Mr Nice_ An Autobiography Part 10

'No, look, I'm perfectly all right,' I said, leaping out of the wreck. 'If someone could give me a lift to the nearest telephone, I'll be able to take care of everything myself.'

'That'll be at Bernard Murphy's down the road. Jump in.'

Bernard Murphy's, which was actually named something like the Crazy Horseshoe, was heaving with serious Irish Sat.u.r.day-night revelry. A large group were energetically performing an Irish jig around the telephone. A few young lads were holding the phone and sticking fingers in their ears. I made a reversed charges call to McCann at Drogheda and told him I was stuck in the Crazy Horseshoe about ten miles outside Rosslare. Would he please come and get me? He arrived in a couple of hours.

'Some f.u.c.king operator you are. Can't drive a f.u.c.king car. Got nowhere to go. Can't even go back to selling dope on Brighton seafront, or dresses to f.u.c.king academics. Like a rolling f.u.c.king stone. Why don't British Intelligence help you out? You can't do things without the Kid, can you? This is war, H'ard. Soppy b.o.l.l.o.c.ks has joined the struggle. You f.u.c.king better, too. You got two f.u.c.king choices: I'll lend you 500 and you f.u.c.k off, or, with a new pa.s.sport that the Kid'll give you, you handle these two deals from Kabul and Lebalon, or whatever the f.u.c.k that place is called, that Soppy b.o.l.l.o.c.ks told me you and him are in the middle of.'

'What you mean by handle?'

'Soppy told me the Lebalon nordle is in London. Sell it. The Kabul nordle is in f.u.c.king n.a.z.i land. I've already blown up a British Army base in Monchengladbach, and the Baader-Meinhof gang eat out of my f.u.c.king hand. I want you to give the Kabul nordle to my man in Hamburg. He'll sell it.'

'How much do we all make?'

'We're partners, H'ard. Me, you, and Soppy. Equal shares after everyone else has been paid off.'

'That's fair enough for the dope in Hamburg if your guys are selling it. But why should you get anything from the Lebanese deal?'

'Soppy's already agreed, H'ard.'

We picked up my belongings from the wrecked car and drove to McCann's Drogheda hideout. The false Irish pa.s.sport took a few days, during which time McCann constantly berated me for incompetence. It looked perfect and was in the name of Peter Hughes.

'Is this a real person, Jim?'

'Peter Hughes is f.u.c.king real all right. He's a member of the Provos, and he's interned by the Brits.'

'In that case, it doesn't seem to be a particularly good idea for me to pretend to be Mr Hughes,' I said.

'Well, the cops are not f.u.c.king looking for him. He's in Long Kesh, and they f.u.c.king know that. They're looking for you, H'ard. Think, you stupid Welsh c.u.n.t.'

McCann took me to the airport.

'Let me give you some advice, H'ard. Never fly to where you're really going. Do the last bit by train, bus, or car. See, there's an Aer Lingus flight to Brussels. Go on it, then take a train to Hamburg.'

On my arrival in Brussels, the Immigration Officer looked carefully at my Peter Hughes pa.s.sport. He looked up.

'Howard?' he asked.

I froze. I'd been found out. But the Immigration Officer was smiling. Then I realised he was merely making a joking reference to billionaire Howard Hughes.

'You have a famous name, Mr Hughes.'

After several hours on the train, I checked into the Atlantic Hotel, Hamburg, where I was meant to stay until McCann called with his friend's whereabouts. I had the keys to the car and garage. Meanwhile, Marty Langford had checked into the International Hotel, Earls Court, London, with a carload of Lebanese hashish in the hotel car park. Charlie Weatherley was going to sell it. I called Marty. He wasn't in his room. I left my number with reception. I called again after a while. Someone else answered the phone in his room.

'Could I please speak to Marty?' I asked.

'Yes, this is Marty, go ahead.'

The voice wasn't remotely like Marty's.

'This is Marty. Who are you?'

I put the phone down and rang again.

'Could you put me through to Mr Langford's room, please?'

'h.e.l.lo, h.e.l.lo, this is Marty speaking.'

It was now obvious to me what had happened. Marty had been busted, and the police were in his room finding out what they could. I had stupidly left my hotel number in Hamburg with the receptionist at the International Hotel, Earls Court. It was time to check out and scarper.

