In the meantime he had to stop this conversation. He stood up and marched to the lavatory. When he returned, he opened the Financial Times and studied the market prices. It was hard to concentrate. He couldn’t remember what was in his Swiss portfolio.

  ‘Settling down to work?’ chirped the voice.

  Tate ignored him.

  ‘I’ve not been to Amsterdam before, Mr Tate.’

  Tate blinked. Had he introduced himself as ‘Yate’ or ‘Tate’? He didn’t know. Perhaps he’d misheard. No. He never gave the man his name. The bastard must have looked in his briefcase. Yes. He’d peered at his passport which was poking out of his briefcase. Or had he known the name before he embarked? Nasty, beady black, inquisitive eyes. ‘Try the—’ he was about to say, Amstef, but remembered he had a meeting there. ‘Krasnapolsky.’ That would set the little shit’s bank balance back a bit. He’d have a job claiming that on expenses. It would probably send the whole textile industry spiralling into a slump.

  ‘Could you write it down for me?’

  Tate looked at the hand which proffered paper and pen. If the man thought he was getting a set of fingerprints on that scrap of paper he had another thing coming. Samuel looked squarely at his fellow traveller. He stared into his eyes. He said very quietly and firmly, ‘Go fuck yourself. I’m busy.’ He turned back to his newspaper.