Mr Nice

by Howard Marks

  Three days later, I was back in Hong Kong, staying at the Shangri-La. From Cable and Wireless, I telephoned Ernie through Flash at LAPD and reported the position. He said to send the consignment from Karachi as soon as possible. Any day was okay.

  I booked the next day’s Lufthansa flight to Karachi. From a public telex service I sent a telex to Malik: ‘Arriving tomorrow with German company – UK paper-mill representative.’ I took $500,000 in cash from the Hong Kong & Shanghai Bank to Malik’s friend in BCCI and then another $500,000 to my room in the Shangri-La. It was a large amount to hide in baggage when flying. There was no real worry. I would simply check it in at Hong Kong airport, and Malik was ensuring I wouldn’t get searched or embarrassed on arrival at Karachi airport. Nevertheless, the plane could be diverted from Karachi for some reason, and I might find myself somewhere with some explaining to do. I ought to make some effort to conceal it.

  I phoned April and asked her to buy three large and expensive matching suitcases, books on education and schools in England, and books on the paper industry, and arrange for them to be delivered to the Shangri-La Hotel. I rang up Sam Tailor, told him I was delighted with the clothes, said I was on my way back to London, and offered to promote his business as best I could through my connections in London. Did he have any promotional material I could take back? Sam sent over a cardboard box full of cloth samples, brochures, patterns, and sales literature. I rang up April again and asked her to get some lengths of different materials sent round to the hotel.

  Wrapping bundles of money in a selection of voiles and silks, I arranged each suitcase so that the top layer, occasionally allowing glimpses of clothing and textile samples, was crammed with innocuous paperwork and sales promotional trivia. I stayed in.

  Twenty-four hours later I was standing next to the carousel in Karachi arrivals hall. I rarely did this. When travelling alone, I would almost invariably take just hand luggage. I didn’t like checking-in suitcases. I could stand neither the wait nor the weight. The three matching suitcases came up first. The advantages of first-class travel: one’s luggage was susceptible to no ridiculous weight restrictions and was the first to get unloaded. I’d already grabbed a porter and given him a handful of Pakistani rupees. We trundled over to Customs. There is no green channel in Karachi airport.

  ‘Why are you visiting my country? Is it business, pleasure, or official?’

  ‘Business.’

  ‘May I see your passport?’

  I expected this question. How else would he know not to search me? Malik would have had to give him my name. I gave the Customs Officer my passport.

  ‘I see you visited my country a few days ago. What is your business, sir?’

  This question was a surprise. Malik had assured me there would be no confrontation of this kind.

  ‘I have a few business interests. This visit to your country concerns the paper-mill business.’

  ‘Who will you be seeing in this country?’

  ‘Prospective purchasers of second-hand paper-mill machinery. I represent a British firm who dismantle closed-down paper-mills and sell the equipment.’

  ‘Do you have a business name-card, sir?’

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  To say no would have guaranteed a search. My wallet contained three separate business name-cards: I was either a manager of West End Secretarial Services, London; a company director of Drinkbridge Hong Kong Limited, who from other documentation could be deduced to be a bulk carrier of water; or a researcher for Drinkbridge (UK) Limited, a wine importation company. None was an obvious choice for a would-be second-hand paper-mill machinery salesman. I picked out one at random.

  ‘According to this, you are in alcohol business. Do you know alcohol is illegal in Pakistan? What is this to do with paper-mill business? Please open this suitcase, sir.’

  Bloody Malik! Why was he letting me go through all this? I opened the suitcase the Customs official was touching. A few books on English public schools tumbled out.

  ‘Are you in book-selling business, too? Please, sir, open this suitcase also.’

  It was getting difficult.

  ‘Drinkbridge has been a British family company for generations. The company has several businesses, including bulk haulage, real estate, and heavy plant machinery. We have wine distribution networks throughout the world. A large percentage of our overseas profits is reinvested in the country concerned and channelled into education and cultural promotion. We have plans to finance both paper-mills and schools in Pakistan.’

  I opened the second case. Revealed was a variety of literature related to paper manufacturing.

  ‘Please pass, Mr Marks. Welcome to Pakistan.’

  That was close. And he still had my business card. Where was Malik?

