Mr Nice_ An Autobiography Part 25

I had no desire to repeat the experience of carrying a heavy suitcase full of money through the streets of Hong Kong. Nor did I wish to make countless trips with smaller bags of cash to safe-deposit boxes in hotels and banks. It was time to make fuller use of Stephen Ng at Credit Suisse. So far, all the money through that account had been moved through interbank transfers. I had not yet asked Stephen Ng to deal with any significant cash amounts. I called Credit Suisse early the next morning.

'h.e.l.lo, Mr Marks. What can I do for you?'

'Stephen, I'm about to receive a significant cash payment. I'm a bit nervous about carrying it to the bank, even in a taxi. What's the safest way of getting this to you?'

'How much cash are you expecting, Mr Marks?'

'Four hundred thousand dollars.'

'United States or Hong Kong dollars?'

'United States.'

'Mmm, a considerable amount. When you are in possession of the cash, call me and I will send two security couriers to meet you and pick it up. I will credit it to your account. There will be a bank charge of 1%.'

'Thanks, Stephen.'

'You are welcome, Mr Marks.'

Keeping on our room at the Shangri-La, I checked into the Regal Meridien. Gerry brought the suitcase down, and I asked him to stay. I called Stephen Ng. Half an hour later, two Chinese gentlemen arrived. Without checking the contents, they picked up the suitcase, gave me a postage-stamp-sized piece of paper with a Chinese character written on it, and left.

'Those guys friends of yours?' asked Gerry.

'I've never seen them before in my life.'

'Whaw, man, you're something else, buddy. You let two gooks you don't know take away all my money without counting it in exchange for a sc.r.a.p of paper with a hieroglyph on it. Ernie said you operated kinda unconventional, but this is too much.'

I showed Gerry round the night-spots of Hong Kong. He fell in love with the place and with every hooker he met. Judy showed Wyvonna round the shopping malls. They left for Los Angeles. Judy, the children, and I went to Karachi. We were met by George and a.s.sumpta. They were driving a yellow car sporting a bright red, white, and blue logo for the International Language School, Karachi. We stayed in a house they'd rented. I met Malik.

'D. H. Marks, why are you bothering again with Americans? They are crazy peoples. We can be millionaires in paper-mill business, inshallah inshallah. The Pakistan Government has already agreed to finance Mehar Paper Mills. There is also possibility that Hyundai from Korea will be involved. We can make handsome kickback. If we do mother-business, let us do with British or this Australian man you speak of, not with crazy peoples with spy-planes that have heart attack.'

'I suppose you think the stamp is a crazy idea.'

'No, D. H. Marks, I like stamp idea. It is good for Afghanistan and good for mother-business. And private boat is child play here in Pakistan. Every day they are doing.'

'So, will you do it?'

'If this is your wish, D. H. Marks, I will, inshallah inshallah.'

'You don't mind if an American comes here to inspect the load before it leaves?'

'That is up to you. My commitment is to you, not to any American. You are most welcome to accompany me to NWFP to my tribe's hashish factory near Peshawar in Khyber Pa.s.s. You can choose quality. You can make inspection. But no American can go there. Even you will have to pretend to be Pakistani. I will arrange. If you are satisfied, I will bring hashish to Karachi and put in warehouse. Then, if you want, you can show to American. That is your affair.'

'Can you make sure it's absolutely the best quality?'

'D. H. Marks, the very best quality is too expensive, even in Khyber Pa.s.s. And you will never see outside of NWFP. I will explain you. When plant first flowers, top is cut and chopped and put into white goatskin in ground. This is first quality, but amount is very small. Second flower is cut and put into brown goatskin. This is second quality, and amount is much bigger. Third flower is cut and put into black goatskin. This is third quality, and amount is very big. When we make hashish we use many bags third quality, some second, and one or two first. Price of first quality is maybe one hundred times that of third quality. For $2 million payment for ten tons, we can maybe have 5% first quality, 20% second quality, and 75% third quality. Usually it is only 3% first quality, so you will have excellent product. But you will try it; you will know.

