Mr Nice

by Howard Marks

  ‘Es Policía Nacional?’ I asked.

  ‘Sí,’ he replied, unconvincingly.

  Then David Embley was escorted from outside the gate into the kitchen by two more cops. He, too, was handcuffed. His eyes refused to meet mine. The cops indicated we were leaving. I asked if I could change into more suitable clothes. They refused. I asked if I could say goodbye to my wife and children. They refused. Embley and I were both led out into waiting police cars. I looked up at the bedroom window as I went out of the gate. Maybe I would never see this house again. I heard Judy shrieking as the car door slammed. She’d be all right in a few days, I thought. She’d visit me as often as she could with the children. We still had a fair bit of money. I might be gone a couple of years, but then we’d survived similar problems in the past. And I knew they had no evidence. Spain wouldn’t give me up to the Yanks, anyway. They were far too independent to align themselves with America in its phoney drug war. Here they let people smoke hashish in the streets. I’d have a ‘lie-down’ in a Spanish jail. It would be manageable. I could brush up my Spanish.

  At Palma police station I was told I’d been arrested on a drugs charge.

  This didn’t come as a surprise. I asked for further details. None could be given now. I was given a piece of paper to fill out. Did I want anyone informed of my arrest? I put down Rafael’s name. He might be upset to find out I was a convicted drug smuggler, but we’d got on well enough, and he’d be surely able to ease my plight. After all, he was a Chief Inspector of Police. Did I have a lawyer? I put down Julio Morell, Rafael’s lawyer. Did I want the British Consul to be informed? Yes, I did.

  With a decided lack of ceremony, Embley and I were relieved of all our personal possessions and put into separate subterranean holding cells. Mine already had two occupants: a comatose drunkard and a young Peruvian, who claimed to be a member of Sendero Luminoso. He was awaiting deportation and had been there for thirty days. It was rough, but he assured me that I’d be in the Centro Penitenciario de Palma tomorrow after the obligatory court appearance. He’d seen what had happened to prisoners over the last month. He said I’d like Palma prison: plenty of free time, lots of dope, and conjugal visits. I lay down on the concrete floor. There was no furniture, no water, no cigarettes.

  I thought of what the police might find at home: the hashish Masha had scored, half a million pesetas, and my electronic notebook containing the telephone numbers I didn’t know off by heart. There wasn’t too much to worry about. Even if the British authorities had also raided our Chelsea flat, there were no dope-dealing accounts or other incriminating documents lying around.

  I wondered if there was any possibility that I had been arrested as the result of my marginal involvement in Roger and McCann’s chaotic Moroccan scam. I reasoned that the Germans would have busted me the same time as they did Roger if they had thought I was involved. On the other hand, Roger might have suddenly decided to blame me for the whole thing in the hope of getting himself out of trouble. I also entertained the possibility that I had been arrested in connection with the Vancouver bust of Thai grass, but the Canadians were not known for wasting resources relentlessly pursuing cannabis offenders. It had to be the Yanks. I drifted off into a mixture of apprehension, sleep, and dream.

  Suddenly, a disgusting sandwich was thrust into my hand, and I was asked by a jailer if I wanted to use the bathroom. I was taken to a filthy shower-cum-shithouse. On the way back I stared through the barred windows of the cell doors, wondering which one was Embley’s. A face came to one of the windows. This must be Embley’s. I hoped he wasn’t freaking out too much. The face looked tortured and pained. Tears streamed from eyes full of terrified sadness. The face turned into Judy’s. It was Judy’s. I wanted it to turn into another face. It wouldn’t.

  ‘Oh God! Why have they got you here, love? Where are the children?’

  ‘They’re extraditing me to America,’ Judy sobbed. ‘They’re taking me away from my children. Stop them, Howard, please. Stop them, for God’s sake.’

  ‘Silencio! Silencio!’ yelled the jailer. ‘No hable!’

  ‘Pero es mi esposa,’ I pleaded.

  ‘Más tarde, más tarde,’ insisted the jailer as he grabbed my arm and led me back to my cell.