  The porter wheeled my suitcases outside. Still no sign of Malik or his sidekick, Aftab. Malik had not only failed to protect me against a possible bust, he was also leaving me stranded with $500,000 not knowing where to go.

  The airport is one of the few places in Pakistan to have a public telephone box. I called Malik’s number. Aftab answered.

  ‘D. H. Marks, how are you? Uncle is not here at the moment. He has been in Baluchistan for a couple of days. He is expected back at any moment. When are you coming to Pakistan?’

  ‘I’m already here. Didn’t you get my telex yesterday?’

  ‘No. I have been at the telex machine since Uncle left. There has been nothing from you.’

  ‘I sent a telex saying I’d be arriving today with the German company. You didn’t get it? That’s impossible. I got an answerback from your telex.’

  ‘No, I did get that telex, but how am I to know that it’s from you? It was not signed D. H. Marks; it was from Hong Kong, not London; and we are not doing business with any German company.’

  ‘Aftab, the German company meant Lufthansa, the airline on which I was arriving. Never mind. I’ll take a cab to the Sheraton. Tell Uncle Malik to come and see me when he gets back.’

  I put the phone down.

  ‘Mr Marks. Mr Marks.’

  Someone in uniform was running towards me. I thought I was going to be grabbed and properly searched. I wondered about Pakistani prisons.

  ‘Mr Marks, I am the steward of the Lufthansa aircraft cleaning crew. You left your duty-free perfume on the plane. Here it is.’

  I climbed into the Sheraton courtesy bus. It felt safer than a taxi.

  ‘D. H. Marks, I am so sorry. Please believe me. I am so sorry. I am so cross with that stupid Aftab for not understanding simple telex. What is matter with him, I don’t know. I assure you it won’t happen again, inshallah.’

  ‘I’m not going to try it again, Malik. But don’t worry. I’m safe and the money’s safe. The only bad thing is that the Customs Officer obviously suspected me and he has my business card.’

  We were in my room at the Karachi Sheraton. Malik had come over to the hotel as soon as he had arrived in Karachi and heard about the cock-up.

  ‘Is everything okay with the consignment?’

  ‘Of course, D. H. Marks. It is now all in my warehouse in the city. Packaging and smell-proofing is now beginning. It will not take long. By tomorrow we are finished. Do you have date to send?’

  ‘Yes. As soon as possible. Any day is fine with us. $500,000 has been given to your man in BCCI.’

  ‘I know, D. H. Marks. I have been given notification.’

  ‘And, Malik, I’m sure you know I also have $500,000 cash with me.’

  ‘I do not want this until you have seen consignment and paperwork. I am sure we can send on Monday, February 6th, in three days’ time. The day after tomorrow, please come to make your inspection. Please, D. H. Marks, stay in this hotel room until then. Karachi is dangerous place. Unforeseen may happen. We must always bear in mind unforeseen. American and European Embassies all have drug investigators on their staff. They wander around city trying to work things out.’

  ‘Are there any DEA agents based here, Malik?’

&n
bsp; ‘Only one. Harlan Lee Bowe.’

  I remembered his name from the prosecution papers relating to the 1973 rock-group scam.

  ‘Any British Customs Officers?’

  ‘Again, only one. Michael John Stephenson.’

  Stephenson! I’d badly embarrassed him at my Old Bailey trial. God, he’d love to bust me out here.

  ‘I’ll stay in, Malik. I’ll watch TV and read. Just come and get me for the inspection. I’ll be all right. Here’s some books on English schools and universities for you.’

  ‘Here is small piece of your hashish for you, D. H. Marks. I know you would like to smoke. I, too, smoke sometimes.’

  I read about the paper industry. It wasn’t very exciting, but I filled my head with the jargon. There was a video channel on the hotel television. It showed Western films with Urdu subtitles. Any kissing or exposure of the female body had been brutally censored. For good measure, a few minutes each side of any offending footage had also been removed, and it was impossible to work out what was going on. I smoked my way through the piece of hashish Malik had left. That made following the plot a lot easier.

