Mr Nice

  The house in Mallorca was now eminently habitable, with swimming pool and various other luxuries/necessities such as three telephone lines, a radio-telephone, satellite television. Early in the New Year, we flew out to begin making it our main residence. We settled down into expatriate life and enrolled the children into Queen’s College, a nearby English-speaking school. Through parents’ meetings and other school functions we made friends with a few other English residents, in particular David Embley, a retired Birmingham businessman, and Geoffrey Kenion, a retired film and theatre actor who had starred in Agatha Christie’s The Mousetrap.

  I attended classes to learn Spanish. I played tennis. I drove the children to school every morning. I pottered around the house fiddling with electricity, hi-fi, and video. I took advantage of the exploding CD phenomenon and began a long-overdue study of classical music. There was very little about my behaviour to occasion comment. I was a straight Brit who’d made enough money to live in the sun. I patronised the local bars.

  Judy became pregnant again. Would we have a son this time?

  The Marcos government in the Philippines was overthrown in a bloodless coup. Marcos fled to Hawaii. Cory Aquino was in charge. She vowed to clean the place up. Moynihan rang a couple of times to assure me that he was still able to operate under the Aquino regime. He said that Joe Smith had resurfaced. He had successfully grown some more excellent-quality marijuana from Thai seeds and was anxious to do some business.

  ‘Champagne in Mozambique.’

  It was Ernie. Our hash was in Mexico. Rather than take the load directly from Pakistan to California, it had been decided to unload in Mexico, where Ron Allen had excellent connections. Mozambique had been our code for Mexico since my Old Bailey trial. From Mexico, manageable amounts of about a ton or so would be taken as needed by private planes over the border to Texas. Road transport would then deliver the hash to Ernie’s stashes in California, from where it would be sold to wholesalers. There was still a while to go, but an important phase, the Pacific crossing, had been safely accomplished. The Philippine telephone station, which had only had to take one call, was shut down.

  After marrying a couple more Hong Kong hookers, Jim Hobbs moved to Portugal to set up a new telephone station. Before it became operational, he was busted in a Lisbon back street with his arms around a young homosexual prostitute. A few Hong Kong harlots now had grounds for divorce. I gave some money to a friend of Hobbs to get him a lawyer and help him through.

  ‘Champagne in my room.’

  The hash had hit Los Angeles. Ernie was going to take his time selling it to get a good price. I should carry on my life as normal. It would still take some time before I’d be paid. Traditionally, the boat crew are the first to get paid. After that it’s a bit of a mad scramble, but Ernie had always ensured that I’d got my share pretty quickly.

  Weeks of normality fused with expectation drifted enjoyably by. Ernie called once a week with a progress report. I maintained a life of blissful domesticity. Then one day Gerry Wills called with the appalling news that Ernie and his girlfriend Patty had been arrested at their room in Los Angeles. They were registered under a false name. Gerry didn’t know how serious the bust was, but there was talk of dope and money being found in the room. Ernie had violated his conditions of probation, but as the majority of the load was still safely in Mexico, there couldn’t be any serious financial loss. It would be best to let things cool down a little and not try to sell any more hash until we knew the facts.

  That was fine with me. I had plenty of money. I had more time to enjoy my family life. Ernie’s bust sounded minor. He’d get out soon. He did last time.

  It wasn’t, however, fine with everybody. Daniel, who had now taken the boat to Australia, was under pressure to pay the crew. Malik claimed to have most of the mujaheddin pestering him every day, demanding their share. People wanted paying.

  Patty was released on bail. According to her, the DEA did not seem to know of the existence of a ten-ton load. They were busting her and Ernie for a pound of hash, boldly displaying Gerry’s logo, and $50,000 found in their hotel room. Nothing else. Nevertheless, Ernie had strenuously suggested that there should be no more sales carried out until he was free.

  The dealers to whom Ernie had advanced the hash before his arrest began to take advantage of Patty. Hundreds of thousands of dollars disappeared in various rip-offs. Gerry couldn’t hold off his creditors any longer. I agreed to his taking control of the sales that were left. Gerry explained that, unlike Ernie, he was unable to transfer large amounts of money out of the United States via banks. His workers were too tied up with sales to courier money over. I would have to take the responsibility for transferring the money due to me and Malik.

  I rang up Patrick Lane, who had now moved to Miami, to get him to renew his connections with the New York money launderers he’d used during the 1980 Colombian marijuana scam. He would also ask Bruce Aitken in Hong Kong. He’d be happy to be back in business.

  John Denbigh agreed to go over to the United States, physically collect all the money due from Gerry, look after it, and give suitable amounts to Patrick for transfer to my account in Crédit Suisse, Hong Kong.

  Quite a number of the new friends I’d made in Mallorca learned of my nefarious past. I made no secret of it. I had a feeling Geoffrey Kenion, who was just embarking upon a new business venture, would welcome the prospect of earning a little extra cash. I asked if he would be prepared to carry some money from the United States for a fee of 10%. He jumped at it.