'And, D. H. Marks, Americans must not bring boat into the Pakistan. They will do crazy things and get busted. My peoples will take to them. They must wait offsh.o.r.e. It will be easy matter for them.'

'When do we go to the Khyber Pa.s.s?'

'I will go immediately. We will be honoured to receive your visit in one or two weeks. Please give some money to my friend in BCCI. It is up to you how much. And before you leave, please give me pa.s.sport photograph. Just wear open-neck casual shirt. No jacket or tie. You will now be member of my tribe, the Afridi. That's what pa.s.sport will say.'

Hobbs hated Karachi and loathed being a school caretaker. Although his eyes perked up at my idea of getting him and his friends some false pa.s.sports to marry some more Hong Kong hookers, he was more keen on getting back to Europe.

I had been impressed with Ernie's LAPD telephone setup. A pity it had been compromised. I wanted a similar set-up. It didn't matter where in the world it was based as long as the country had a reasonably efficient telephone service. I could give out one phone number to all my contacts. It would be permanently manned by someone trustworthy like Hobbs who, if instructed by me, could transfer the call to wherever I happened to be. Anyone could get hold of me if I wanted him or her to, but no one other than Hobbs would know where I was. I had more control over who talked to me, and I was less likely to get busted.

I asked Hobbs where in the world he'd most like to be. He said Amsterdam. Within a week Hobbs had obtained a flat with two separate telephone lines and the requisite telephonic gadgetry. Within two weeks the Dutch police had installed a telephone tap, but we didn't know that. I've learned with hindsight that it is really dumb to allow all covert calls to be routed through any one location. If the cops are on to it, they get a lot of information.

After flying to Hong Kong, picking up some money from Gerry's wife, Wyvonna, and giving it to Malik's friend in BCCI, I returned to Karachi. Malik gave me a Pakistani pa.s.sport bearing some unp.r.o.nounceable name and my photograph. Malik and I flew PIA to Islamabad. A car met us and took us to Flashman's Hotel in Rawalpindi. In the cloakroom I changed into typical Afridi tribesman's garb and smoked a quick, but powerful, joint. The people of the NWFP are of all shapes, sizes, and colours. Neither blond hair nor blue eyes are that unusual. Wear the right clothes and appear a little weather-beaten and stoned, don't say a word, and you'll pa.s.s as a native. Another driver in another car came and picked us up. We drove for several hours through the NWFP until we came to Peshawar, where we stopped for a cup of tea in the middle of an arms bazaar, which also specialised in the repair of ghetto-blasters and air-conditioning units. A couple of traders came up and shook Malik's hand. Driving north-west toward the Khyber Pa.s.s, we pa.s.sed through Landi Khotal and took a small road off the so-called highway. A Pakistani policeman stopped us at a primitive border post and examined our pa.s.sports. No words were exchanged. A hundred yards later we came across another border post. This was manned by fierce, heavily armed Afridi. Each one of them knew Malik. We were transferred to a jeep and tore off up a mountain track.

'Are we in Afghanistan now?' I asked Malik.

'If you look at atlas in London bookshop, D. H. Marks, it will say you are in Afghanistan. But really there is no border. Only in Western mind is border. These Afridi peoples have lived in mountains here for centuries. The mountains are theirs. They know nothing of countries and borders. They have been called many different names by West: Indians, Afghans, Pakistanis, and even British. But this is bulls.h.i.t to them. They have always been Afridi. We are Afridi, both sides of mountains which you call AfghanistanPakistan border.'

Eventually we came to a large wooden fort, the inside of which was devoted to the manufacture of hashish. Goatskins were piled up everywhere. I wondered which quality went into skins that were both black and white. At the centre of the fort was a line of what appeared to be wooden scaffolds. A very old white-bearded man had walked beside us as we drove in. We stopped by the scaffolds. The old man embraced Malik. Both men cried openly.

