Our two months’ permitted stay was running out, so Judy and I decided to visit Canada and then re-enter the United States. We went via New York, where we stayed at the Waldorf-Astoria and took a tourist helicopter ride through Manhattan’s skyscrapers. New York had a kind of magical energy. We noticed its absence when we got to Toronto, where we were totally bored and took a Canadian Pacific flight to a slightly warmer Vancouver. We checked into the Seaporter Inn and watched the seaplanes taking off. The next day we visited Stanley Park, and in the evening went to the planetarium. We sat near the centre. At the circumference of the almost deserted auditorium, peering at me through the twinkling darkness, was Marty Langford’s face, agape with astonishment.
I suppose remarkable coincidences happen often enough, but this was a bit much. The man who had been my closest childhood friend for at least fifteen years and whom I had not seen since 1973 and had no way of contacting was now a few yards away. What is it about Vancouver planetariums that attracts Welsh dope fugitives?
Marty and I talked. He had been living with McCann and his Dutch wife Sylvia since he fled to Ireland three years previously. Other members of the Tafia had gone their separate ways. McCann, now using the name James Kennedy and claiming he was a close relative of the late President Kennedy, was doing very well for himself. He had an office floor in the Guinness Tower in Vancouver, oil interests in Venezuela, and had partially financed the film Equus. He had a warm friendship with James Coburn and his wife, Beverley. Marty declined comment on the source of McCann’s wealth. I gave Marty my new name and room number in the Seaporter and told him to give it to McCann, who rang the next morning.
‘How’s British Intelligence?’
‘Slightly greater than that of the Irish, Jim.’
‘You fucking Welsh arsehole. Still as smarmy as ever, aren’t you, H’ard? But I got to give it to you. You got out of it and did it by yourself. I’ll be over in half an hour.’
I quickly introduced McCann and Judy to each other before Judy excused herself from our hotel room on the pretext of needing to go to the hotel shopping centre.
‘Are you still dope-dealing, H’ard?’
‘When I can, yes.’
‘Those days are fucking over, man. Dope dealers are history. High finance is where it’s at.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Revolving letters of credit, shell companies and offshore banks. I’m spending money hand over fucking fist, and it’s all other people’s.’
‘So, what’s different?’
‘What’s different, you stupid Welsh prick, is that I’m living in the fast lane, and I’m legit.’
‘I take it you’re no longer a revolutionary.’
‘I’m a fucking revolutionary until I die. Since when is selling dope on Brighton seafront a revolutionary act, for fuck’s sake?’
‘It’s a bit closer than all this upwardly mobile corporate stuff you’re into, Jim.’
‘Is it fuck? H’ard, doing this business I meet the people who matter, the high rollers. You understand me, do you? There’s only five hundred people in the world who control anything worth a fuck. And I’ve met them all, every fucking one of them.’
‘Where’s Graham, Jim?’
‘He’s become a poof. He’s living in San Francisco or some other poof place. He’s probably still dope-dealing, like you.’
‘Did you do any more Shannon deals after I got busted?’
‘I’m not telling you, H’ard. Graham never could control those idjits in Kabul. I found out who they are and their addresses in Kabul. I’ve got them when I want them. But those days are gone, H’ard. You need to wise up, but we’ll keep in touch. If you ever get a real problem, you can ask for the Kid.’
Judy and I had arranged to meet Ernie, Patty, and Tom Sunde in San Francisco. A load of Thai sticks from Robert Crimball in Bangkok had just been cleared by Don Brown in New York, and the West Coast was considered the best market for top-quality Thai weed. This is where the money would be. After sales, Ernie was going to introduce me to his lawyer, Richard Sherman, and a friend of theirs who worked in the safe-deposit vaults in the Wells Fargo Bank. We flew there from Vancouver and stayed at the Mark Hopkins on Nob Hill. I didn’t much like the views of Alcatraz, but I was interested to see, for the first time, the Haight-Ashbury district of San Francisco, one of the main candidates for the birthplace of the Sixties movements. It was disappointing and looked identical to every other area of San Francisco, which itself wasn’t that different from most American cities. There wasn’t a hippie in sight. Maybe they were all at home smoking Thai sticks. I filled up a safe-deposit box in the Wells Fargo Bank with the money I’d made by investing in this last Thai scam and took Judy to Las Vegas. When we weren’t attending one of several dozen star-studded performances, we were gambling. I had bought a book on how to beat the system playing blackjack and studied it intensely. I gave Judy a $1,000 stake to play on whatever table she fancied. She chose Baccarat. I also allowed myself a $1,000 stake. After the first all-night session, I was ahead by $100 while Judy had won a total of $16,000. It was most humiliating.
