Mr Nice_ An Autobiography Part 36

In 1973, a new banking business was opened in Sydney by Frank Nugan and Michael Hand. Frank Nugan was an Australian playboy whose family fruit business was centred in Australia's marijuana-growing region. Michael Nand was a New York CIA agent. He was a former Green Beret who had partic.i.p.ated in the CIA's ma.s.s a.s.sa.s.sination Phoenix Program in Vietnam. He had been an employee of Air America, the CIA-owned airline responsible during the Nixon era for taking tons of opium from the Golden Triangle to lucrative markets. The declared source of the new bank's funds was money invested in real estate by American soldiers taking a break from slaughtering Vietnamese women and children.

In 1977, a branch was opened in Chiang Mai, Thailand. Its office had connecting doors with the DEA's. In no time the bank expanded its interests to include financing Las Vegas casino projects, handling some of the Shah of Iran's fortune, dubious international arms dealing, and laundering the proceeds of opium and heroin traffic. The governing body of the bank was peppered with high-ranking US bra.s.s.

In 1980, Frank Nugan was found dead. He had either been murdered or performed a suicide requiring the skills of a professional acrobat. Michael Hand disappeared. The bank collapsed. A large chunk of the cream of America's military personnel had lost their money. The US Senate investigated the whole matter. The CIA gave sworn testimony in secret. The investigation closed.

Carl had once been wrongly accused of a.s.sa.s.sinating Frank Nugan. The Sunday Times Sunday Times had reported that Lord Moynihan was linked to Nugan-Hand Ltd. had reported that Lord Moynihan was linked to Nugan-Hand Ltd.

This was great. I could throw in all the exciting stuff that juries love to hear. I could maybe even resurrect a part of my MI6 mythology. I was just a gentle pot smuggler, doing my business in various parts of the non-American world and keeping an eye open for anything really evil to tell my Oxford chums at MI6. I used Gerry Wills to land a load of hashish in Australia and used Jacobi and Sunde to launder the proceeds. Australian currency controls were unbelievably stiff. Jacobi knew CIA agents who held vast cash h.o.a.rds in the United States and would happily exchange it for cash within Australia's borders. We had ways of getting cash out of the United States, so we would take it from there and pay all concerned. No dope ever saw America. I had given a full report of the affair to my non-existent MI6 superiors, who were most interested in the details of CIA agents holding suitcases of dollars. In a desperate attempt to cover up, the CIA/DEA, with the help of the Australian police, turned to their Nugan-Hand banking a.s.sociate Lord Moynihan and asked him to help them set me up. They were keen to convince the world that the dope was purely an American scam which had not involved the CIA's Australian money-laundering activities.

I was convinced this Australian defence could work. It wasn't even as bizarre as the successful Mexican secret agent defence. But did American juries have a sense of humour?

In 1989 summer heat began to stifle Alcala-Meco. I religiously adhered to my daily yoga sessions, worked on my defence, smoked joints, and walked the patio patio with John Parry. Roger was working on an escape plan. My fight against extradition was now totally in the hands of Gustavo and the courts. A plethora of time-consuming issues was before the Audiencia Nacional's appeals division, the slowmoving Spanish Supreme Court, and the almost stationary Spanish Const.i.tutional Court. with John Parry. Roger was working on an escape plan. My fight against extradition was now totally in the hands of Gustavo and the courts. A plethora of time-consuming issues was before the Audiencia Nacional's appeals division, the slowmoving Spanish Supreme Court, and the almost stationary Spanish Const.i.tutional Court.

At the end of July, a forty-minute doc.u.mentary about me was shown on Spanish national television. It was sympathetic to my plight and was followed by dozens of letters from Spanish citizens offering everything from paying my legal fees to the best s.h.a.g I could ever imagine. They all expressed shame at the way the Spanish were giving me up to the Americans.

After the television programme, Judy and I were separately visited by Amber, Francesca, and Patrick. They knew this would be their last visit before Judy left for America, and the girls were very frightened. Patrick was happy but still hadn't spoken a word since our arrest a year ago. Amber and Francesca spent the whole visit sitting on my knee and sobbing.

'Will we see you here, Daddy, when Mummy's gone?'

'Of course, my loves. You'll probably come to see me every couple of months. We'll see each other soon enough.'

I was wrong. It took almost five heartbreaking years before I saw them again.

Jacques Canavaggio came up to me in the patio patio.

'Marco Polo, I cannot help you. I have been told by someone whose business it is to know that if any of my people say you were involved in my Lebanese load in the Costa Brava, the American pigs will extradite me for being part of your organisation. These DEA b.a.s.t.a.r.ds are crazy people.'

'I understand, Jacques. Please don't worry.'

'You always have a friend in Corsica, Marco Polo. Remember that.'