On the flight schedule board at Hamburg airport there were two flights leaving almost immediately, one to Helsinki and one to Paris. I couldn't remember in which country Helsinki was situated, so I bought a ticket for the Paris flight. At Paris I was able to get a flight to Barcelona, and from there to Ibiza. By the time I landed, I had a heavy fever. For the next two days, I stumbled around Rosie's primitive finca finca deliriously searching for a telephone and a toilet. Rosie ignored me. When I recovered, I went straight to Ibiza airport and called Marty's, Weatherley's, and a host of other London numbers. No answer. I called McCann's in Drogheda. No answer. I caught the next flight to Amsterdam and went to Arend's flat. I called McCann's again. deliriously searching for a telephone and a toilet. Rosie ignored me. When I recovered, I went straight to Ibiza airport and called Marty's, Weatherley's, and a host of other London numbers. No answer. I called McCann's in Drogheda. No answer. I caught the next flight to Amsterdam and went to Arend's flat. I called McCann's again.

'Don't you ever call this f.u.c.king number or show your f.u.c.king face in my country again. My Anne is in prison because of your f.u.c.k-ups. She's with those f.u.c.king n.a.z.is, man. Marty and his two friends are over here. I've given them sanctuary. You promised them riches and gave them f.u.c.king ashes, you Welsh c.u.n.t.'

The torrent continued. I was able to piece together what had happened. Charlie Weatherley had gone to Marty's rooms to get a sample of the Lebanese. He was stopped by a hotel security man on the way out, and when asked which room he had come from, gave Marty's. The security man hauled Charlie up to Marty's room to check. Marty, thinking that Charlie must have been busted, denied all knowledge of him. Marty panicked, packed his clothes, left his room, left the carload of Lebanese, and fled to Ireland, taking the rest of the Tafia with him. McCann had no idea what had happened to me. He sent his girlfriend, Anne McNulty, and a Dutchman to Hamburg to pick up the car from the lock-up garage with the spare keys that Graham had. They got busted by the Hamburg police.

'Jim, I'm genuinely sorry about Anne. Is there anything I can do?'

'I don't need your f.u.c.king help. I've already personally declared war on those f.u.c.king n.a.z.is. They know what the Kid's capable of. Unless they want a f.u.c.king reminder of World War II, they'd better let Anne go.'

I called up Ernie. He said he'd come over to see me in Amsterdam during the next few days. The Paradiso, Amsterdam's first legal joint-smoking cafe, had just opened. I was beginning to like the city with its pretty ca.n.a.ls, hooker window displays, and liberal dope-smoking policy. Perhaps I should settle here. One evening, I went to the Oxhooft, a night-club, and ran into Lebanese Joe.

'Hey, Howard, man, it's good to see you. What are you doing here?'

'I might be living here from now on.'

'Same as me, man. It's a cool place. Give me your number. Here, have a smoke.' He put a piece of Lebanese hashish in my top pocket.

Ernie arrived and checked in under a false name at the Okura Hotel. I told him my tales of woe.

'Hey, don't worry. We're going to do something from this Amsterdam place real soon, even if we go back to our old way of taking new European cars to the States. It made me a bunch of money, I'll tell you. Here's $100,000. Start buying. And here's a sole of Afghani. I know there ain't nothing good to smoke in Europe. Can I give you a lift anywhere? I got a rent-a-car.'

'Yes please, Ernie. I think I'll open up a bank deposit box to put this money in and then get to Arend's.'

Ernie drove me to the Algemene Bank Nederland. I opened up a safe-deposit box in the name of Peter Hughes and placed the $100,000 and the Irish Peter Hughes pa.s.sport inside. Arend was overjoyed at the idea of buying some more hashish in Amsterdam. We made a pipe out of Ernie's Afghan. There was heavy knocking on the door. It burst open, and six Dutch police swarmed through the flat. I got up to leave.

'I don't live here. I have an appointment. I have to go,' I stammered.

One of the police stopped me and searched me. He found the piece of hashish Lebanese Joe had given me. He asked for my pa.s.sport. I still had my own. I gave it to him.

'Are you Dennis Howard Marks?'

'Yes, I am.'

'We are arresting you and will now take you to the police station.'