Most of the upper-echelon marijuana dealers in America had apartments in both Miami and New York. I wanted the same. Judy and I flew from Las Vegas to New York and booked into the Plaza Hotel. Elvis Presley’s death was announced while we were checking in. We found an apartment with huge rooms in the Pavilion Building on the corner of East 77th Street and York Avenue and filled it with the trappings of financial success. Ernie had a warehouse full of furniture to which we could help ourselves. Ernie also gave me the telephone number of his hashish and marijuana wholesaler in New York, Alan Schwarz, a charming multimillionaire who was the darling of Manhattan’s hip and cool. Alan had a whole network of dealers who worked for him in Manhattan and a team of drivers who were continually hauling Colombian marijuana from Florida coastal stashes to the streets of New York. He was very professional and efficient and the best guide possible to Manhattan social life. I first met Alan on his 21st birthday, which he gave at Régine’s. Guests included Margaux Hemingway and Bernie Cornfield. The British residents of New York had not yet acquired the label ‘Eurotrash’. John Lennon and Mick Jagger both lived in the Upper East Side, and they and their entourages would sometimes grace our apartment with their presence. The beautiful Guinness sisters, Sabrina, Miranda, and Anita, often visited us, as did Jane Bonham-Carter and Lady Antonia Fraser’s daughter Rebecca. I hired a full-time Black chauffeur called Harvey who took us everywhere in a long black limousine.
McCann got in touch. He was coming to New York.
‘I’m giving a dinner at Elaine’s restaurant. Some really fucking important people are coming. You and Judy can come too. I’m opening the door for you, H’ard, the door to high finance and the fast lane.’
Elaine’s was a well-known actors’ haunt at 88th Street. McCann headed a table for ten, at which were seated various people including Fakri Amadi, the head of Hertz in Dubai, Al Malnik, the Wall Street whiz-kid who had married the daughter of Meyer Lansky, and, to my utter astonishment, Mohammed Durrani. McCann had obviously met him through Graham and won him over. Durrani was introduced as Michael, a name I knew he sometimes used, the Crown Prince of Afghanistan. Durrani’s very loud ‘very pleased to meet you’ and his facial contortions clearly indicated that he did not want me to reveal that I knew him. I was introduced as Howard ap Owen, the leader of the Welsh Nationalist Party. McCann insisted on drowning everyone in champagne and kept pestering Peter Ustinov, who was sitting alone at an adjacent table, to play him at backgammon. Durrani and I arranged to meet the next day at my apartment. Judy cooked him roast beef.
‘Howard, please do not think I am doing business with crazy Irishman. My cousin needs false passport for her husband, who is European, and Irishman is only man I know who can maybe get.’
‘I can do that for you, Mohammed.’
‘I am obliged, Howard.’
‘It’s no problem. I had to get one for myself. Y
ou heard about my problems, I suppose?’
‘I hear some things, but I pay no attention. It does not affect you and me, Howard.’
‘Do you still have the ability to air-freight merchandise from Karachi?’
‘Of course. Raoul, he is doing every day. You have met Raoul, no?’
‘Yes, but I don’t know how to get hold of him or if he’s prepared to do business with me.’
‘Raoul is always prepared to do business under proper terms. I will speak with him and arrange meeting. Sam, too, is doing from Beirut. You should see him. Sam will be staying with me in my house in French Riviera in few weeks’ time. You and your wonderful wife are most welcome to come.’
I telephoned Ernie and related to him the new possibilities now presenting themselves. He caught the next flight to New York.
‘That’s fantastic. When can they send it?’
