In his closing speech, John Rogers, QC, launched into an attack: ‘Marks is the biggest-ever trafficker apprehended with a single consignment. His claims of being a secret agent are utter rubbish. It is conceded that Marks was recruited for three months in 1973 by someone who was indiscreet enough to ask for his assistance. The rest is a myth mounted by Marks in order to conceal his real activities. His cover story is that he was an Intelligence agent. I invite you to treat that as a load of rubbish.’
Lord Hutchinson was far more convincing: ‘Howard Marks was used by MI6 to infiltrate the IRA. Three times he traced James McCann, but three times he managed to slip away. But British Intelligence would not come into this court and admit, as the prosecution did, that Howard Marks was working for them. They just sit up in the public gallery here. You can see them, members of the jury, I’m sure. Howard Marks was left as the “spy out in the cold”. It is the code of the Intelligence services. They say, “You are on your own, old boy.” You may remember the cases of those Russian spies, not only Kim Philby, but also Anthony Blunt. It appears that British Intelligence can grant immunity from prosecution to spies who have acted against this country. But not so, it would seem, when they have actually been acting on behalf of this country.’
Judge ‘Penal Pete’ Mason summed up: ‘You have seen Mr Marks, ladies and gentlemen of the jury. He has extraordinary charisma and an encyclopaedic knowledge of the evidence, enabling him to come up with an answer to every question. As with the other defendants, you must decide whether he participated in this conspiracy or not. Either he had nothing to do with it, or he was into it up to his neck.’
The jury returned verdicts of not guilty on each of us. I don’t think for one minute they believed the defences presented to them. They just didn’t want us nice guys to spend countless years in prison for transporting beneficial herbs from one part of the world to another. A juror can acquit a defendant for any reasons he or she wishes: a fact that is infrequently broadcast. Enough acquittals, and the law will change. Stuart Prentiss and Hedley Morgan walked free from the Old Bailey. I received a two-year sentence for false passports. With remission, I had five days to do. I looked up at the public gallery and saw Judy. I would be with her, Amber, and little Francesca for Christmas. All her love and relief came forth in the most beautiful smile I had ever seen. I had beaten the system. I had triumphed and would walk the streets within a week.
Not everyone shared my jubilation. HM Customs had other ideas in mind than my immediate freedom. I had completely forgotten about the 1973 rock-group scam. HM Customs hadn’t. The trial was set for the middle of February. Bail was refused.
Two weeks after my acquittal, Chief Superintendent Philip Fairweather of Thames Valley Police took an eight-inch kitchen knife into his garden and plunged it into his stomach. He had recently confessed to having leaked to the press the MI6 report documenting my work for the Intelligence services, and he knew that I had obtained my unjust acquittal partly on the basis of this leak. Rather than face charges under the Official Secrets Act, this 58-year-old World War II veteran and distinguished police detective committed hara-kiri in his home. No one was meant to die in all this nonsense.
Bernard Simons had discovered that after my arrest and deportation from Amsterdam, the Dutch authorities proceeded to try me in my absence. For reasons best known to themselves, they found me not guilty of exporting from Holland the Lebanese hashish that had got busted in Las Vegas in 1973. British law embodies the doctrine of autrefois acquit, whereby a previous acquittal in a foreign court may, in certain circumstances, serve as a bar for prosecution of a similar offence in a British court. A jury is empanelled to decide if the offences are similar enough for autrefois acquit to apply. It seemed to us that exporting a certain quantity of hashish from Amsterdam to Las Vegas was a similar charge to knowingly assisting precisely the same export. Beating the 1973 charge was going to be easy. It wouldn’t even get to trial.
At the Old Bailey, in front of the Recorder, Sir James Miskin, I entered a plea of autrefois acquit. The judge explained to a bewildered jury the nuances of dissimilarity of offences. He asked them if they thought the Dutch offence could be considered the same as the British one. The jurors stared in baffled silence. Judge Miskin said that ‘No’ would be an appropriate answer. The foreman said ‘No.’ Lord Hutchinson jumped up and objected. Judge Miskin told him to take it up at the Court of Appeal and dismissed the jury. The case was going to trial.