Three of them marched me downstairs and put me into the back seat of a car before climbing in. At the police station, they went through my pockets again and took everything away. They took down my particulars and led me towards the cells. Mick Jagger was singing Angie Angie on the police-station radio. I was busted. on the police-station radio. I was busted.

Six.

ALBI.

In April 1974, almost six months later, I was sitting in a flat near the top of a high-rise building in the Isle of Dogs, overlooking the River Thames and Greenwich naval station. I was skipping bail. Over my Amsterdam lawyer's protests, the Dutch police had put me aboard a BEA flight to Heathrow. Her Majesty's Customs and Excise Officers came on the plane at Heathrow and took me to Snowhill Police Station, where I was charged under the hitherto unenforced Section 20 of the Misuse of Drugs Act, 1971, with a.s.sisting in the United Kingdom in the commission of a United States drug offence. Californian James Gater, who had been arrested at Heathrow airport a couple of days before my arrest, and a few of James Morris's workers were my co-defendants. After three uneventful weeks in Her Majesty's Prison, Brixton, I was granted bail for sureties totalling 50,000. On bail, I lived with Rosie and the children at 46, Leckford Road, Oxford, premises formerly rented and occupied by William Jefferson Clinton, who was to become the President of the United States. The evidence against me was strong, partly because I had been daft enough to admit to Her Majesty's Customs and Excise my doc.u.mented illegal activities in Holland in the hope that my offence would be treated as a Dutch rather than a British one. That strategy had backfired, and my solicitor, Bernard Simons, was certain I would get convicted and was not too optimistic of my getting less than three years in prison.

The East End flat belonged to Dai, my old schoolteaching companion. Thames Valley Police must obviously have made some enquiries into my whereabouts, but no one seemed to be getting very excited. I had written a note to Bernard Simons so that everyone could know that nothing untoward had happened. I had just skipped bail. The trial had started without me the previous day, May 1st, 1974. My co-defendants pleaded guilty and got sentences ranging from six months to four years. Ernie had promised to pay off any sureties demanded by the judge as the result of my skipping bail. He felt indebted to me because at the time of my arrest in Amsterdam I was the only person in the world who knew his whereabouts, and I had not disclosed them to the authorities. I was biding my time.

Dai had woken me up early before going to school.

'Howard, you've been on the news.'

'What! What did it say?'

'Well, there were only three headlines: one about Prime Minister Harold Wilson, one about President Nixon, and one about you. I couldn't take it all in. Something about MI6 and the IRA. I'll go out and get the newspapers.'

