Mr Nice

  There was a knock on the door. It was Ernie, and it was happening.

  ‘Well, we lost that one. The cops …’

  ‘I know, Ernie. I just saw it on TV.’

  ‘No kidding. That was quick. What you figure on doing next?’

  ‘I think I ought to leave.’

  ‘That’s smart. Here’s $10,000. I guessed you didn’t bring a bunch of money over with you. It’d be kinda dumb if you were coming to pick some up. Here’s my new phone number. Call me.’

  ‘Thanks, Ernie. How did the load get busted? Do you know?’

  ‘Sure I do. Didn’t it say on TV? The load transited in John F. Kennedy Airport, New York. When the airport loaders put it on the plane to Vegas, they fucked up and left one speaker behind, which they stuck in some shed in Kennedy overnight, and a dog sniffed it. The DEA took the dope out of the speakers once they were in Vegas and let my guy, Gary Lickert, the kid you met in Amsterdam, pick it up so they could see where he was taking it to. I had that covered. I was watching Gary from a distance. I saw him being followed, overtook him, gave him the signal, and haularsed outa there.’

  ‘What did Gary do?’

  ‘Drove in circles around the airport until the cops stopped him.’

  ‘Will he tell the cops about you and me?’

  ‘No. He did a tough stint in Vietnam. He won’t crack. But we should play it cool for a while, like a few days. I got friends in the FBI. I’ll find out what they got on us. Take a limo from here to LA airport. When you get there, buy a ticket in some dumb English name like Smith for a flight to the East Coast, somewhere like Philadelphia, then fly in your own name to anywhere you want.’

  I flew to New York and stayed at the Hilton overnight, visiting Greenwich Village, Times Square, and the Statue of Liberty. Then I flew to London. Mac wanted to see me. We met at Dillons bookshop and took a cab ride to nowhere in particular.

  ‘Howard, you know that recently we have had to suffer some embarrassment over the Littlejohn affair.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Kenneth and Keith Littlejohn were bank robbers who had claimed to be infiltrating the IRA at the behest of MI6. The claims had been substantiated, and the British public expressed outrage at their Secret Service’s employing of notorious criminals for undercover work in the independent Republic of Ireland.

  ‘For that reason, and that reason alone, you and I have to terminate our relationship. We can no longer liaise with criminals.’

  ‘Dope smuggling is hardly a crime, Mac.’

  ‘Of course it is, Howard. Don’t talk rot. It’s illegal.’

  ‘I thought you agreed hashish shouldn’t be illegal. It’s the law that’s wrong, not the activity.’

  ‘I do. But until the law changes, you’re a criminal.’

  ‘Don’t you think, Mac, there’s a duty to change laws which are wrong, evil, harmful, and dangerous?’

  ‘Yes, but by legal means.’

  ‘You would use the law to change the law.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I suppose you would recommend saving a drowning man by telling him to drink his way out of it.’

  ‘That’s sophistry, Howard, and you know it. This end to our relationship is not my decision. I’ve been ordered to tell you this.’

  I felt curiously cheated. My career as a spy was over without my having derived any benefit from it.

  ‘Mac, if by abiding by my own decisions and beliefs, rather than those of others, I come across something which affects the security of this country, do I take it that I should now no longer bring it to your attention?’

  Mac smiled. I’ve not seen him since.

  After the Greek sponge fishermen fiasco, Eric was determined to make amends; he went to Beirut. He found his own source of supply who was prepared to give him 100 kilos of hashish on credit. Eric offered to extend this credit to us and bring another suitcase to Geneva. The deal went ahead smoothly. Anthony Woodhead drove the hashish from Geneva to England.

  One of Mohammed Durrani’s diplomats turned up in Hamburg with 250 kilos of Pakistani hashish. Graham and I sent out one of the Tafia, who rented a car and a lock-up garage in the outskirts of Hamburg to store the dope.

  James Morris rang from Los Angeles. Three of his workers had been arrested in London. He didn’t know why. Neither did Graham or I. We knew American law had been broken, but we couldn’t see how anyone involved had been guilty of breaking British law. Graham didn’t want to bother to find out. He’d been to prison once; that was enough. He wanted to go to Ireland under a false identity to join McCann and supervise matters from there. It was safer. McCann had got him a false Irish driving licence. He left London that night.

  Graham was right. Whatever reason was used to bust James Morris’s workers could be used to bust us. I didn’t want to rejoin McCann so soon after breaking from him, but Ireland was the only foreign country one could travel to from England without showing a passport. If there really was a danger of being arrested, I clearly shouldn’t travel around under my own name. I had no choice but to seek refuge with McCann. I borrowed Denys Irving’s driving licence, hired a car, stashed my passport, some dope, money, and bits and pieces in the back panels, and drove to Fishguard. On the ferry I drank several pints of Guinness at the bar before it docked at Rosslare. Once I reached open country, I stopped and rolled a very stiff joint of Afghani. As night fell, I drove towards Drogheda, where McCann was now based. Cruising along at 50 mph, I totally missed a right-angled bend and crashed through a hedge into a field. I lost consciousness.

  ‘Will he be needing a doctor or a priest?’

  Two carloads of people surrounded the steaming, dripping vehicle. Although I was lying awkwardly, I felt no pain and could move all my muscles.

  ‘I’m all right,’ I said.

  ‘Don’t you be moving now. We’ll have an ambulance and tow-truck here in no time. No time at all.’

  I thought of the dope and my inconsistent identity documents.

  ‘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 Saturday-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 fucking operator you are. Can’t drive a fucking car. Got nowhere to go. Can’t even go back to selling dope on Brighton seafront, or dresses to fucking academics. Like a rolling fucking 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 Bollocks has joined the struggle. You fucking better, too. You got two fucking choices: I’ll lend you £500 and you fuck off, or, with a new passport that the Kid’ll give you, you handle these two deals from Kabul and Lebalon, or whatever the fuck that place is called, that Soppy Bollocks 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 fucking Nazi land. I’ve already blown up a British Army base in Mönchengladbach, and the Baader-Meinhof gang eat out of my fucking 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 m
y belongings from the wrecked car and drove to McCann’s Drogheda hideout. The false Irish passport 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 fucking 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 fucking looking for him. He’s in Long Kesh, and they fucking know that. They’re looking for you, H’ard. Think, you stupid Welsh cunt.’

  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 passport. 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?’

  ‘Hello, hello, 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 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 fucking number or show your fucking face in my country again. My Anne is in prison because of your fuck-ups. She’s with those fucking Nazis, man. Marty and his two friends are over here. I’ve given them sanctuary. You promised them riches and gave them fucking ashes, you Welsh cunt.’

  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 fucking help. I’ve already personally declared war on those fucking Nazis. They know what the Kid’s capable of. Unless they want a fucking 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 café, had just opened. I was beginning to like the city with its pretty canals, 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 passport 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 passport. 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 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 assisting 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 documented 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 solic
itor, 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’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 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 reporter. The 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 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 grassing 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.