Jacques walked off. Darin Bufalino approached.

'Hi, Limey. What's happening?'

'I'm not a Limey,' I protested. 'I'm Welsh. You Yanks are all the same.'

'I'm no Yank. I'm half-Irish and half-Italian.'

'What's the difference?'

'You got me there, Limey. But listen. They're extraditing me to the good old US of A in a few days. Is there anything I can do for you over there? I'll be in prison, but I got connections, Howard, you know that.'

I had been worrying about keeping my Australian defence secret and had already resolved to send out via Gustavo all my research materials. I also wanted to lead the DEA to believe that I was going to try another, completely different defence, so that I could take them by surprise.

'Darin, would you be prepared to leak some information to the DEA? It would be false information. It would only hurt them and no one else, and it would really help me.'

'Hey, I don't doubt you, man. But if I did that, I'd be down on record as a snitch. That could seriously damage my career prospects. I'll do anything else to help, I promise.'

The criminal ethic was proving inconvenient. I had to think of another way. John Parry joined us. I explained the problem to him.

'It's easy, Howard. If they take you to America please G.o.d they don't but if they do, take your phoney defence notes with you. Those DEA b.a.s.t.a.r.ds are bound to grab them when you get to Florida. They'll photocopy the lot, give them back to you like nothing had happened, and think they've got one over on you. Then you can stick it right up them with your real defence.'

That would work.

Judy left. Just before she was taken on the plane at Madrid international airport, she was allowed to send me a telegram. 'Pray for me,' it said. I prayed and cried and heard the wails of my children.

Darin Bufalino was extradited to Boston. Other fellow-prisoners were extradited to various countries. Roger had requested them to write to him giving full details of the travel procedures they had to undergo. Some of the letters had arrived.

'Let me tell you something, boy. Escaping from that airport in Madrid is a piece of p.i.s.s. If I did it in Amsterdam, I'm d.a.m.n sure that with the help of the Good Lord I can do it here.'

'But, Roger, you'll have handcuffs on. You didn't in Amsterdam.'

'Hey, I had handcuffs on when I jumped out of the court in Palma. They don't mean s.h.i.t to me. But that don't matter anyway because the cops take the handcuffs off at the departure lounge. I bet you ain't ever seen a guy with handcuffs on in a departure lounge or a plane. No siree you ain't. I'll just get on another plane. Maybe go straight to South Africa. I can't wait to hit that Madrid airport.'

Shortly after this conversation, Roger was extradited to Germany. He was driven all the way by car. As planned, he pleaded guilty and snitched on me and McCann. The German authorities gave him a seven-year sentence and housed him in a maximum-security prison in Lubeck.

On Friday October 31st, Gustavo came to see me. He was fl.u.s.tered and angry.

'Its incredible. Absolutely incredible. The Audiencia Nacional appeals court and the Const.i.tutional Court have dismissed our cases against extradition. The accion popular accion popular appeal has also been dismissed. Usually these cases take years to resolve. In your case they have acted almost immediately. It's completely without precedent.' appeal has also been dismissed. Usually these cases take years to resolve. In your case they have acted almost immediately. It's completely without precedent.'

'Do I have any chance left, Gustavo, or am I on my way to Miami?'

'The Supreme Court still has to rule. They shouldn't extradite you while that is pending. I have some other ideas which I will discuss with you on Monday. Just try to relax over the weekend.'

The next day, Sat.u.r.day, I worked on my false defence, the one to mislead the DEA. The papers relating to my real Australia defence and my detailed a.n.a.lysis of every item of the prosecution evidence had been given to Gustavo. I created the sort of phoney defence the authorities would believe to be mine: after I had worked for the Mexican Secret Service and been acquitted of any involvement in marijuana smuggling, MI6 posted me to the Khyber Pa.s.s. It was declared United States and United Kingdom policy to support the mujaheddin mujaheddin against the occupation of Afghanistan by the Soviet Union. Some financial aid was officially given, and covert encouragement was given to illegal fund-raising such as that resulting from the export of Afghan hashish. It was clear that the 1986 hashish load came from the against the occupation of Afghanistan by the Soviet Union. Some financial aid was officially given, and covert encouragement was given to illegal fund-raising such as that resulting from the export of Afghan hashish. It was clear that the 1986 hashish load came from the mujaheddin mujaheddin. The stamp on each slab said as much. It was clear that the 1984 American President Line load involved the CIA. I was not breaking American law. I was carrying out in Pakistan the work a.s.signed me by MI6 and the CIA, helping to rid the world of the Communist scourge. It was monstrous even to charge me.