The scaffolds were in fact very basic six-feet-high cantilevers. On one end of the see-saw was a large, almost perfectly spherical boulder, which was held up about ten feet above ground by the weight of two Afridi tribesmen holding down the sea-saw's other end. Directly underneath the threatening boulder was a large hole in which a fire raged. Almost covering the hole was an enormous cooking pan, like that used to prepare a giant paella. The pan was filled with the contents of the goatskins. Every ten seconds, the two Afridi tribesmen would release their end of the cantilever. The boulder came crashing down on the paella pan, pulverising the resinous chopped plant tops, and was then quickly returned to its mid-air vantage position. Slowly, but noticeably, the pan became full of a piping hot, dark brown goo. This change in the molecular structure enabled the plant's full psychoactive potential to be realised. Smoking the stuff straight out of a goatskin didn't work. When the goo became thin enough, it was placed in wooden moulds, each shaped to hold approximately half a kilo. Gerry's designer stamp was embossed on each slab as the goo was hardening. The slab contracted as it cooled and almost jumped out of the mould. Eight thousand slabs had been prepared. There were twelve thousand more to go.

Workers' living quarters bordered the inside of the fort's walls. The old man took us to his hut. It was a very humble abode. The only evidence of the twentieth century was a noisy air-conditioning unit with generator. In the smaller of two rooms, eight thousand slabs gave off their beautiful, warm aroma. They were chilling. A sample had been placed in a hookah pipe, which was now ceremoniously offered to me.

It was rather a pointless exercise. Between the joint in Rawalpindi, the majesty of the mountains, the high alt.i.tude, the culture shock, and the reverse Clinton phenomenon of inhaling without smoking the paella-pan emissions, I was going to be stoned whatever I smoked. Still, maybe I could get more stoned, and one can tell a lot from the taste. I sucked in a couple of lungfuls. I got more stoned and I liked the taste. All eyes were on me. Should I say it's fantastic or say it's not bad? Say it's worth every penny of $2 million, or say it's camel s.h.i.t and they'd better come up with better? I took out a packet of Rizlas and asked if I could have a little to roll a joint. I explained that I was more used to smoking it that way and could make a more accurate quality a.s.sessment. I smoked the joint and held out my hand to Malik.

'You are satisfied, D. H. Marks?'

'Very.'

A lamb had been slaughtered in my honour. There were three courses. The first was lamb kidney chunks wrapped in crispy fat. The second was roast lamb. The third was a plate of lamb fat. Pakistani Coca-Cola washed it down.

On the drive back to Landi Khotal, I asked Malik whether or not the people in the hash factory knew that hashish was illegal in the West.

'They would not know meaning of question. They are doing honourable business. The only law here is law of nature, not law of rich men. By law of nature, I do not mean law of jungle, I mean like your Ten Commandments.'

'What if Philip Morris or John Player came here and said you had to sell to them from now on?'

'They would not get past gate with policeman. Believe me, D. H. Marks, you are first man who is not Afridi to come to this hashish factory. Afridi only deal with people they know. It is D. H. Marks, not John Player or Philip Morris, they will sell to.'

I had a quiet reverie of fantasy and megalomania.

Judy had seen enough of Karachi. The place was filthy, Francesca had been very ill indeed, and there was little to do. They left for London. I stayed in Karachi a week or so attending to the affairs of the language school and turning up for the odd paper-mill meeting, at which I was totally redundant. The school was doing really well, attracting not only local Pakistanis but also staff from foreign Emba.s.sies and their families. In Karachi it wasn't just the American and British Emba.s.sies that had a 'drug man' on their staff. The Dutch Emba.s.sy was another. The wife of their 'drug man' was being taught English by George and a.s.sumpta. This amused me. The expatriate community here would clearly be quite small. I asked a.s.sumpta if she'd come across Michael Stephenson. She'd seen him once or twice but knew his wife far better. They met on a regular basis. I asked if she'd come across Harlan Lee Bowe.

Apparently he could be found most nights in the American Club, one of the very few places in Pakistan allowed to serve alcohol, sitting alone at a corner table, drinking and scowling. She and George had often seen him. They went there quite often as the manager's son attended the school.