  I had a feeling David Embley would be equally keen. I was wrong. He was a Name at Lloyd’s. He wasn’t particularly short of money and didn’t want to take that kind of risk, but if there was anything else he could do to help, please let him know.

  John Denbigh had not long left for the United States when I received a very unwelcome call from him.

  ‘Your dog is sick.’

  Cockney slang is not my strong point, but this statement had only one possible interpretation: my telephone at home was tapped, and now whoever was tapping it knew that I knew. There didn’t seem much point in asking ‘Do you mean Bonzo or Rover?’

  John went on to explain that during Ernie’s arraignment and pre-trial court proceedings, the prosecution had inadvertently let it be known that the DEA and Spanish police had installed wire interceptions on my phone lines in Palma the previous December.

  International dope smugglers have to make thousands of phone calls. There are many who say they never use the phone because it’s too insecure. They are either lying or not doing any business. Dope smuggling is fraught with unexpected obstacles. Problems have to be solved quickly. The multinational and multicultural nature of the personnel involved severely limits the possibility of utilising any workable encryption of the intended content of the phone call. All dealers and smugglers use simple and fairly transparent codes. Any attempt at sophisticated coding quickly leads to disastrous misunderstandings. I have never heard or made a dope-smuggling call which isn’t obviously just that. The precautions taken to code calls are largely a waste of time. But these precautions become habits, and they’re a lot of fun. Furthermore, they do most definitely serve to confuse whoever is listening. Names used for people and places change and evolve at high speed. Different people use different nicknames for each other. Without an intimate knowledge of the callers’ lives together, an on-the-spot deciphering by a third person can prove impossible. It is more effective than modern technology. Attempts to use state-of-the-art scramblers result in hunks of useless and unworkable gadgetry littering Himalayan mountain tops and bottom drawers of dope dealers’ offices in the West.

  So telephone calls had to continue, some to and from my home made in the certain knowledge that the DEA were listening to them. But the name of the game was not to convince the DEA that John Denbigh, Gerry Wills, and I were really a gang of travel agents. The name of the game was to ensure they didn’t bust us or any more of our dope or money. Half a kilo of hash was not m
uch out of ten thousand kilos, and $50,000 not much out of $25,000,000 but it had been an ill omen.

  Crucial calls, i.e. those pinpointing locations of dope or money, would, of course, have to be made between locations that were not subject to known wire-taps. Telephone boxes are best, but some countries’ public telephones do not allow calls to be received. Spain is such a country. For that reason alone, it’s a silly place for a dope dealer to live. One has to make complicated arrangements. With the increase of participation occasioned by Ernie’s demise and with a wire-tap on my home phone, I would be needing some virgin telephone numbers. I asked David Embley if he would unofficially rent a flat and telephone for me to use. He agreed.

  The conversion of our home in La Vileta had been done by a Mallorquian named Justo. We enjoyed a good business relationship and sometimes would socialise together. He also had a travel agency in Palma. I told Justo that I occasionally needed to receive telephone calls at locations not directly connected with me. He very kindly allowed me to use his travel agency for that purpose whenever I wished. He also introduced me to some friendly Mallorquian bar owners who were perfectly happy for me to receive phone calls at their establishments.

  Restaurant owners whom Judy and I had come to know through our regular custom were most accommodating about letting me receive calls while sampling their wares. Pavan’s, a Thai restaurant in Santa Ponsa, would be ideal for incoming calls from Bangkok. The Taj Mahal in Magaluf was perfect for calls from Pakistan.

  I could receive calls at the tennis club. I could receive calls at Bob’s Restaurante La Vileta. I could receive calls at numerous people’s houses. It was all just a matter of timing: being there when the phone rang.

  It worked fine. Geoffrey Kenion brought over a couple of hundred thousand dollars. His commission helped him to open Wellies, a waterfront restaurant and bar in Puerto Portals. Patrick sent several hundred thousand dollars to my account in Crédit Suisse, Hong Kong. John Denbigh also knew someone in New York who could transfer cash outside of the United States. The dollars piled up in Hong Kong.

  Malik needed paying, and he needed to see me. He deserved a full explanation. I would soon have to go to Hong Kong to visit my bank. Moynihan and Joe Smith wanted to see me in Manila. Phil wanted to see me in Bangkok. I made plans to leave. David Embley, who had often salivated when I referred to my Bangkok massage parlour, asked if he could pay the place a visit at his own expense. I gladly said yes. I wanted to create as much confusion as possible. My travelling with David would puzzle those on my tail.

  First I flew to Zurich, where I had no money, and wandered into a couple of banks, where I had no accounts. Leaving Zurich airport for Bangkok, where I had no dope, I had my briefcase thoroughly searched by the security guards. This had never happened to me before at Zurich.

