Mr Nice

  Eleven

  D. H. MARKS

  Gerry was blond, large, and amiable. With him was his vivacious wife, Wyvonna, who let me into their hotel room, excused herself, and left. Gerry seemed embarrassed to be caught in the act of smoking a tiny splif of some excellent-smelling grass. He put out the splif and held out his hand.

  ‘Hi. How you doing? Man, am I glad to meet you. From what Flash and Ernie told me you might be the answer to all my prayers.’

  ‘How are you, Gerry? You can answer one of my prayers right now by relighting that splif.’

  ‘Hey, you like this stuff, Howard? It’s the best Californian skunk weed I’ve ever had in my life. But it stinks. I get paranoid about the smell in the hotel room.’

  ‘They are a bit funny about dope here, Gerry,’ I said. ‘It’s not that they dish out huge terms of prison or anything like that if you deal the stuff, but even rolling a joint can put you in jail for a few weeks.’

  ‘That’s trippy. With us in the States, it’s the exact opposite. No one cares if you smoke a joint, but if you bring in a few kilos, they lock you away forever.’

  ‘But people do smoke dope here, Gerry, usually Cambodian weed.’

  ‘Whaw! Cambodian weed! I bet that’s good. Howard, is it safe to talk in these hotel rooms?’

  ‘Probably not, but I usually do.’

  ‘Well, no one knows I’m here. I’m positive of that. And I don’t really want to leave the room. I’ve got a bunch of money under the bed. Ernie told me it was okay to bring any amount of money into Hong Kong. I was really surprised.’

  ‘Were you searched at the airport?’

  ‘Hell, no. We didn’t even see a Customs Officer. I figured they didn’t have any. I mean if everything here is duty-free, they don’t need any.’

  ‘Oh, there’s Customs Officers here all right, Gerry. They notice things even if they got nothing to bust you for. They’ll never stop you bringing in money, though. They like to see you do that.’

  ‘What if they know or suspect it’s dope money?’ asked Gerry.

  ‘That wouldn’t matter. Hong Kong was set up on dope money during the Opium Wars. If the Chinese hadn’t liked getting hooked on opium and if the British hadn’t been ruthless exploiters, Hong Kong would have remained a small fishing harbour. Old habits die hard. The colony is glad to see all types of money flow in and enrich the economy.’

  ‘That’s smart. Real smart. So what I wanted to ask you was would you help me get a load together in Pakistan? Let me explain. Me and my buddies got $3 million we want to invest in bringing ten tons of the best hash to Los Angeles. I’m going to buy a boat, do it up, take it to Pakistan, buy ten tons of the best dope, and take it across the Pacific. The boat and equipment’s going to cost me about $1 million upfront. Will $2 million get me ten tons of the best in Pakistan?’

  ‘In principle, yes it would. It depends on how much you are prepared to pay the Pakistanis if the scam is successful and where and how you want the dope delivered. Do you want it piled up on a remote Pakistani beach or delivered a long way offshore?’

  ‘We figure we could sell the hash for at least $2,500 a kilo. That’s $25 million to spread around. I think your end of it, the Pakistani end, is worth $10 million. I don’t know yet whether picking up on a beach or delivery offshore will be the way to go. It depends on the boat I get. But it has to be the very best dope. I want to put my own stamp on it, literally. I’m serious. Can you do that?’

  ‘You want to stamp “Gerry” on each slab?’

  ‘Well, no, that would be kinda corny. But I want the stamp to be distinctive and to show that the hash came from the Afghan Freedom Fighters and that the money from its sales would be going to the fight against the Communists.’

  ‘That’s pretty much exactly what does happen,’ I said.

  ‘Yeah, but the average guy in the States doesn’t realise that. If they see it on a stamp, they’ll believe it.’

  ‘Do you have a particular stamp in mind?’

  ‘I’ve been thinking a lot about it. What I want is a picture of Communist Kalashnikov A47 guns disappearing in a cloud of hash smoke and a logo saying “Free Afghanistan – Smoke Russia away.” You reckon you could do that?’

  ‘I’m sure we could. When do you want to start?’

  ‘I thought I had started. I’ve got $400,000 deposit to give you right now. It’s all in one big suitcase. All in small bills, which is a drag. In a week, I’ll get some more brought here. I’m responsible to my people, so I have to see the whole load in Pakistan. Once I do that, I’ll pay you the balance left from $2 million.’

  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 Crédit 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 Crédit Suisse early the next morning.

  ‘Hello, 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 scrap 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 Assumpta. 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. 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.’

  ‘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 Pass. 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 Pass. 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 offshore. It will be easy matter for them.’

  ‘When do we go to the Khyber Pass?’

  ‘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 passport photograph. Just wear open-neck casual shirt. No jacket or tie. You will now be member of my tribe, the Afridi. That’s what passport 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 passports 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 passport bearing some unpronounceable 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 pass 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 Pass, we passed 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 passports. 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 bullshit to them. They have always been Afridi. We are Afridi, both sides of mountains which you call Afghanistan–Pakistan 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 altitude, 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 shit 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 assessment. 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 Embassies and their families. In Karachi it wasn’t just the American and British Embassies that had a ‘drug man’ on their staff. The Dutch Embassy was another. The wife of their ‘drug man’ was being taught English by George and Assumpta. This amused me. The expatriate community here would clearly be quite small. I asked Assumpta 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.