  After an uneventful forty-eight hours, Malik and Aftab turned up at my room. Their car was outside. Aftab carried my suitcase of money, and we drove off into Karachi’s slums. We drove to a large stone warehouse, and the double doors were opened by two grim-faced guards. Inside was a central area circled by several separate rooms. This was a hive of quiet activity. About twenty people, each looking like a cross between Yasser Arafat and Genghis Khan, were carting around large metal containers, buckets of grease, cans of petrol, and welding equipment. A few just sat and stared. In the corner were four large piles of cardboard boxes. Each box had been professionally banded and stencilled with AT&T’s address in New York. Each had a label, in both Japanese and English, proclaiming its origin to be Tokyo. Malik had done an excellent job. He went through the process with me.

  Each 500-gram rectangular slab of hashish was put into a sealed plastic bag. The plastic bags were taken to a separate room, washed with petrol, and left for several hours. A new set of workers whose hands had not touched hashish took the plastic bags into another room and placed them into metal tins. Lids were welded on to the tins, which were taken to another room and washed with petrol. Waiting in yet another room were slightly larger tins containing a few inches of warm fat. The smaller sealed tins were put into the larger tins and more fat poured in to the brim. The larger tin was welded tight and placed into the cardboard box. The consignment was now ready to take to the airport storage, where its smell-proofness would be given the final test by Malik’s cop with the dogs.

  ‘D. H. Marks, here is your copy of the air waybill.’

  ‘This is fantastic, Malik. Thank you.’

  ‘It was my duty.’

  Back at the Sheraton, I memorised the air waybill number and destroyed the air waybill. Malik had given me a first-class ticket for a Swissair flight to Zurich. After the PIA flight carrying our hash to New York, it was the next flight to leave Karachi for Europe. Once Malik telephoned me with the news that our consignment had left, I would check out and go to the airport. I would telephone Ernie via LAPD from Zurich. Once I knew the consignment was in Ernie’s hands, I would telex Malik stating that good second-hand papermill equipment was available.

  Karachi and Zurich airports provided no worrying incidents. At the hotel information desk I booked a room at the Carlton-Elite hotel just off Bahnhofstrasse. From the PTT office in the arrivals hall, I telephoned Ernie and gave him the air waybill number and the phone number of the Carlton-Elite. I telephoned Phil at Bangkok. He told me that Judy and the children had just left him for London, and that the sea-freight would take about a month to organise.

  I checked into the hotel. Again there was a video channel, this time without censorship. I watched some films. I walked around the streets of Zurich, calling back at the hotel at least every two hours. I was restless and impatient for news of whether or not the five-ton Pakistani air-freight scam had worked. I waited and waited for Ernie’s call. Finally, he rang.

  ‘Get the champagne out. We’ve got it. It’s all ours.’

  I lay on the bed and went to sleep. I felt very relaxed. The scam had worked. I had made a lot of money.

  Or so I thought.

  I flew back to London late the next day after telexing Malik the good news. Judy had been back a night.

  ‘Well, we’re rich again, love,’ I said.

  ‘I think there’s been a problem, Howard. Ernie called. He didn’t sound too good.’

  I went out to the telephone box in Fulham Road and called LAPD.

  ‘That you, buddy?’ It was Flash.

  ‘Yeah, Flash. Can I talk to our friend?’

  ‘Rather you than me, buddy. Putting you through right now.’

  Ernie sounded as if he was dead. His voice was an almost inaudible whisper.

  ‘It didn’t make it.’

  ‘What do you mean! You told me you got it. I’ve told everyone it’s got through.’

  ‘Well, it didn’t. Tom said it could never have been sent.’

  ‘This was Tom’s thing, Ernie?’

  ‘Well, it was Carl’s connection, really.’

  ‘Who is Carl?’

  ‘Tom’s boss.’

  ‘I thought you were Tom’s boss, Ernie.’

  ‘Yeah, me too. I’m kinda tired. Here’s Carl.’

  A cold Germanic voice came down the line.

  ‘Howard, you’ve never met me, but I did you one hell of a favour when you were in prison in London. I got you your freedom. You owe me.’

  ‘Thank you, Carl. You got paid, I presume.’

  ‘That’s irrelevant. Howard, did you see this put on the plane yourself? Did you see the plane being loaded?’