The Daily Mirror Daily Mirror's entire front page was devoted to a story about me headlined WHERE IS MR MARKS?, describing how I was an MI6 agent, with arrest warrants out for me in seven countries, who had been kidnapped, beaten up, told to keep my mouth shut, and persuaded to become an IRA sympathiser. There was no clue as to how the Daily Mirror Daily Mirror had got hold of the information that I had worked for MI6. There were general statements claiming that I had told some friends I was a spy. In fact I had told only Rosie, my parents, and McCann. Rosie, when interviewed by the press, categorically stated there was no connection between me and the IRA or the security services. Her Majesty's Customs and Excise had been made aware of my MI6 involvement: Mac's telephone number had appeared in the telephone records of an Amsterdam hotel, and I had successfully used my promise of not mentioning MI6 in court as a lever to secure bail. HM Customs would have been unlikely to spill all to a had got hold of the information that I had worked for MI6. There were general statements claiming that I had told some friends I was a spy. In fact I had told only Rosie, my parents, and McCann. Rosie, when interviewed by the press, categorically stated there was no connection between me and the IRA or the security services. Her Majesty's Customs and Excise had been made aware of my MI6 involvement: Mac's telephone number had appeared in the telephone records of an Amsterdam hotel, and I had successfully used my promise of not mentioning MI6 in court as a lever to secure bail. HM Customs would have been unlikely to spill all to a Daily Mirror Daily Mirror reporter. The reporter. The Daily Mail Daily Mail's front-page headline was YARD FEAR NEW IRA ABDUCTION, and the text claimed that I had last been seen in the company of two Customs Officers and that police were now investigating the possibility that I had been executed by the IRA. Later the same day, Thames Valley Police vehemently denied that I had been an MI6 agent spying on the IRA, and Bernard Simons kept saying he'd heard from me, and that I was not being held against my will. But the media took no notice. That was too boring. In fairness, the Daily Mirror Daily Mirror felt obliged at least to present an alternative theory: the next day's front page was headlined THE INFORMER, and the report stated that I had been kidnapped by Mafia drug smugglers to prevent me from appearing at the Old Bailey and gra.s.sing them up. Other reports suggested I had staged my own kidnap. The public, though, preferred the spy/IRA theory, and that's what the television and radio news stations gave them. Who were my enemies? the police because they were being forced to look for me everywhere, the IRA because I'd smuggled dope, the Mafia because they thought I was going to talk about them, Her Majesty's Customs and Excise because I didn't turn up to get my conviction, Her Majesty's Secret Service for my switching of loyalties, or the media for reasons I didn't understand? Did it matter? All I had intended to do was change my appearance and carry on scamming. I already had a bit of a moustache. All this off-the-wall publicity would just make me more careful. Still, it all felt rather unreal and occasionally scary. felt obliged at least to present an alternative theory: the next day's front page was headlined THE INFORMER, and the report stated that I had been kidnapped by Mafia drug smugglers to prevent me from appearing at the Old Bailey and gra.s.sing them up. Other reports suggested I had staged my own kidnap. The public, though, preferred the spy/IRA theory, and that's what the television and radio news stations gave them. Who were my enemies? the police because they were being forced to look for me everywhere, the IRA because I'd smuggled dope, the Mafia because they thought I was going to talk about them, Her Majesty's Customs and Excise because I didn't turn up to get my conviction, Her Majesty's Secret Service for my switching of loyalties, or the media for reasons I didn't understand? Did it matter? All I had intended to do was change my appearance and carry on scamming. I already had a bit of a moustache. All this off-the-wall publicity would just make me more careful. Still, it all felt rather unreal and occasionally scary.

The media circus stopped as suddenly as it had begun. The Old Bailey trial judge deferred any decision regarding the estreatment of the bail sureties. I might have been abducted, he said, and therefore could not be termed an absconder. My main duty was to ensure that my family knew for certain that I was unharmed. Dai was not keen on my using his telephone for any purpose, and I a.s.sumed that most of my family's telephones were tapped as a result of the nation-wide search for me. Through circuitous and complex manoeuvres involving conversations with my sister in Wales, I was able to have clandestine meetings with Rosie, Myfanwy, and my parents while I continued perfecting my disguise. After about two months, I looked very different and felt no fear walking the streets. Each morning, I would buy a few newspapers and have a coffee at a dock-workers' cafe. One hot early July morning, I was at the newsagent's and saw a Daily Mirror Daily Mirror front-page headline, THE LONG SILENCE OF MR MYSTERY. Underneath was a photograph of me. I bought a copy. The report stated that Thames Valley Police had called off the search for me and that my disappearance had been the subject of discussion in the Houses of Parliament. Another blaze of publicity followed in the front-page headline, THE LONG SILENCE OF MR MYSTERY. Underneath was a photograph of me. I bought a copy. The report stated that Thames Valley Police had called off the search for me and that my disappearance had been the subject of discussion in the Houses of Parliament. Another blaze of publicity followed in the Daily Mirror Daily Mirror's wake.

'You need another name and more disguise,' said Dai. 'Everyone's talking about you on the Tube. I'm not calling you Howard any more. And I'm not calling you Mr Mystery either.'

'Call me Albi,' I said, partly in deference to my old friend Albert Hanc.o.c.k and partly because it was an anagram of bail.

'All right,' said Dai. 'Why don't you get yourself a pair of gla.s.ses?'

'From whom?'

'I think they're called opticians, Albi.'

'But there's nothing wrong with my eyes, Dai. They won't give me a pair.'

'You walk into a dentist; he'll say you've got bad teeth. You walk into an optician, and he'll say you need gla.s.ses. That's the way they make money. Anyway, I read the other day that the stuff you keep smoking causes long sight. Why don't you smoke a load and go to an optician?'

Dai had probably read one of those absurd scare stories of marijuana causing just about everything from sterility to nymphomania. But there might be something to it. I knew marijuana had some effect on intraocular pressure. I smoked several joints and had my eyes tested. I needed gla.s.ses, and a special pair was made. They dramatically changed my appearance, but made things rather blurry, except when I was stoned.