‘In about a month or so, Ernie. I should think.’
‘Hmm! That long, huh? Okay. I’ll get started and set up the companies. We’ll do it like the Nepal one. By the way, can you help me out on the next Bangkok deals? My guys are pissed with flying over to Bangkok and back with messages and money. They always get hassled by US Customs for having Thai stamps in their passport. Do you have any guys we could use?’
I called Philip Sparrowhawk. In two days he was in Bangkok giving Richard Crimball a bag of money he had picked up from Tom Sunde in Hong Kong. Phil based himself in Bangkok for the next couple of years and developed his own personal relationship with Richard Crimball and others working in the business of exporting Thai marijuana.
Judy and I took Concorde from Washington to Paris and after a few days flew to Nice. We checked into the Carlton in Cannes. I rang Durrani.
‘You have heard what has happened to crazy Irishman few days ago?’
‘No, Mohammed, I haven’t.’
‘I will explain you.’
Durrani related how McCann had left New York for his wood and glass mansion in Brunswick Beach, Vancouver. The Royal Canadian Mounted Police came to his residence and took him away. Apparently, they had proof he wasn’t James Kennedy of the Massachusetts dynasty and reason to believe he was James McCann, a fugitive from British justice since his escape from Crumlin Road prison, Belfast, several years ago. Bail had been refused. The grounds given by the Canadian authorities were that ‘the protection of the public demands the detention of the applicant. He has escaped custody twice, he has enormous financial backing and is an international fugitive. He is a public menace whose threats to public officials cannot be treated lightly.’
Over at Durrani’s house in the Alpes-Maritimes, I sat down with Lebanese Sam. He found the proposal of being paid 35% of the wholesale price in America for all the hashish he could send from Beirut very attractive. We set up communication methods. There was time to kill before Sam was ready to export the Lebanese hashish and before a meeting with Raoul concerning export of Pakistani hashish could take place. Judy and I rented a Mercedes, and we toured France, ending up in the Dordogne Valley at the converted mill of her brother Patrick Lane. He had given up snail farming (the snails had run away one night) and was eager to restart one of his more lucrative past activities. I had always enjoyed Patrick’s company and knew that Graham had high regard for his accountancy abilities. I thought it might be sensible to use Patrick to open up some foreign bank accounts. Keeping all that cash in safes and safe-deposit boxes in America was limiting its use.
‘Patrick, what do you know about offshore banking?’
‘Absolutely nothing outside Switzerland, which everybody knows about.’
‘If I paid all expenses and gave you a few grand, would you study offshore banking and tax havens and fly around the world to test things out personally? Perhaps you could open up a few company and personal accounts.’
‘When do I leave?’
Judy and I left the Dordogne, drove south, and couldn’t resist visiting Albi. At the centre of the city was the cathedral, a vast fortress-like edifice containing a statue dedicated to St Judith. We took this as the ultimate confirmation that we were meant to be with each other. We went over the Alps to Milano, and, after a wonderful night at the Villa d’Este in Cernobbio just outside Como, we drove across the Italian–Swiss border at Chiasso and along the shores of Lake Lugano. We stayed at the Hotel Splendide in Lugano, Europe’s Rio de Janeiro, and had breakfast overlooking the lake.
‘Albi, I have to tell you something.’
‘Go ahead, love.’
‘I’m pregnant.’
We both burst into smiles.
‘But I’m not going to have the baby in America as Mrs Tunnicliffe. I want him or her to be born in England, Albi. They don’t let women fly if they’re very pregnant, so I’ll have to live a train ride away from London.’
‘You know I’ll have to go to America sometimes, Judy, and maybe even Lebanon and Pakistan.’
‘I know, Albi, but I have no choice.’
The sun’s rays glistened off the lake’s surface. On the opposite shore, framed by magnificent mountains, lay a little village.
‘That place looks so beautiful, Albi. I’d love to go there.’
‘Okay, love, we’ll drive there for lunch and celebrate.’
