Mr Nice

by Howard Marks

  Although Stanley Rosenthal was skilfully keeping the Inland Revenue at bay, the Treasury’s debt collectors were still convinced that I was far from skint and had loads of money stashed away. They were obviously prepared to come down from demanding £1,500,000 but were certainly not going to settle for just a cut of the £30,000 I’d managed to screw out of Her Majesty’s Customs and Excise. In the end they accepted that I hadn’t made any money smuggling dope and settled for a final payment of a further £40,000, payable by the end of the year. I would not be able to pay them with cash or hash. I would have to mortgage the Chelsea flat.

  March saw me back in Hong Kong attending Hobbs’s wedding with Selena. I was the best man. One of Hobbs’s friends was ready to marry April. Hobbs went back to Bangkok for his honeymoon. His wife spent hers on the game in Bottoms Up.

  Phil arrived with the paperwork for the sea-freight scam to Long Beach. The container had left Singapore. Withdrawing what was needed from Crédit Suisse and the Hong Kong & Shanghai Bank, I gave him the promised $100,000 and a further $75,000 for Mickey’s air-freight scam. This would leave in a week. I would come to Bangkok to pick up the air waybill.

  Bill would be in Karachi in two days. I had to get there before him.

  There were the inevitable post-mortems on the missing five-ton PIA load when I arrived in Karachi from Hong Kong, but Malik remained understanding. I gave him lists of second-hand paper-mill equipment that was available for sale in Britain. I gave him Bill’s flight particulars. Malik would arrange a trouble-free arrival.

  In a Sheraton chauffeur-driven car, I went to the airport to meet Bill.

  ‘I gotta hand it to you, buddy. You got this place straightened out. I was the only guy Customs didn’t tear apart. Now listen to this. In this bag is …’

  ‘Wait till we’re alone, Bill,’ I whispered.

  ‘You mean this rag-head understands English?’

  ‘Most Pakistanis do, Bill.’

  ‘That’s a new one. I thought they spoke some kinda Indian. I guess we’re going to the Sheraton.’

  ‘I’m booked in there, Bill, so perhaps you’d prefer to stay at the Hilton.’

  ‘No, I can only stay in the Sheraton while I’m here doing the kind of work I’m doing. I’ll explain later.’

  At his room in the Sheraton, Bill took out a bottle of smuggled Jack Daniels. He continued what he was saying in the car.

  ‘In this bag is $300,000. How much dope will that buy me?’

  ‘It depends what you want done with it, Bill – sent by sea-freight, put in suitcases, whatever.’

  ‘I don’t want anyone to send it out. I’m sending it out via the United States Embassy in Islamabad. This is US Government business.’

  ‘You mean you just want a pile of dope? You’ll take it over from there on?’

  ‘Well, I’ll need a bit of help because I won’t actually be here to do everything. But I’ll set the whole deal up.’

  ‘What exactly will you want done, Bill?’

  ‘The dope has to be put into specially constructed wooden crates. I have the dimensions here. Then the crates have to be taken to the American President Line in Karachi docks. The United States Government will then ship the whole works to the United States naval base in Alameda, California. The crates have to be delivered to the American President Line by you personally. We can’t let these dope-dealing rag-heads know what’s going on.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Howard, you know I’m a CIA agent, right?’

  ‘The possibility had occurred to me.’

  ‘The US Government has a number of secret bases, spy networks, and equipment scattered throughout Pakistan. Occasionally, we have to send equipment back in such a way that no one knows what the fuck we are doing. I have clearance to send spy-helicopter parts back from here by ship on the American President Line. I’m given a lot of room to manoeuvre. No one can open this in Alameda except me. I cheat a bit. Like now I’m going to send some dope. I have friends in Washington who are sympathetic to whichever of these rag-heads over here are anti-Communist. They ain’t gonna mind if I do a dope deal and get the rag-heads some money. The CIA own the American President Line. Once the dope is on there, it’s mine.’

  ‘So I drop a couple of wooden crates at the American President Line, let you know, and you take it from there.’