In a file headed 'Try to use if possible', I put in newspaper reports on CIA hot money finding its way to the Afghan rebels, the IRA purchasing Stingers from the mujaheddin mujaheddin, the September 1986 hijack by the PLO of an American airliner on the runway of Karachi airport, mujaheddin mujaheddin bases in the Khyber Pa.s.s being used to train Arab and Filipino terrorists, and theories of who a.s.sa.s.sinated President Zia ul-Haq. For good measure, I also threw in some stoned nonsense about a Communist cell in Nepal controlling the world's hashish supply. bases in the Khyber Pa.s.s being used to train Arab and Filipino terrorists, and theories of who a.s.sa.s.sinated President Zia ul-Haq. For good measure, I also threw in some stoned nonsense about a Communist cell in Nepal controlling the world's hashish supply.

Just the sort of defence the DEA would expect.

I spent all of Sunday morning and most of the afternoon lying on my bed smoking joints. At four o'clock, when we were locked in to eat our meal, there was a polite knock on the cell door. It was one of the friendly young English-speaking funcionarios funcionarios. He called from the other side of the metal door.

'Marco Polo, pack up your things, if you please. You are leaving now. I will be back in twenty minutes when all the cells are opened. Please be ready then.'

The funcionario funcionario's footsteps receded. I went cold. I started to tremble. Shakily, I started to put my phoney defence notes and other possessions in a pillowcase.

'Did I hear that right, Howard?' asked John Parry from the next-door cell. 'If so, you'd better roll yourself a good strong joint of that Moroccan hash. It might be your last for a while. Don't worry. You'll be okay. Keep your chin up. Think of all them hamburgers and hot dogs. Beats this paella.'

I finished packing my bag, rolled a huge strong joint and put what hashish I had left in my underpants. I puffed away frantically. The cell doors opened. Hashish smoke and fumes billowed out and enveloped the funcionario funcionario. He burst out laughing and walked away. John Parry went running after him.

'Funcionario, funcionario, look at Marco Polo. He is smoking chocolate chocolate. You must bust him. He must do some time in prison here. You can't let him go to the United States.'

'No, no,' said the funcionario funcionario. 'Marco Polo can do what he likes. Only America will make him pay. I allow him to smoke the hashish. But he must hurry. Interpol is waiting.'

'I don't think that'll cause Marco Polo too much bother,' said John. 'He doesn't really like Interpol. And anyway, I have to carry his bag. I always used to carry his bag.'

'Yes, okay, you can carry his bag. But please be quick.'

John Parry carrying my pillowcase and I smoking my ma.s.sive joint were led down the corridor. We were met by about ten uniformed guards and a few serious-looking men in sober suits.

'This is where I say so long, Howard. Stay strong.'

We were both in tears. We hugged and said our goodbyes.

Very quickly I was bundled into a van, taken to Madrid police station, and placed in a holding cell. Although very firm in denying me the opportunity to communicate with anyone, the police were more than friendly, almost apologetic, and plied me with food, coffee, and cigarettes. When locked up for the night, I swallowed the lump of hashish and fell asleep.

Very early the next morning, I was brought up from the cells. Alongside the Spanish police stood three very obvious Americans, one Hispanic, one Black, and one Irish.

'Are you Dennis Howard Marks?' asked the Hispanic.

I nodded.

'We are the United States of America Federal Marshals Service. We have a warrant to take you to the United States of America. You will now be relieved of all your possessions other than the clothes you are wearing. I will now perform a strip-search on your person.'

'He has already been searched,' lied one of the senior plain-clothes Spanish police.

'I would have preferred to search him myself. Please note that for the record. Mr Marks, kindly hand over those cigarettes of yours, and slip your hands into these handcuffs.'

'I'm a heavy smoker, particularly on planes.'

'We will administer you cigarettes when you require them.'

'I want one now.'

'You will have to wait until we get to the airport. We are pressed for time. We have been waiting for you since Friday. There was a lot of paperwork to do. In any event, I doubt if my Spanish colleagues would allow you to pollute their office with your cigarette smoke.'

'Por favor, hombre!' said the Interpol man, and handed me one of his cigarettes.

At breakneck speed, the three marshals, the Interpol man, and I were driven to Madrid airport. After an hour in a holding cell, I was taken at gunpoint aboard an absolutely empty Pan Am 747. A marshal sat each side of me, one behind. Regular pa.s.sengers were beginning to board. The Hispanic marshal suddenly looked very proud of himself.

'This is American territory. An American aircraft is on American territory wherever it is. Read him his Miranda rights.'

And they did, like they do in the movies.

Sixteen.

41526-004.