The three of us entered the American Club. All the tables were empty. The barman made a fuss of us and gave us complimentary drinks. DEA Agent Harlan Lee Bowe walked in, sat at his corner table, took a sip from his drink, and scowled at us. He had the stamp of a DEA agent: overweight with large moustache. We started making loud anti-American comments. He called the waiter to his table, and they muttered to each other. The waiter came to us. Bowe had complained we weren't even American, let alone members. The waiter explained we were guests of the management. We burst out laughing. Bowe left, fuming.

I had to go back to Hong Kong to pick up some money being sent over by Gerry. I would have to overnight in Bangkok. There are worse fates. Phil was out of the country, so I checked into the Bangkok Peninsula, which is walking distance from the Erawan Buddha. It was a Friday. Sompop was there.

'Sawabdee, Kuhn Marks, sawabdee sawabdee, Kuhn Marks. I have Buddha for you. Please wear always.'

He gave me what looked like an antique bronze coin, but it clearly wasn't currency.

'Wear always, Kuhn Marks, except when with woman or when in toilet or when in bath, mai dee mai dee. Wear in sea or lake is okay, dee mak mak dee mak mak. No harm come to you, Kuhn Marks. You have good luck. Buddha look after you. Tomorrow you buy gold chain for Buddha. Wear always, Kuhn Marks.'

'Ka poon kap, Sompop, thank you. How is the tuktuk tuktuk going?' going?'

'Ah, Kuhn Marks, Sompop no more have tuktuk tuktuk. You give money. I buy flower-seller business. You number one, Kuhn Marks.'

Sompop now had a gang of flower sellers hawking their wares to free-spending businessmen having a night of drinking and f.u.c.king in Patpong. As a means of intelligence-gathering, these would be second to none. I tried him out.

'Sompop, have you seen my friend, the one I was with when I first met you?'

'You mean Kuhn Phil. I know him but he no recognise me. Two night ago, him drink in Kings Castle with big black fahlang fahlang and and fahlang fahlang from Amsterdam. Last night he leave for Australia.' from Amsterdam. Last night he leave for Australia.'

So Mickey Williams had somehow got hold of Phil, and the Dutch air-freight scam had, presumably, been resurrected, this time without me. I couldn't really complain. I didn't own Phil, and it wasn't I who had introduced him to Mickey. But I was glad to know what was going on. Sompop was proving most useful.

At a Bangkok's jeweller's I bought a gold chain and also set the Buddha into a gold frame. I put it round my neck. I would abide by its rules.

At Hong Kong I met Daniel, Gerry's powerfully built boat skipper. An Alaskan crab boat had been bought. It was being prepared for its duties. Daniel gave me a few hundred thousand dollars. I gave it to Malik's friend in BCCI. Daniel also gave me a ghetto-blaster which had been modified into a short-wave radio transmitter/receiver. One could sit on a beach with it and communicate to the boat without attracting attention. Daniel wanted me to take it to Karachi. He said Gerry was on his way to London to see me.

A night in Hong Kong, drinking in Bottoms Up, was followed by another night in Bangkok, and then a day in Karachi. I put Dan's ghetto-blaster into a room in George and a.s.sumpta's house that had been set aside for my own use.

I flew to Zurich to meet Hobbs. I was still too nervous to go to Amsterdam. I owed them seven months of my life. Hobbs said he thought the Amsterdam telephone-switching system, through which the previous few months' travel, meeting, and banking arrangements had all been made, had been compromised. He couldn't put his finger on the problem. It was just a feeling he had. He looked extremely worried. I told him to close down the Amsterdam operation, give me a bunch of pa.s.sport photographs, and have a holiday in Bangkok. I told him how to contact Sompop.

In London, Gerry Wills, together with a friend of his, Ron Allen, had arrived before me. They'd brought some money. I'd asked John Denbigh and Jarvis to relieve them of the cash and take care of them until I got back. John and Jarvis both thought they had been observed during their meetings with Gerry and Ron. Another worry.

Ron Allen was from Chicago and was a major distributor of marijuana in the Midwest and Canada. Gerry wanted Ron to check the quality of the dope in Karachi. I couldn't see that as presenting any problem.