  ‘Well, kinda, but I won’t be here on the spot. Here’s what you do. Even though everyone calls you Howard, your first name is Dennis, right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What I’ve noticed with these rag-heads is they use their last name like we use our first. So for security’s sake, when you ring up the US Embassy in Islamabad, say you’re Mr Dennis from Special Missions.’

  ‘I’ve got to ring up the US Embassy?’

  ‘Sure. Call them from here. The CIA owns the Sheraton. That’s why I stay here. The Embassy will be expecting your call. Once you’ve packed the dope, call them. Tell them you have Fred Hilliard’s consignment ready and ask what date they want it at American President Line. Take it there on the date they tell you to. That’s it. So how much dope can you get for $300,000?’

  ‘There are going to be other costs like transportation within Karachi and packaging. These guys have to be paid good money when they handle dope in this town. I’ll let you know tomorrow. Are you Fred Hilliard?’

  ‘No, he’s my buddy in Washington. He sorts things out in the naval station in Alameda. He’s done this kinda shit lots of times before.’

  ‘Did Ernie tell you who’s getting what out of this?’

  ‘You get 15%, Howard, and Malik gets 25%. We pay all upfront costs out of that $300,000. Take this money to your room.’

  ‘This is easy job, D. H. Marks. We will do, inshallah. But what is this spy plane bullshit? These Americans are crazy peoples.’

  ‘How much can you send for this money, Malik?’ I asked.

  ‘Inshallah, I will send two thousand kilos. Give me specifications of crates. We will have whole thing ready in few days.’

  ‘Okay. I have to make a quick trip to Bangkok in the meantime.’

  ‘I will get you first-class return ticket on Thai International Airlines.’

  Leaving Bill in Karachi, I went to Bangkok to pick up the air waybill for the load to Mickey Williams’s friends in Holland. Mickey needed the whole document, not just its number. I gave it to Hobbs to take back to London and give to Mickey. I wondered how he’d react to picking up such a vital piece of information from a so-called nonce.

  Back in Karachi, Bill had suddenly left without explanation. Malik had packed two thousand kilos of the same good Pakistani hash into the weirdly shaped crates. A Mazda pickup truck had been purchased. The crates were sitting on the truck. It was ready to go.

  I called the United States Embassy in Islamabad. They were not expecting a call from Mr Dennis of Special Missions. They had not heard of Fred Hilliard. They had no idea what I was talking about. I tried again the next day with the same result.

  I was stuck. Ernie and I never called each other if I was in places like Karachi or Bangkok. It was a golden rule. I had to get out of town.

  Instructing Malik to hold everything until I got back, I took the next flight out. It was Alitalia, and it went to Rome. I called Ernie. He had no idea what had happened to Bill. He would try to find out. There was no answer from Mickey Williams’s number. I rang some other numbers. Judy and the children were in Mallorca house-hunting. I caught an Iberia flight from Rome to Palma.

  Judy had found a cheap, beautiful old house in La Vileta, a village almost swallowed up by Palma. It needed a lot of attention, but we decided to buy it. In the meantime, Judy had rented a small furnished flat in the Bonanova area of Palma. There was no phone. One would be installed soon. I called Mickey Williams.

  ‘Sweet as a nut, H, me old son. We got it all. In a couple of days you can have it to sell in London.’

  At long last, a drug scam had actually worked!

  I flew Air Europe to Gatwick
and met Mickey Williams at the Warwick Castle in Maida Vale.

  ‘Half of it is in the car outside, H. Here’s the keys. The car’s down to no one. If you get pulled, it’s on you. When you’ve done with the car, park it back near where it is now. Give me a call when you’ve got my money, and I’ll give you the other half of the gear.’

  I called Jarvis. He came round and took the car away.

  I telephoned Phil in Bangkok and gave him the good news.

  Two days later Jarvis brought the money from the sales of the Thai grass. I gave most of it to Mickey to pay him off and took delivery from him of the rest of the Thai.

  I telephoned Ernie. Bill was back in Karachi. Everything had been sorted out. I was to go back there immediately.

  I had gone through passport control at Heathrow’s Terminal 3 and was about to enter the pre-boarding room for PIA’s flight to Karachi when I was stopped by a plain-clothes policeman.