Intermittent press speculation on my whereabouts continued for over a month. The FBI feared for my life. A West Country man, of whom I'd never heard, confessed to murdering me and burying me beneath a motorway bridge near Bristol.

'You'll have to go, Albi. This is driving me, Jane, and Sian nuts.'

'Okay, Dai. I'm sorry. I never thought I'd be staying here this long, and I never thought all this madness would happen.'

'Why don't you leave the country?'

'I haven't got a pa.s.sport, Dai. I don't know where to start.'

'Take mine.'

Normally, Dai and I looked a bit like each other. We were tall, dark, blue-eyed, clean-shaven, and heavily featured. Now, with my moustache and stoned gla.s.ses, we didn't, but the photograph could easily be changed; the Foreign and Commonwealth Office embossed stamp covered just a minute part of the corner. Its absence on the replacement photograph would not be noticed. Dai gave me his driving licence as well. He was anxious that nothing hold me up.

I decided to go to Italy. There were two main reasons. A large Winnebago motorised caravan lay in a camping site in Genova. I had bought it a year previously for Eric to use, had he landed the Lebanese in Italy rather than made it available to Greek sponge fishermen. Living in it appealed to me. Also, my sister was about to start a teaching course in Padova, so I had an easy way of keeping in touch with the family. Apart from the Winnebago, my a.s.sets were about 5,000 cash. Everything else had gone. While I was on bail, Ernie had sent someone to Amsterdam to try to get the $100,000 and the Peter Hughes pa.s.sport from the safedeposit box in Algemene Bank Nederland, but the cupboard was bare. The authorities had got there first. The guy Ernie had sent, Burton Moldese, apparently had some Los Angeles Mafia connections, and I'm sure that this is what gave rise to the Daily Mirror Daily Mirror's Mafia theory. Ernie would lend me some money, I was sure, particularly if, as seemed increasingly likely, there would be no estreatment of bail sureties. I had a mailing address for Ernie, but was unsure how he would have reacted to all the weird publicity. I'd contact him when everything was settled.

Remembering McCann's advice, I didn't fly directly to Italy. I took a ferry to Denmark and caught a flight from Copenhagen to Genova. The pa.s.sport stood up. The Winnebago started first time, and I cruised around the camping sites of the Italian Riviera. I stopped wearing my gla.s.ses and began a period of debauched promiscuity, driving up and down Italian roads picking up female hitchhikers. The Winnebago had a kitchen, sitting room, shower, loud stereo, and comfortably slept six. I would usually pick up just one hitch-hiker, but occasionally as many as fifteen or sixteen. From Como to Napoli, the autostradas became my home. I had to pay for petrol, but dope, s.e.x, food, and drink seemed to be free.

Rosie brought out Myfanwy to see me for a couple of weeks. They had now sold the Yarnton cottage and, together with Julian Peto and his family, had bought a large house at Northleigh, outside Oxford. I kept in touch with Rosie through f.a.n.n.y Hill. In September, I called Rosie at f.a.n.n.y's and mentioned that my parents were hoping to come out to see me. It later emerged that this conversation had been overheard on another extension by Raymond Carr, Master of St Anthony's College, who was still having an affair with f.a.n.n.y. It is not certain that Raymond Carr pa.s.sed on this information to the authorities, but it is likely. My parents did come out and shared with my sister and me a two-week holiday touring Northern Italy in the Winnebago.

After they left, I hung around at a camp site in Padova. My sister came to see me in a panic. The Daily Mirror Daily Mirror were trying to interview her. They knew I was in Italy and knew my parents had been to see me. I had to a.s.sume the authorities also knew. Where could I go now? I had almost no money. The police would not be looking for me in England. That would be the last place they'd expect to find me, and there I could find at least a floor to sleep on. were trying to interview her. They knew I was in Italy and knew my parents had been to see me. I had to a.s.sume the authorities also knew. Where could I go now? I had almost no money. The police would not be looking for me in England. That would be the last place they'd expect to find me, and there I could find at least a floor to sleep on.

On October 28th, 1974, I drove the Winnebago to the Genova campsite I had collected it from three months earlier. I put yet another photograph in Dai's pa.s.sport and booked a seat on a British Caledonian flight to Gatwick.