Jimmy Newton gave me a false pa.s.sport in the name of William Tetley. I gave him some money, orders for three false pa.s.sports, and six photographs of Hobbs.

Hong Kong International Travel Centre's Piccadilly office was officially opened by His Excellency Hu Ding-Yi, the Amba.s.sador for the People's Republic of China, and Madame Xie Heng, the Amba.s.sador's wife. His Excellency was introduced by Peter Brooke, the Member of Parliament for the area. Other guests included the Right Honourable Lord Beth.e.l.l, MEP, senior members of foreign Emba.s.sies, and Hong Kong Government officials. Over a hundred people from the travel industry were present. I had invited all my family and friends. They would be impressed and comforted by my legitimate business success. We were the tenth largest travel agency in Great Britain, and we were doing most of the ticketing to Hong Kong and China. My daughter Francesca presented the Amba.s.sador's wife with a bouquet of flowers.

Balendo had become very keen on exploiting Malik's relationship with Pakistan International Airlines to offer a cheap deal to China. He wanted to go to Pakistan and do some of his own travel research. I suggested he go immediately. I could use his company over there to lend credibility to my travel-agent cover. Visiting Karachi with two well-known American dope dealers, one needs all the front one can get.

Balendo, Gerry, Ron, and I flew separately to Karachi. I went first. I got drunk on the flight and reeled through Karachi airport looking for George and a.s.sumpta, whom I'd asked to meet me. They were nowhere to be seen. I thought they might be waiting in their car outside. I walked out into the open car park. I could see the yellow ILCK car about twenty yards away. George and a.s.sumpta were standing by its side, waving. To my left was a white car with three Caucasians inside. The driver looked like Harlan Lee Bowe. I drunkenly staggered up to the car. It was Bowe.

'You waiting for me?' I slurred.

The three stared at me in embarra.s.sed silence.

'Come on, admit it. You're waiting for me, aren't you?'

'Why do you think we are waiting for you?' one of the others said in a p.r.o.nounced Dutch accent. I guessed him to be Holland's 'drug man' in Pakistan.

'I'm expecting to be met. You're obviously waiting for someone, aren't you? Are you sure it's not me? Who are you waiting for? What are you doing here?'

'Look,' drawled Bowe, 'we are not here to meet you, okay. Who were you expecting to see?'

'Someone who fits your description.'

'His name?' asked Bowe.

What the h.e.l.l was I doing? It was definitely not cool to be having this drunken banter with the DEA and Dutch CRI while I was in the middle of the biggest deal I'd ever done from Pakistan. I wriggled out.

'Ah, there's the guy I'm meeting. Sorry.'

I walked over to the ILCK car and got inside.

Balendo was arriving the next day. At the arrivals hall, I was peculiarly pleased to catch sight of Her Majesty's Customs and Excise Officer Michael Stephenson furtively creeping around and whispering to Pakistani Immigration Officers. Let him see me meet Balendo. Let him see my impenetrable straight front. This would be fun.

Balendo did not emerge. Stephenson had disappeared. I gave it another hour, then asked an Immigration Officer if any more pa.s.sengers from London were still to come through. I was told there were always some delays. I called Malik. Aftab and Malik arrived within about forty minutes. Malik had checked the pa.s.senger list. Balendo was on it. Malik had rung up the Immigration Department. Balendo was being detained. No further information.

I found this hard to take. Why would Balendo get held? If this happened to my straightest contact, what would happen when Gerry and Ron arrived tomorrow? Should I stop them?

Malik went to the airport Immigration Office. He would have a friend or cousin who worked there. After a while he reappeared with three Pakistani Immigration Officers and Balendo. Immigration were maintaining there was some irregularity in Balendo's pa.s.sport. It was a British Hong Kong pa.s.sport, which as such did not ent.i.tle the bearer to quite the same range of privileges as a normal British pa.s.sport. However, as Malik had offered to sponsor Balendo, it would be all right for Balendo to spend his intended few days in Pakistan. Malik seemed content with the explanation. I wasn't. Perhaps simply because I'd noticed Stephenson.