  ‘We’re just having a word with people going out East, sir. Is Karachi your destination or somewhere else in Pakistan?’

  ‘I’m meeting someone in Karachi.’

  ‘A business meeting, sir?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘May I ask what is your business, sir?’

  ‘I sell water.’

  ‘Water?’

  ‘Yes, water. Welsh water, actually.’

  ‘Big demand for that in Pakistan, is there, sir?’

  ‘Not that I’m aware of. But there’s a demand for it in nearby Saudi Arabia, and I am meeting Sheikh Abdularaman A. Alraji in the Karachi Sheraton. The Sheikh has several businesses in Pakistan. I usually meet him there.’

  ‘May I see your passport, sir? Mr Marks, I see you have visited Karachi quite a few times in recent weeks. Bangkok, too. The Sheikh likes to meet you there as well?’

  ‘The company I work for is based in Hong Kong. Flights from Hong Kong to Karachi usually transit through Bangkok. I often take advantage of the opportunity to stay a couple of days in Thailand.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Marks. Enjoy your flight. Sell plenty of water.’

  I didn’t know it at the time, but I had been recognised and questioned by one of Her Majesty’s Customs and Excise Investigative Branch Officers. He got on to their man in Pakistan, Michael Stephenson. Stephenson told Harlan Lee Bowe, the DEA’s man in Pakistan, that a big-time British dope smuggler was about to arrive in Karachi. Bowe remembered my name from the 1973 rock-group scam. Unknown to me, they were watching me arrive at Karachi airport. Stephenson wanted my blood. Bowe didn’t mind helping him.

  I checked into the Karachi Sheraton. Bill had disappeared again. I called up the US Embassy in Islamabad.

  ‘Good morning. This is Mr Dennis from Special Missions,’ I said, convincingly.

  ‘Good day, Mr Dennis. We’ve been told to expect your call. I’ll put you through to the department concerned.’

  Good. Bill had got things together.

  A gravelly voice came on the line.

  ‘Mr Dennis, we are still in the process of paperwork preparation. I don’t have to tell you it’s a delicate matter. Would you please call us on a weekly basis until we are ready?’

  ‘Sure.’

  The money in London from the sales of the Thai grass was beckoning me. I might as well head right on back. Malik gave me a small grey suitcase full of information about paper production in Pakistan and a first-class Pan American Airlines ticket to London. On the plane, I sat next to Elizabeth Taylor. We talked about Wales. She got off at Frankfurt.

  My suitcase did not show up on the carousel at Heathrow. Pan Am personnel apologised and said they would deliver it to my address as soon as they found it. Although ignorant of Bowe and Stephenson’s surveillance at Karachi, I now knew I was under investigation. The questioning on departure coupled with the missing suitcase on arrival could mean nothing else. First-class passengers’ suitcases do not disappear on direct flights. There was nothing embarrassing in the suitcase, just paper-mill bullshit, but still, the enemy was definitely on to me. I’d have to be careful.

  If a scam works, it is rational to do a repeat. Mickey Williams, Phil, and I repeated the Bangkok to Amsterdam air-freight scam and carried on doing so until Mickey’s contact in Amsterdam figured he didn’t need us any more. He’d either made enough or was getting dope air-freighted to him cheaper from someone else. Serious money poured into my European coffers. During the repeats, I flew a couple of times to Bangkok and Hong Kong to take care of air waybills and money transactions. Hobbs had found a few more husbands. April and Selena had found a few more wives. Pocket money flowed into my Hong Kong coffers.

  The sea-freight load from Bangkok to Long Beach made it. Hefty wire transfers arrived at my account in Crédit Suisse, Hong Kong. Some of Ernie’s Californian couriers brought cash to give to me in Switzerland and Hong Kong. I opened up a bank account and safe-deposit box in Geneva. Unfortunately, the sea-freight scam could not be repeated. One of the guys in Long Beach had got busted doing another load.

  Once a week I telephoned the US Embassy in Islamabad. Finally, the Embassy official said that the consignment should be delivered to Karachi docks to the offices of Forbes, Forbes & Campbell, the freight agents for the American President Line, on Sunday, June 10th.