  This was incredible. How could they possibly extradite Judy? Since my release from prison in 1982, she’d broken no law anywhere, let alone in America. She hadn’t stopped nagging me to quit smuggling. No one had even asked her to break the law. What was going on? Where were the children? I lay down and tried to keep calm.

  The jailer’s watch showed 6 p.m. as the cell opened again. I was handcuffed and taken to an upstairs room. Judy, surrounded by four or five men and stunned by disbelief and sadness, sat crumpled in a chair.

  ‘Look what they’re doing to me,’ she said, handing me a piece of paper, which indicated that her extradition to the United States was being sought because of her involvement in a series of cannabis importations totalling several hundred tons and dating back to 1970.

  ‘I was only fifteen then, Howard. I didn’t meet you until years later, and even since then I’ve done nothing wrong. I never did anything. What are they doing? I can’t leave my children.’

  ‘Where are they, love?’

  ‘Masha’s got them. Thank God. Oh! Stop them, Howard. You must stop them. They can’t do this to me.’

  ‘They’re nuts, Judy. Absolutely nuts. Don’t worry, Rafael and his lawyer should be on their way.’

  Judy’s sobbing became uncontrollable. Some uniformed cops took her away. I was shown a piece of paper similar to Judy’s. It stated that my extradition to the United States was being sought because I was the head of the organisation that, since 1970, had smuggled hundreds of tons of hashish to the United States. My Spanish was not good enough to understand the rest.

  In the room were two plainclothes policemen who couldn’t speak English, a state lawyer who couldn’t speak English, and an interpreter who spoke very little English. They all talked to me at the same time. I understood very little of what they were saying but gathered that, because it was a fiesta, Julio Morell’s offices were closed. Furthermore, they were not prepared to call Rafael. I would have to make do with this state lawyer, who kept asking me if I wanted to go to the United States voluntarily and make a declaration to that effect. He gave me a stack of papers to sign. I stared at him with disbelief.

  ‘Puedo fumar, por favor?’ I asked, reaching out for the lawyer’s packet of cigarettes. One of the plainclothes policemen was obviously very senior. He looked at me, smiled, and lit my cigarette. In pedestrian Spanish he joked about the book that had been written about me. He said that a number of my friends had also just been arrested. As if to prove his point, the door opened, and Geoffrey Kenion was brought in. The Americans wanted him, too. We were prevented from talking, and I was taken back to the holding cell.

  Two hours later, I was taken to the same room and greeted by the policeman who had stuck a gun into my stomach. He motioned me to sit down at a desk.

  ‘Were you really going to shoot me?’ I asked.

  ‘I’m sorry, Howard. I’m sorry. Sólo para la seguridad. Lo siento, Howard.’

  A casually dressed man came to sit opposite me.

  ‘Tiene cigarrillos, por favor?’ I asked, very politely.

  ‘Sorry, I don’t smoke,’ he replied in an English middle-class accent.

  ‘Who are you?’ I asked.

  ‘Just part of the organisation.’

  ‘Which organisation?’

  ‘You’ll see soon enough.’

  ‘Where’s Lovato?’ I asked.

  He jumped out of his seat and tore out of the room. Minutes later, the door opened and in walked the overweight man who’d earlier masqueraded as a member of the Policía Nacional. So this was, indeed, Craig Lovato of the DEA.

  ‘Hello, Howard,’ he said with a broad grin.

  He then turned his back on me, and his large arse was inches away from my face. He wasn’t being rude.
He was squeezing himself between a desk and a chair. It wasn’t easy.

  ‘I’m Craig Lovato, DEA.’

  He held out his hand. I shook it.

  ‘How are you, Mr Lovato? Do you have any cigarettes, please?’

  ‘You know, Howard, I’ve never smoked in my life. I don’t know why people do it.’

  ‘You think it should be illegal, Mr Lovato?’

  ‘That’s not for me to say. I’m interested in people who break the laws, not make them. Howard, I gather you knew this was coming, and obviously that’s something I’m annoyed about.’

  I presumed he was referring to Sunde and Carl.

  ‘I want to establish a relationship with you. Call me Craig. I want you to voluntarily extradite yourself.’