On arrival at Genova airport, I had several gla.s.ses of grappa grappa before pa.s.sing uneventfully through the pa.s.sport check, and settled down to some serious drinking in the departure lounge. At the duty-free shop, I bought some cigarettes and a few bottles of before pa.s.sing uneventfully through the pa.s.sport check, and settled down to some serious drinking in the departure lounge. At the duty-free shop, I bought some cigarettes and a few bottles of sambuca negra sambuca negra. During the flight I ordered several more drinks and even began drinking from the sambuca negra sambuca negra bottles. Newspapers were distributed, and I took a copy of the bottles. Newspapers were distributed, and I took a copy of the Daily Mirror Daily Mirror. On the front page was a photograph of me under a blazing headline HE'S ALIVE. The article was several pages long and stated that Mr Mystery was living as a guest of the Mafia in Padova. Mr Mystery's hideout was known only to the Mafia and my sister. Mr Mystery was living undercover as a student, shielded and protected by Mafia gangsters. The aeroplane was full of people reading this exclusive. Ably a.s.sisted by the sambuca negra sambuca negra, I was again losing touch with reality. By the time we disembarked, I was giggling uncontrollably and cannot even remember any confrontation with Immigration or Customs. I followed the pa.s.sengers through to Gatwick railway station and got on a train to Victoria. I was still drinking sambuca negra sambuca negra when the train arrived. I took a Tube to Paddington and, following my drunken homing instinct, took a train to Oxford, arriving about 9 p.m. I walked from Oxford railway station to the police station in St Aldate's. When I got there I was extremely confused. I could not bring myself to believe that the last six months had actually happened. I wanted to rewind my life back to when I was signing on for bail in Oxford. I had understood everything until then. A policeman walked out of the station. I asked him how I could get a bus to Northleigh. He said it was too late. I would have to take a taxi. I went into a telephone box to call Rosie at Northleigh. No reply. I walked to Leckford Road, where I had last been seen by the sane world. The pub around the corner, the Victoria Arms, one that I and friends of mine had often frequented, was still there. I walked in. There was a deathly silence. Almost everyone recognised me. Julian Peto was there and exploded into helpless laughter. I asked where Rosie was. She and Myfanwy were at a party, to which he was now going himself. Rosie and Myfanwy had left by the time we arrived. I drank some punch and smoked some joints. Julian and I drove to Northleigh. Rosie was in a state of shock. Chief Superintendent Philip Fairweather of the Thames Valley Police, the man in charge of investigating my disappearance, had just left. Rosie put me to bed. The next morning's news reported that Mohammed Ali had regained the world heavyweight championship from George Foreman and that an Old Bailey judge had decided not to forfeit any money from those who had stood bail for me, despite the police's knowing my whereabouts in Italy. Police inquiries were at an end. It was not in the 'public interest' to disclose where I was. But I was alive. At least I had stopped being a dead spy. when the train arrived. I took a Tube to Paddington and, following my drunken homing instinct, took a train to Oxford, arriving about 9 p.m. I walked from Oxford railway station to the police station in St Aldate's. When I got there I was extremely confused. I could not bring myself to believe that the last six months had actually happened. I wanted to rewind my life back to when I was signing on for bail in Oxford. I had understood everything until then. A policeman walked out of the station. I asked him how I could get a bus to Northleigh. He said it was too late. I would have to take a taxi. I went into a telephone box to call Rosie at Northleigh. No reply. I walked to Leckford Road, where I had last been seen by the sane world. The pub around the corner, the Victoria Arms, one that I and friends of mine had often frequented, was still there. I walked in. There was a deathly silence. Almost everyone recognised me. Julian Peto was there and exploded into helpless laughter. I asked where Rosie was. She and Myfanwy were at a party, to which he was now going himself. Rosie and Myfanwy had left by the time we arrived. I drank some punch and smoked some joints. Julian and I drove to Northleigh. Rosie was in a state of shock. Chief Superintendent Philip Fairweather of the Thames Valley Police, the man in charge of investigating my disappearance, had just left. Rosie put me to bed. The next morning's news reported that Mohammed Ali had regained the world heavyweight championship from George Foreman and that an Old Bailey judge had decided not to forfeit any money from those who had stood bail for me, despite the police's knowing my whereabouts in Italy. Police inquiries were at an end. It was not in the 'public interest' to disclose where I was. But I was alive. At least I had stopped being a dead spy.