George and a.s.sumpta had employed a secretary for the school. She was one of the very few Chinese living in Pakistan. Her mother, Ellie, ran an illegal Chinese restaurant which was very popular with the Europeans, almost a home from home.

We thought it would be a good idea to take Balendo, who was staying with us in George's house, for a meal. Some Cantonese noodles might help him recover from his immigration ordeal. Armed with a few bottles of wine, the four of us turned up at Ellie's. Sitting at a table were Bowe, the Dutch cop, and a few others. On the wall above them was a large poster advertising the International Language Centre, Karachi. They looked astonished to see Balendo. They got up and left. We had a good meal.

Malik and Aftab were waiting for us at George's house. The Immigration Department had just called Malik. Balendo had to go back in detention. Malik had arranged that Balendo be 'detained' at the Karachi airport hotel, but that was the best he could do. We drove Balendo to the hotel. Balendo apparently fitted the description of a wanted Chinese heroin trafficker and could not be officially let into the country until extensive enquiries had been made.

Something was clearly adrift. Balendo has an enormous raspberry birthmark covering the side of his face. There isn't another birthmark like it in the world.

The hotel was comfortable enough, but Balendo had seen enough of Karachi. He didn't feel he could recommend it as a stopover to China. He wanted to go home. Malik fixed it.

George and a.s.sumpta had made a number of friends in Karachi. One of them was Eddie, an American who was a medical consultant at the Aga Khan Hospital. He was away for a week and had garaged his car for safe-keeping at George's house. The afternoon after Balendo's arrival, I dressed up in my Afridi costume and drove Eddie's car to the airport. Gerry and Ron were arriving from London. They had flown via Amsterdam. I hung about in a crowd of Pakistanis waiting for their friends and families to arrive. Bowe and Stephenson, each wearing dark gla.s.ses, drove up in the same white car I'd seen previously and ran into the airport. They quickly returned, got into another car, a dark blue one, and drove off.

Gerry and Ron came through Customs and Immigration. They laughed at my outfit as we climbed into Eddie's car. I gave each of us a ready-rolled joint of our freshly made hashish. Blue fumes filled the car. I drove off in the direction of the city centre.

It wasn't long before the dark blue car appeared in the rear mirror. As a pedestrian I have no difficulty losing a tail. As a driver I do, particularly when I'm stoned. I couldn't think where to go. Bowe and Stephenson did not know I was driving this car. They were following Gerry and Ron, not me. There was no pressing reason to think they knew we were fellow scammers. I shouldn't go anywhere where I was known. But I only knew how to get to places where I was known. G.o.d, I was stoned.

I mustn't let Bowe and Stephenson get any information they don't already know. That's the key. I drove Eddie's car to the Aga Khan Hospital and parked in the car park. Ron turned down the radio.

'Whaw, this is some hash you got us, buddy. What do you think of it, Ron? You gotta sell it,' said Gerry.

'I'm stoned all right, guys, but I'd like to smoke some without tobacco, and without that f.u.c.king music. Man, is this place primitive. It's like Mexico. Howard, why are we parked in this hospital? You got an appointment or a sudden medical problem? Don't tell me this is where the dope's stashed.'

'Hey, that's real cool,' said Gerry, 'stashing it in a hospital. I told you, Ron, this Howard is something else. Do you have another joint, buddy? This one's kinda had it. Man, this is good gear.'

'The DEA were waiting for you at the airport here.'

'So f.u.c.king what?' said Ron. 'Those b.a.s.t.a.r.ds wait for us everywhere. They were always on our backs in Mexico. They don't know what we're doing here. They don't even know where we are right this minute.'

'Yeah, it would be a drag if they knew where our stash was,' commented Gerry.

'They followed us here from the airport. They're probably parked outside waiting for us to leave. The stash is nowhere near here.'

'Then why the f.u.c.k are we here?' asked Ron. 'Let's drive off, lose the tail, and go to the stash.'