I hated every minute of the journey. Once we landed at New York, the Hispanic US Marshal put a chain around my waist and led me like a pet chimpanzee through a maze of corridors. At first the US Immigration and Naturalisation Service wouldn't let me through because I did not have a US visa and was a convicted, drug-dealing felon. Then the US Marshals were prevented from boarding because they had lost the onward flight tickets to Miami and had overlooked getting permission for the firearms they were carrying in order to kill me if I decided to jump out of the plane. Shortly before midnight, we arrived at Miami International Airport, where we were greeted by another US Marshal, a very young, very big, bald Black wearing a hideously multicoloured Mickey Mouse tee-shirt. The four US Marshals and I got into a large limousine driven by yet another US Marshal and drove down a freeway to a large complex containing apartment blocks, factory, chapel, and a lake. It looked like a garden village. A notice indicated that it was Miami Metropolitan Federal Correctional Center (Miami MCC), United States Federal Bureau of Prisons. An obese female sporting a semi-automatic and a grotesquely short mini-skirt waved us through to the reception area. I was the only arrival. The prison guards, called hacks rather than screws, took away all my personal possessions, stripped me naked, looked up my a.r.s.e, and made me pull my foreskin back. I was a.s.signed a number, 41526-004, had my photographs and fingerprints taken, and marched to a solitary cell. I couldn't sleep. Two hours later, at three o'clock in the morning, a guard shouted through the door.

'Name?'

'Marks,' I answered.

'Number?'

'I don't know. I've only just got here.'

'Number?'

'I don't know.'

The guard disappeared and came back with three more. They took me to a cold holding cell full of Colombian and Cuban cocaine dealers. I gathered we were all being taken to Miami Courthouse. Most of the Colombians and Cubans were on trial and were absolutely shattered. Each day they were woken at 3 a.m., kept in holding cells for five hours, handcuffed and shackled by US Marshals, taken by bus to the courthouse, produced in the actual courtroom for a maximum of four hours, held in the courthouse's 'bullpen' holding cell for several hours, and taken back to prison. They never got to sleep before midnight and were not allowed any books or papers during the hours they were awake. In these conditions, they fought the US Government for their freedom.

I was in the courtroom for a mere few minutes. The magistrate told me to come back tomorrow. For four or five days I was shunted between the prison and the courthouse, each day appearing for a few minutes. There was no DEA and no press. On the last occasion, I saw Robert O'Neill, the prosecuting a.s.sistant United States Attorney I had seen in Spain. He told me I had now been arraigned. I had been a.s.signed a lawyer, a federal public defender whose fees would be paid by the US Government. O'Neill advised me to pay for a better one.

After this last court appearance, I was taken back to Miami MCC. Having completed the first few days of mandatory isolation, I was now taken to dormitory accommodation in the main compound of the prison complex. The next morning was beautifully sunny, and at the permitted time I took a walk around the lake. There were ducks on the surface and a plastic alligator on the bank. Concrete tables and benches were scattered around. Racket-ball courts, tennis courts, outdoor gymnasium, jogging track, football field, horseshoe-throwing pitch, basketball court, bowling pitch, cafeteria, shop, library, outdoor cinema, pool rooms, television rooms, vending machines, lay conveniently close at hand. A man came running towards me. It was Malik.

'D. H. Marks. So we are here together. It is wish of Allah. And this, American b.a.s.t.a.r.d say, is G.o.d's country, land of free.'

'How the h.e.l.l did they manage to extradite you, Malik?'

'Political reason. With Zia, it would not happen in blue moon. But Ben.a.z.ir, she is now in charge. She wants American dollar. Appeal Court judges in Pakistan extradite me. Next day American pig give them US visa and Green Card. Now they live handsome life in Washington. They think they have left Third World for better life. DEA ask me to plead guilty and co-operate and become snitch. Then they will send me back to Pakistan. I say "Why not?" I will tell them the bulls.h.i.t.'

'Malik, you're not going to testify against me, are you?'

He smiled.

'If I do, D. H. Marks, then you can do the cross-examine. You will see what harm I do. I am just going to tell them the bulls.h.i.t. We are in paper-mill business.'

'What's happened to your nephew Aftab?'

'He has become snitch against me.'

'Will he testify against me, too?'

'If DEA ask, he will do.'

Jim Hobbs and Ronnie Robb joined us. Both had been unceremoniously extradited from Holland and then offered immediate freedom if they agreed to plead guilty, become snitches, and gra.s.s up everyone they knew. They had declined the offer and were awaiting trial. Then I saw Ernie for the first time in ten years. He had lost all his excess weight and looked exactly like he did in 1973.

'Ain't this some s.h.i.t?'

'Ernie, I'm sorry about all the goofs I made,' I said.

'Aw! Forget it. I made a few myself. Prison don't bother me, but I can't stand the thought of my Patty being inside for seven years. I'll do anything to get her out. Anything.'

Patrick Lane joined us. It had been five years since I'd seen him. Like Ernie, he looked remarkably healthy and suntanned.

'You must be pleased getting only a three-year sentence. That's close to an acquittal.'

'That's where you are wrong, Howard. The prosecution are appealing.'