  ‘Give me a cigarette, Craig, and I’ll think about it.’

  Lovato pulled open a desk drawer, fished out a packet of cigarettes and a lighter, and motioned me to help myself. I took several deep drags.

  ‘What about my wife? Let her go, and you can take me to America today.’

  ‘Bob O’Neill, the Assistant United States Attorney from Miami, Florida, who is in charge of your prosecution, will have to make that decision once you are on United States territory.’

  ‘What’s the charge against her?’

  ‘I’m not sure. That’s articulated by the Office of the United States Attorney, Miami, Florida. I think it’s conspiracy to import a Schedule A controlled substance.’

  ‘She never told me she was doing anything like that. Are you sure about this?’

  ‘A Presidential Organised Crime Drug Enforcement Task Force instructed law enforcement agencies of several countries to investigate certain matters relating to your criminal conduct, and on the basis of the findings, the Assistant United States Attorney, Bob O’Neill, deemed there was sufficient evidence against Judy to go before a Grand Jury in Miami, Florida. The Grand Jury returned an indictment against her.’

  ‘So, what is she actually accused of doing?’

  ‘Using her telephone to further your illegal activities.’

  ‘You mean she might have taken a message for me on our home phone here in Palma? That’s illegal?’

  ‘It would be something of that nature, Howard. Yes, it is certainly against United States law. I forget the actual statute.’

  ‘My wife is locked up in this jail for answering her own phone. And you want to extradite her from here to lock her up in America. I’d heard the DEA was over the top. What do you call it? Zero tolerance, isn’t it? Going around confiscating people’s pleasure yachts if there’s the remnants of a marijuana roach on board. You really are completely fucking nuts. Why don’t you extradite my one-year-old son? I think he answered the phone on occasion.’

  ‘Howard, I merely enforce the law.’

  ‘Whatever it is, Craig?’

  ‘Whatever it is, Howard.’

  ‘You don’t even have to think. It must make life a lot easier.’

  ‘Of course it does, Howard.’

  ‘What are the charges against me?’

  ‘Again, they are articulated by the Office of the United States Attorney, but I’m given to understand that there are fourteen charges against you, of conspiracy, money laundering, and RICO.’

  ‘What’s RICO?’

  ‘In the United States you will be assigned a lawyer who will explain this to you.’

  ‘I’m obviously going to fight extradition, unless you let my wife go.’

  ‘You might just beat extradition on a technicality. But I’m a betting man. I’m from Las Vegas. I bet I’ll get you. What’s the code for these databanks of yours?’

  ‘I can’t remember.’

  ‘Howard, we can always get Washington to do it.’

  ‘Yeah, they should find it pretty easy, though they might fuck it up. How’s Lord Moynihan?’

  The question threw him a little, but he quickly recovered. ‘I think, Howard, he’ll come out of this smelling like a rose. By the way, he thinks you have a contract out on him. He’s under our protection. I think I’m also authorised to inform you that Patrick Lane has just been arrested by my DEA colleagues in Miami. He is now in MCC, Miami Metropolitan Correctional Center. Chi Chuen Lo, or Balendo Lo, as you know him, was this morning arrested by my Scotland Yard colleagues. Hong Kong International is going down the tubes, Howard. Still, I’m sure you have plenty of money buried somewhere.’

  ‘I’ve never had any money in my life. Why has Balendo been arrested? What is he meant to have done?’

  ‘He was part of what we refer to as the “Marks Cartel”. He worked for you, Howard. We know that.’

  ‘He’s a bloody travel agent. Nothing else. What’s the “Marks Cartel”?’

  ‘The Office of the United States Attorney has reason to believe that Balendo Lo, or Chi Chuen Lo, which is his real name, knowingly facilitated the international travel arrangements of cartel members. The “Marks Cartel” is your organisation, Howard. You’ve not heard of the Colombian “Medellín Cartel”? Come on.’

  ‘I thought a cartel was a group of people who agreed on things like commodity prices. With whom am I meant to be agreeing in the “Marks Cartel”? Myself?’