I won the first round. Gary Lickert, the friend of Ernie’s who had brought all the dollars to Amsterdam and driven to pick up the speakers in Las Vegas, had been flown over to pick me out in an identity parade. He didn’t really want to be British justice’s first American supergrass, and at Snowhill Police Station he looked closely at everyone except me. He couldn’t identify anyone. The prosecution case was considerably weakened. Despite this advantage, Lord Hutchinson felt I would be unlikely to get acquitted again, and on the day of trial went to the judge’s chambers to plea-bargain. He came back with an offer of three years maximum. I took it. I got three years. What the judge and HM Customs did not realise, but I did, was that due to my being arrested first for the 1973 rock-group scam, all the time I had done in custody would count as credit for that offence, even though it also counted for credit against my two-year sentence for false passports. With remission, I would be free in less than three months. I felt as if I’d beaten the system again, almost. However, I did have a criminal record. I was a convicted marijuana dealer who used false names. Could I live with the shame?
Eight
HOWARD MARKS
Her Majesty’s Prison, Heathfield Road, Wandsworth, is a good place to be released from. At 8 a.m., May 6th, 1982, I was standing outside clutching a plastic bag containing a picnic lunch and a few books. In my pocket was about fifteen pounds and a travel warrant to Brighton. A few others being released at the same time were waiting at the bus stop. I was lucky: Judy was picking me up. I wouldn’t need the travel warrant. I’d frame it as a souvenir.
The two years had gone by quickly enough, and I’d beaten the real charge. A daily dose of yoga and a vegan diet had made me feel fitter than ever. I was going to play tennis, run, meditate, stand on my head, have inner peace, and join yuppie health clubs. Johnny Martin was holding a large stash of my cash in Brighton. Ernie had paid for the purchase of the ground floor above Judy’s Chelsea basement in Cathcart Road and for the costs of converting the two floors to a maisonette. Furthermore, he’d promised to give me a load of dollars once I became a free man (he still felt responsible for my being busted for the Colombian load). Judy had booked tickets to Corfu for me, her, her sister Masha, and my three daughters Myfanwy, Amber, and Francesca. I was looking forward to jogging on Greek beaches, imprinting footprints at the edge of the tide. But now it was raining, heavily. Why was Judy taking so long? Maybe there were traffic jams on the Brighton road.
‘You want me to let you back in, Marks?’ joked a key-jangling screw turning up for work.
‘Not yet, chief. I need just a bit more freedom,’ I said with a feeble attempt at humour.
‘Well, when you do, just knock on door.’
Then hundreds of screws started turning up for work.
‘She’s not turning up, Marks. She’s shagging the taxi-driver around the corner. And she was with me last night. Come in and have some porridge.’
It was almost 9 a.m. I couldn’t handle it any longer and splashed away from the jeering contingent of uniformed Geordies. There were no phone boxes. I hailed a cab.
‘Where to, guv?’
‘Victoria Station,’ I said.
It seemed as good a place as any. There were trains to Brighton, and phone boxes.
It was a very wet rush-hour. The journey took an hour and cost me a tenner. I got out of the cab and became mesmerised by the mass of humanity speedily leaving the station. An ingrained prison habit made me automatically start waiting until everyone else had passed. I realised where I was. I went to
a phone box. There was no answer from our Brighton number. Where was Judy? I had a coffee. I rang again.
‘She was very late. She’s awfully sorry. She’s gone to the Chelsea flat,’ said Masha.
I took a Tube, the wrong one, got lost, and took another cab to the flat. I was already out of money.
The flat was a building site. The rain had stopped, but there was no one there. I stood outside feeling sheepish.
Then the car drew up and Judy emerged. I’d seen her in Wandsworth visiting-room only yesterday, but now she looked even more amazing. I knew I could touch her. We hugged, got into the car, and began a dreamlike drive to Brighton, the sun strengthening after each mile and illuminating one magnificent view after another. We stopped at the Gatwick Airport Hilton for sausage, bacon, eggs, and champagne. I needed a joint. We resumed the drive to our Brighton home, where I was welcomed and hugged by Amber and Francesca. The air was charged with emotion, champagne, and the scent of hashish.