  ‘No. Did you see it being unloaded?’

  ‘That’s irrelevant. My people are 100%. Your guy in Pakistan owes us $1,500,000. And we’ve had some expenses. Give me the guy’s name and address. I’ll get the money back.’

  ‘Carl, put Ernie back on.’

  ‘He’s asleep.’

  ‘I’ll call later.’

  What the hell could I tell Malik? There was no doubt in my mind that whatever had gone wrong was not Malik’s fault. The load had been ripped off in New York. Either Carl was ripping it off, or he had been ripped off by his 100% people.

  I had to let Malik know immediately. The last thing I wanted to do was talk to him, but the paper-mill jargon wouldn’t convey this news by telex. I thought of Aftab quizzically staring at a telex message stating ‘second-hand equipment disappeared’. I would have to telephone. This was an emergency.

  ‘Malik, give me a good time to call you back. I have to talk to you.’

  ‘Now is good time.’

  ‘The consignment has been lost.’

  ‘So be it. These matters are in the hands of Allah. We can only do our best.’

  ‘The Americans say you never sent it.’

  ‘D. H. Marks, I do not care what American pigs say. If you think there is monkey business on my side, make your own investigation. If you conclude I am at fault, I will pay you back money and give you gun with bullet to shoot me. You are still my guest here in Pakistan whenever you want.’

  Telling Malik the bad news had turned out to be a lot easier than I had thought.

  Ernie rang. He sounded slightly stronger. I called him back from a cardphone box.

  ‘You know what you do when you fall off your bike?’

  ‘No, I’ve never ridden one,’ I answered.

  ‘You get right back on it. Let’s go with Malik again.’

  ‘You don’t think he ripped you off?’

  ‘I’m pretty sure he didn’t. I can’t figure out whether Tom and Carl did or not, but they won’t be involved with this one. This one involves Bill, you know, the guy you met in the Mandarin.’

  Ernie explained that his next scam would be a simple one. The instructions and money for execution of the scam woul
d be brought personally by Bill to Karachi in a month’s time, provided Malik could ensure he wouldn’t be stopped on entry.

  There were affairs to attend to in England. I met Mickey Williams. He gave me £50,000. I kept it. I needed cash in London. I’d pay Phil what he needed for the Dutch air-freight scam out of my own money in Hong Kong. John Denbigh, Jarvis, and the mad Major Pocock were keeping Drinkbridge’s wine business flourishing, and West End Secretarial Services was attracting more and more clients. I laundered chunks of cash through each of the businesses to bring them up to scratch and paid professional researchers to build up a library of information on paper-mills, secondhand equipment, Pakistan, water, and tankers.

  I went to see Balendo and Orca at Hong Kong International Travel Centre and paid them the several thousand pounds I owed. I told them about the availability of cheap PIA tickets and support, generally, in Pakistan. I offered to promote their travel agency as much as possible in my travels and look for deals such as this one with PIA. I would try to get as many people as possible to book through them. Balendo said he would like to make me Hong Kong International’s official Far East representative and give me commission for any airline ticket sales I put his way. I could get as many tickets as I wanted on credit for me or anyone I nominated. He would print me an appropriate business name-card. I had the front I wanted.

  David Leigh had almost finished writing the book about me. I read what he’d written. It was obvious he was running out of steam as well as out of time and space. The first thirty years of my life had been accorded far too much detail, and patently faked dialogues jarred and annoyed me. The last, and what I thought the most interesting, part of my life was getting hurriedly skimmed over. I wanted the title to be Thank You for Smoking. David wouldn’t go for it. It would be called High Time.

  Partly to promote the book and partly because I fancied the publicity anyway, I gave my first-ever press interview. It was conducted by my old Oxford friend David Jenkins and formed the basis of a piece he wrote about me in the March 1984 issue of Tatler. David and I, both equally devoted to Welsh rugby, the Rolling Stones, and getting totally out of it on good hashish, had enjoyed each other’s company on many occasions. The article portrayed me as a nice, wicked stoner with brains and bottle. It mentioned my intentions to export Welsh water by the tanker-load and the Inland Revenue’s current assessment of my tax debt to them, £1,500,000.