Judy Lane, now all of nineteen, was paying a social visit to Northleigh. We hadn't forgotten each other, and I did not have to be persuaded to accept her kind offer of accommodation at her flat in Brighton. Judy had five brothers and sisters. At that point, I had only met Patrick, who for the last year had been living in self-imposed exile in the Dordogne, growing snails. Judy's mother had recently died from cancer, and her father had a new young girl-friend. All her brothers and sisters lived away from home or in boarding-school. The former family flat in Brighton was at Judy's disposal. Judy and I have been together ever since.

Again, the media furore died as quickly as it had begun. I felt safe in Judy's flat, and I began to contact old business friends including Johnny Martin, Anthony Woodhead, and Jarvis. With their help, I managed to sell the Winnebago and procure the release of the few thousand pounds I had deposited in the Swiss Bank Corporation the year before. I wrote to Ernie giving him Judy's phone number. The telephone rang in the middle of the night.

'Albi, it's for you,' said Judy.

'How you doin'? I thought you'd disappeared on me for good. So what's been happening? What you been doing?'

'Sorry, Ernie. With all the reports in the press about me, I thought you wouldn't want to know.'

'I never saw any of that. You'd be small fry here. Look, my girl-friend, Patty, is coming over to see you. She'll explain what I've got together these days. You need some money for living? She'll have $10,000 for you.'

Anthony Woodhead had procured a London penthouse flat overlooking Regent's Park at an extremely low rental. I unofficially rented it from him, and Judy and I took up residence there. Patty arrived and gave me Ernie's particulars and the codes we should use when talking over the phone. Ernie had a connection in New York's John F. Kennedy Airport who could clear through US Customs any consignment from anywhere, provided it was smell-proof and came in on Alitalia. The fee was 25% of the American wholesale price. Ernie had an old Brotherhood of Eternal Love a.s.sociate, Robert Crimball, who was able to export Thai sticks from Bangkok. His fee was 35% of the American wholesale price. 40% was available for middlemen. A couple of 1,000-kilo loads had already been successfully imported and sold. Did I know anyone in any dope-producing country other than Thailand who, for some money in advance and lots more afterwards, could export dope by air freight? If so, I could become extremely rich.

This was a once-in-a-lifetime offer, but I didn't know anyone who could do what was required. I had completely lost touch with Mohammed Durrani, Lebanese Sam, and Lebanese Joe. No one had any ideas except Jarvis. One of his friends had lived in Nepal for seven years. His name was John Denbigh, and he was known as Old John. Jarvis arranged a meeting for the three of us at his flat.

Old John was a very tall, mature, masculine version of Mick Jagger. He was dressed like a h.e.l.l's Angel and adorned with necklaces, chains, beads, amulets, and semi-precious stones. He was a walking bust. But Old John had never smoked a joint, and he bought and repaired stoves to make a living. His words were full of wisdom, but if one stopped concentrating on them for just one second, he seemed incoherent. Otherwise, his wisdom would seem to profoundly by-pa.s.s all forms of convention and plat.i.tude. Old John's street sense was second to none; the streets of Fulham had given him that, as well as his accent. He was a keen soccer player and cricketer. His father had been educated at Oxford University. Old John had absolute integrity and honesty. No one could wish for a better, closer, or more trusted friend.

Jarvis rolled joints and made cups of tea. Old John smoked Tom Thumb cigars and drank whisky. We discussed the Welsh and English rugby teams. Wales had just slaughtered England 204 at Cardiff Arms Park. After an hour, I managed to bring up Nepal.

'You must have had an interesting time there, John.'

'Interesting, yes, and they are superb people, the Nepalese, I promise you.'

'Do you get many foreigners going there these days?'

'Well, the thing is there was this Englishman who told me he had nine talents. I told him I just had one: I could throw him out of the window. And he went and painted the outside of his house with religion, and then went to live outside the house. Madness.'

I just about followed that one and took it to mean that Old John had a certain contempt for expatriate communities in the East. I had to get more to the point.

'Did Customs here give you a hard time when you came back?'