‘You won’t go back to dealing, will you?’ said Judy. ‘I couldn’t stand another two years on my own.’
‘Of course not.’ I think I might have meant what I said. Life was good. There was no pressure.
The Passport Office had told Judy that I would have to present myself in person at Petty France in order to get a renewed passport. Just a formality, I assumed. It was strange thinking of travelling again under my own name. I hadn’t done so for nine years. On arrival at Petty France, I was ushered down a series of corridors to an office labelled simply ‘Special’.
‘Mr Appleton will be along in a minute,’ a very bashful secretary said as she motioned me towards a seat. ‘You may smoke if you wish,’ she added, looking distastefully at my Old Holborn roll-up.
Appleton marched in and looked puzzled as I stretched out my hand. But he shook it.
‘How do you do, Mr Marks? I must say I really ought to congratulate you on the high quality of your false passport applications. They were far superior to what we usually get. Most people must think we’re idiots. You should see some of the insulting rubbish sent us.’
‘I’d like to,’ I said, genuinely curious.
Appleton ignored the remark and affected a stern and formal voice.
‘We are in principle prepared to give you a passport in your own name, Mr Marks, but we must have the false ones returned to this office. Immediately. We know Her Majesty’s Customs have confiscated passports bearing your likeness in the names of Cox, Goddard, Green, and McKenna, all of which we issued from this office. But our records show you have obtained at least two more passports from us in the names of Tunnicliffe and Nice. We must have those back, and we must have any others that perhaps we don’t yet know about.’
The Tunnicliffe passport had been kept by the Old Bailey clerical staff after I had produced it in my own defence. The Nice passport had been buried in a small park on the Swiss–Italian border at Campione d’Italia. I explained this to Appleton, though I modified the location of the burial to Milan’s Monumental Cemetery. I might need the Nice passport one day. Strange things happen.
‘Are you ever going to apply for a false passport again, Mr Marks?’
‘Oh, no! Those days are over. It’s so good not to be a fugitive any more,’ I said, sincerely.
‘Well, Mr Marks, I’ve decided to enable you to take your family holiday in Corfu by issuing you a passport valid for two months. If your account of the Nice and Tunnicliffe passports is shown by us to be correct, we will extend your passport’s validity.’
I didn’t argue. There is no obligation for the British Passport Office to issue a passport to anyone; and although there is no law requiring an individual to have a passport to travel, its absence can be one hell of an inconvenience.
‘Thank you very much indeed, Mr Appleton.’
I again put out my hand and again got the puzzled look.
‘It’s waiting for you downstairs, Mr Marks. Have a good holiday.’
A few weeks before my release I had begun reading about Corfu. Its history was the usual two-thousand-year Mediterranean mish-mash of domination by Corinthians, Illyrians, Romans, Goths, Lombards, Saracens, Normans, Sicilians, Genovese, Venetians, French, Turks, Russians, and British. Most accounts of the island’s history and geography were boring, but Lawrence Durrell’s Prospero’s Cell made it fascinating. It seemed as if it was impossible to go anywhere in Corfu without treading in the footprints of Ulysses. Durrell extolled the virtues of a daily seductive siesta sandwiched between sun and sea and drenched with wine and olives. I couldn’t wait. Although he didn’t specifically mention it, the beaches looked good for jogging.
The first morning in Corfu began to fulfil Durrell’s promises. The house we shared was perched on a cliff near Kassiopi and surrounded by sandy beaches and lush vegetation. It was very early, and I was the only one awake. I put on my track suit and started jogging down the path to the beach. Long before I reached the sand, I ran out of breath. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Then my right knee gave in. All the prison nights spent dreaming of beach and wave jogging seemed more wasted than ever. I thought yoga made you fit. It clearly wasn’t good for stamina or knees and was no preparation for jogging. I hobbled back to the house and looked forward to resuming a life of complete debauchery, devoid of inner peace and physical fitness.