It was a ten-minute drive. On the bridge over the lake we passed a restaurant called La Romantica, drove through a village called Bissone, and came across an unmanned border post. There was a sign stating Campione d’Italia, and the Italian flag was flying. Cars were speeding through the border in both directions, so I carried on driving. The village was an exquisite mixture of old and modern architecture, and everyone seemed extremely wealthy. There was a large casino. We drove through the village, and after about a mile of country, the road split into two. We drove down the left-hand fork and were stopped by four Japanese guards. We tried the right fork. It terminated in a tennis stadium. This place was wild. We were in Italy but couldn’t get to anywhere else in Italy. We must still be in Switzerland. In the centre of the village was a restaurant called La Taverna. Impeccably clad waiters ushered us to an alfresco table covered with gleaming glass, cutlery, and porcelain. Our waiter spoke perfect English.
‘Are we in Italy or Switzerland?’ I asked.
‘We accept both currencies, sir. We accept all currencies and all credit cards. May I suggest you help yourselves to the antipasto table?’
‘But which country are we actually in?’ I persisted.
‘Italy.’
‘Do you live here?’ I asked.
‘Now, yes, but I am from Sicily.’
A London taxi drew up outside the restaurant. A handsome, bespectacled fifty-year-old German came in accompanied by a garishly dressed Rastafarian, a rich cockney businessman, a Sophia Loren look-alike, and a blonde Teutonic beauty. The place filled up with eminently watchable personalities.
I had read somewhere that Mafia chieftains drank Brunello di Montalcino with their meat dishes. It was on the menu, and I ordered it. We ate and drank to our hearts’ content.
‘This is an amazing place, Judy. The telephones are Swiss. That policeman is Italian, but the licence plates on his car are Swiss. What is going on?’
Although one couldn’t drive from Campione d’Italia to anywhere else in Italy, there once existed a cable car connecting the village to the nearest Italian mountain, and boats plied between Campione and harbours on the truly Italian side of Lake Lugano. Benito Mussolini built a casino in the village. A secret tunnel, known by everyone, connected the casino to the priest’s house. I loved Campione.
Judy and I toured around Switzerland and opened a few bank accounts and safe-deposit boxes, she in her real name, I in the name of Tunnicliffe. In one of her safe-deposit boxes, Judy stowed away her Mrs Tunnicliffe passport. Lebanese Sam was back in Durrani’s house in the Alpes-Maritimes. Judy went to Campione to look for a flat to rent while I drove from Geneva to Cannes. Sam had arranged everything in Beirut and was ready to send a 1,000-kilo load of hashish to Kennedy Airport. Tom Sunde
flew to Zurich with money from Ernie, which I took and gave to Lebanese Sam in Geneva for him to take to Beirut. Two weeks later, Judy and I were sitting in a newly rented flat in Via Totone, Campione d’Italia, overlooking Lake Lugano with breathtaking views of Lugano town and the towering peaks of San Salvatore and Monte Bre. I had just made another $300,000. Lebanese Sam went back to Beirut to repeat the successful scam.
Meanwhile McCann was making spirited attempts to be released from his Canadian captors. Using an intrigued Vancouver media, he declared, ‘I’m offering you a deal. I’ll leave. That’s the deal. If you keep me arrested, the effect will be like a stone dropped into an Irish brine of violence. The ripple will peel you like an apple.’
McCann addressed Canadian Immigration spokesman Jack Betteridge with the words: ‘Mr Betteridge, you are an enemy of the Irish people and will be tried in front of an Irish tribunal. You are also a fucking fascist pig, and justice will be served on you.’
Fascinated British Columbian television audiences heard McCann repeatedly explain that his arrest was engineered by MI6 as a result of his unearthing an Ulster Protestant gun-running organisation in Vancouver. He claimed he was a member of the Official IRA and had represented Sinn Fein in Vietnam and Cambodia in the 1960s. He had a birth certificate in the name of Joseph Kennedy, and he carefully explained how ‘Jim’ was an old Gaelic abbreviation for ‘Joseph’. Various bomb threats were made to Canadian embassies in Ireland and South America. The Canadian Mounties weakened, gave Jim back his false passport, and put him on a plane for Paris, where he was seen escorting Aki Lehmann, wife of the prominent New York banker Robin Lehmann, at the fashionable Paris night-club Castell’s.