  I arrived in Karachi on June 6th. I would have to drive the Mazda truck about two miles from Malik’s city warehouse to the docks. Malik would lead the way in his car but not stop at Forbes, Forbes & Campbell. He’d go straight back to the warehouse. Bill wouldn’t approve of Malik’s knowing about the American President Line, but I certainly had no reason to distrust Malik. After the truck was unloaded, I would park it somewhere near the docks. I did the journey a few times in Malik’s car.

  Driving in Karachi is not easy. Most of the streets look like livened-up junkyards. Cars resemble large-scale Meccano models but function much worse. Trucks are decorated with bizarre multi-coloured portraits and landscapes. Camels commonly head mile-long traffic jams. Hand carts, mechanised rickshaw-type vehicles, scooters, motorbikes, and pushbikes weave insanely through the jams. Pedestrians babble and throng around the almost stationary vehicles. Beggars without legs push themselves from car to car on low trolleys. The only highway code is to get to the front as quickly as possible by whatever means are available. Accidents are sorted out on the spot by either a fight or a cash payment. A Westerner once got lynched for running over a Pakistani schoolgirl. I’d be glad when this bit was over.

  I called the US Embassy on the morning of June 10th to ensure there was no change to the plan. There was. Delivery had to be postponed until June 22nd.

  My temporary passport had to be handed in to the Passport Office in London by June 15th and exchanged for a new one. I had to leave Karachi almost immediately to have any chance of being back in time.

  I was back in London within twenty-four hours. The Passport Office had decided that I was now worthy of being issued a full ten-year passport. It would take three weeks. Jarvis agreed to go to Pakistan and be Mr Dennis in my stead. He was back a week later and explained that when he took the Mazda truck to the American President Line, he was told that they knew nothing about it. No booking had been made. Jarvis felt he had no choice but to leave the Mazda and crates outside the office and leave the keys with the freight agent, telling him the US Embassy would soon be in touch. Jarvis, as Mr Dennis, then phoned the US Embassy explaining the position. They promised to get on to it. Malik had seen Jarvis just before he left for London and agreed he had done the right thing.

  I reported to Ernie through LAPD. He groaned.

  The brand-new Mazda truck, with its precious cargo of hashish masquerading as illicit spying equipment, sat outside the offices of Forbes, Forbes & Campbell for three whole months. According to Malik, it became a well-known landmark in Karachi, the strange-shaped crates attracting the curiosity of visitors to the port. Then suddenly, without warning, the truck and boxes disappeared. Ernie called. The load was on its way to Alameda. We should be drinking champagne within a
few weeks.

  The pace slowed right down for a while. Judy and I walked around our new, but far from habitable, house in Spain.

  In the fifteenth century, a little Mallorquian settlement named Es Vinyet was famous for its density of vines. A plague destroyed them, and Es Vinyet disappeared for a few hundred years until it was renamed and repopulated by a few farmers at the beginning of the last century. Its new name was La Vileta. Because of the impossibility of building any closer to Palma’s city walls, La Vileta attracted Mallorquians who were seeking jobs in the city. It changed from a rural area to a dormitory for Palma’s carpenters and stonemasons. These craftsmen utilised their considerable skills in customising their own homes and communal buildings. La Vileta’s architecture is far from uniform, and it has many peculiar buildings. Judy and I had bought one of them, a three-floored, 150-year-old house with stone walls a few feet thick and five enormous palm trees struggling to share a small garden. La Vileta has plenty of bars, and these, like most bars in Spain, serve perfectly adequate food. There is, however, only one actual restaurant in La Vileta. It is called, appropriately enough, Restaurante La Vileta and is owned and successfully run by Bob Edwardes, a Welshman hailing from just outside my birthplace in Kenfig Hill. Naturally, we became very good friends.

  Life was very relaxed and Spanish as Judy and I attempted to restore the house to its former glory, taking a lot of time off to explore the island.

  More than three weeks passed by. I regularly called LAPD. Flash kept saying Ernie had no message for me. Then one day he put me through to Ernie’s hotel room.

  ‘You ain’t gonna fucking believe this.’