Through exhaustion, knee damage, and retsina hangover, I stayed bedridden for most of the next few days. Then sunbathing, sea swimming, and more retsina combined to remove the jailbird pallor from my skin and the smell of the nick from my nostrils. I played with my three daughters and fell deeper in love with each of them. We explored the island in our rented car. Sometimes Masha would baby-sit, so Judy and I could enjoy ourselves like never before.
Our immediate neighbours were long-time residents of Corfu and significant figures on the island. Through them we met the former British Consul in Corfu, John Fort, and a selection of retired English gentry. They were typical expatriates: former Foreign Office employees, news correspondents, and arms dealers. They were riveted to coverage of the Falklands war, then in full swing. As long as the war kept going until Wimbledon fortnight and the cricket Test matches, the summer would not be boring. Any lull in the reporting was filled by a round of golf followed by a plate of fried eggs washed down by large glasses of cheap Greek gin at a modest local taverna known as the ‘nineteenth hole’. Judy and I were frequently invited to play golf, but after a few painful lessons, I realised the game was not for me. However, the fried eggs and gin were not to be missed, and I enjoyed these ‘après-golf’ sessions immensely.
‘What’s your line of country, dear boy?’ asked John Fort.
‘Borderline,’ I said without really thinking but recalling days of crossing frontiers. What the hell! I’ll level with them.
‘Well, to tell you the truth, John, I’m a convicted marijuana smuggler that’s just come out of the nick.’
The ‘nineteenth hole’ was suitably silenced. Judy raised her disapproving eyes to the ceiling.
‘How absolutely fascinating!’ burst out a gin-and-egg-yolk-saturated ex-arms dealer called Ronnie. ‘Do tell us the whole story.’
I gave a censored version, leaving out the IRA and MI6 stuff, and was the hero of the hour.
‘I say, but aren’t you that spy chappie the papers talk about,’ asked Ronnie, ‘from Oxford? Balliol, wasn’t it?’
This had gone far enough. Judy went to the ladies’.
‘Yeah, but none of that is very interesting any more,’ I mumbled with contrived bashfulness. ‘It’s not like the old days.’
‘You’re right,’ agreed Ronnie. ‘You’re right. Precious little is. Look at that awful business in Goose Green, for example …’
To my relief the conversation moved on to the Falklands conflict. Just a few minutes later, Ronnie gripped my arm and guided me to a quiet corner of the room.
‘Do you miss it, Howard?’
‘What?’ Was he referring to Oxford or prison?
‘Smuggling
, old boy. It must have been thrilling stuff. What on earth can you do now without getting bored?’
‘Maybe I’ll start smuggling again,’ I said.
‘Could do worse,’ encouraged Ronnie, ‘a lot worse. Here’s my card. Although we all have to have a home on a Mediterranean island, you can’t beat travelling for my money. I still keep my hand in – a few irons in the fire. Must hold on to our talents, whatever they are.’
Back in England, I devoted several weeks to the family. We drove to Kenfig Hill to stay with my parents, my first visit back there for almost ten years. Although I was easily the locality’s most notorious wandering boy, reactions to me from people in the streets and pubs suggested I’d never been away. We talked about the weather and the Welsh rugby team. No one mentioned my boyhood friend Marty. It was complicated. I was free, he was still in prison. He’d been convicted of working for me, and I’d been found not guilty of employing him. With Judy and the children I walked over Kenfig dunes to Sker Beach and thought of boats unloading hashish on to the sand, guarded and protected by R. D. Blackmore’s mermaid, immortalised in his The Maid of Sker. The shore was deserted. Anchored in the distance were the massive hundred-thousand-ton iron-ore ships that my father used to discharge after he left the sea and came to work ashore. The blast furnaces and chimney stacks of Port Talbot’s giant steelworks still made most of the sky invisible. On the walk back we noticed the turrets of the buried city’s castle just poking eerily through the sandy ground. Where the dunes meet the road lies The Prince of Wales, old Kenfig’s medieval town hall and home of the finest draught Worthington in the world.