  ‘It’s a bit like General Motors, Howard. It’s all connected.’

  I was losing his drift. Either he or I was insane.

  ‘You might like to know, Howard, that Malik, too, is about to be arrested in Karachi.’

  ‘You think Pakistan are going to give him up to you guys?’

  ‘He’ll be the most difficult, especially given his close relationship with President Zia, which we know all about. But we’ll get him, somehow. He’s part of the “Marks Cartel”.’

  ‘Why have you arrested David Embley? Is he another extraditable “Marks Cartel” member?’

  ‘It was the Spanish authorities’ decision to arrest David, and it’s their decision when to let him go. However, I shall say to them that, in my opinion, he was simply at the wrong place at the wrong time: your house when we arrested you. I must say you have beautiful children.’

  ‘Can you talk to Judy, please, and let her know that there’s some chance of her being released if I voluntarily extradite myself?’

  ‘I don’t like talking to distraught persons. Judith is very distraught.’

  ‘That must limit your conversations quite a bit.’

  ‘I’ll see you in prison tomorrow, Howard. I must let my Spanish colleagues return to their families. They must be missing them.’

  Back in my holding cell, the drunkard had finally woken up. He was screaming protests in Catalan. The Peruvian terrorist had buried his face in his hands in a gesture of ‘Do Not Disturb’. I lay on the floor and began to feel very sad. Things looked bad, and there seemed little I could do other than collect my thoughts together, summon up whatever inner strength I might have, and let the worst day of my life slip away.

  At dawn the next morning, I was fingerprinted, photographed, and asked questions about my particulars. Invariably, jailers and prison employees engaged in processing new arrivals have a propensity for misspelling names and addresses. They are most reluctant to make corrections. These mistakes often cause no end of problems further down the line. Is it deliberate? From the processing room I was taken to a reception area where Judy and Geoffrey had already arrived. David Embley was nowhere to be seen. Lovato must have let him go. Judy was in a terrible state, weeping uncontrollably and being fed tranquillisers. A jailer began to put handcuffs on her.

  ‘Hombre, es mi esposa,’ I protested. ‘No necesitan estos.’ I couldn’t bear to see her in them.

  ‘Todos son iguales. Todos tienen esposas. Esposas, también, tienen esposas,’ said the jailer, much to the amusement of a growing group of his colleagues. (It took a while for me to realise that the source of the humour lay in esposas being the Spanish word for both wives and handcuffs.) The three of us were then quite roughly handcuffed.

  Geoffrey, although looking quite bemused, was absolutely silent. We were put
in the same prison van and driven to Palma’s impressively quaint Palacio de Justicia. Geoffrey remained silent during the five-minute journey to court. Judy sobbed continually.

  Emerging from the prison van was like walking on to a film set in full swing. Dazzlingly bright searchlights and thousands of camera flashes illuminated throngs of noisy journalists. We were quickly taken through them to the Palacio’s holding cells and then led one at a time to the corridor outside the rooms of the Magistrado. This must have been the second floor that Roger Reaves had jumped out of just a few weeks ago. For sure, he had balls.

  The Magistrado was a young man with a kind face. Through an excellent interpreter, he explained that as a result of a United States Government extradition request, I was to be held at the disposition of the Audiencia Nacional, Madrid. I could volunteer myself for extradition anytime I wanted. I had the right to fight extradition, and I would have the full protection of Spanish law if I did so. I asked the Magistrado if I could telephone my children. He handed me the phone immediately. I rang. Masha answered. The children sounded okay. I told them I’d get me and Judy back home as soon as I could. It was the truth, but it took a while.

  We had several hours’ separate and solitary wait in the Palacio’s holding cells. A local Spanish lawyer came and, in excellent English, introduced himself as Luis Morell. Although a distant relation of my initial lawyer of choice, Julio Morell (who, it seemed, did not want to be remotely involved in this matter), he had been independently engaged by Bob Edwardes to represent me and Judy. I liked him immediately. He gave me some pesetas, a carton of cigarettes, and a change of clothing. He said he’d be over to see us at the prison as soon as he could.