  I saw Phil in Bangkok. He was nervous. He admitted to me his involvement in the resurrected Dutch air-freight scam. It had involved Air Canada and one of the loads had just got busted in Heathrow. There had been several arrests. I saw Sompop.

  ‘Sawabdee, Kuhn Marks. I have two more for you. You must wear three now for good luck.’

  He gave me two more Buddhas. I put my hand in my pocket to bring out some money.

  ‘No, no, Kuhn Marks. No money for Sompop. Please give to poor children.’

  ‘Okay, Sompop. Tell me where to give.’

  Sompop took me to Rajavithi Road to Bangkok’s Foundation for the Welfare of the Crippled. I gave them a donation of $3,000. They put my name on a marble board.

  I went to a Bangkok jeweller, encrusted the two new Buddhas in gold, and fixed all three Buddhas on a large gold chain.

  I flew from Bangkok to Manila, checked into the Mandarin, and went out drinking. The Firehouse Bar in Del Pilar was known for its music and dancing. Females outnumbered males by ten to one. The place was packed, throbbing and simmering in Manila’s tropical night heat. I went to the bathroom and splashed coolish water on my face. My shirt was wide open exposing chunks of magical Buddhist gold. The bathroom door opened. In walked a strong young Filipino. He stared at the riches hanging around my neck, looked around, and took out a knife. A grin crossed his face as he turned into one of the characters I had read about in children’s pirate stories. He was going for me. I started getting scared.

  And then an earthquake happened. The ground trembled violently, objects fell off walls, and people were tearing madly through the bathroom seeking the emergency exit. I was carried out into the safety of the street by the crowd. These Buddhas were powerful stuff.

  Apparently earthquakes happen quite often in the Philippines, and life was back to normal within a few hours. I stayed in my hotel until David Embley arrived. We went out drinking.

  Malik arrived in Manila. As I had expected, he was very understanding about all the problems that had occurred in the United States. Although he was pressed for money, he would be patient and wait for the will of Allah. There was no doubt that Malik and I were under observation. We kept seeing the same shifty American characters lurking around us wherever we went. It didn’t bother me. It certainly didn’t bother Malik.

  ‘Let American pigs follow. They don’t matter any more in East. Early this year they lose Marcos from Philippines and Baby Doc from Haiti. These were two very big friends of America. Last month American pigs bomb Libya and kill Gaddafi family, using your country, D. H. Marks, as aircraft carrier. For many years Americans destroy Beirut and Arab world for sake of Jewish peoples. In the East, they are devil. Let them stew in their own juice and eat their own meat. In two days, I am going to Damascus to see political friend. After that, I go to Islamabad to meet Pakistan Government financier for paper-mill business. Let American pigs follow.’

  ‘Why do you tolerate people like Harlan Lee Bowe in your country, though, Malik?’

  ‘Harlan Lee Bowe and all DEA are in Pakistan under cover of diplomatic status. Until now, Pakistan has allowed American diplomats in Pakistan. Don’t forget, D. H. Marks, America and Pakistan are on same side against India in Kashmir dispute and on same side against Russian invasion of Afghanistan. But because of Libya slaughter, Pakistan might expel American diplomats. Then there will be no DEA.’

  ‘But Bowe seems completely off the wall, Malik, much worse than the average DEA agent.’

  ‘They are same. All DEA are same. They come to Pakistan. Government gives them big house with servants. DEA very pleased with this luxury: man to open garage door, two bearers to bring in food, many cooks and cleaners, chauffeur, and many more. DEA do not know that all their servants every day give report to people in mother-business. Afridi friend of mine cleans up the desk of Harlan Lee Bowe every morning. In afternoon Afridi come to me with full account. If we want, it is simple matter to get rid of Harlan Lee Bowe. But why? He will be replaced by same type American pig, who maybe doesn’t want Pakistani servant. It is better to keep the Harlan Lee Bowe. We know him. We know this devil.’

  The next day was another Sunday lunch at Lord Moynihan’s. Joe Smith was there. I took Malik along to impress him. Moynihan was a senior Freemason. So was David Embley. I took David along to confuse Moynihan.

  Marcos’s expulsion seemed to have given Moynihan more power rather than less. Joining us for lunch were three of the new Aquino Government’s Sequestering Department. They toured the country looking for land belonging to Marcos’s cronies. They had just grabbed Imelda Marcos’s extravagant summer palace in Leite. Moynihan maintained that he was thinking of turning it into a hotel. He addressed us all.

  ‘Well, gentlemen, I trust you enjoyed lunch. Mr Malik, I feel I should apologise for entertaining you in what must appear to be, given the recent bloodless coup, a rather spineless country. I can’t imagine the Pakistani Army being brought to a standstill by a gathering of flag-waving nuns.’

  ‘That was the Marcos regime,’ said one of the sequestrators. ‘The army was demoralised. Under Aquino, the morale will quickly return.’

  ‘I must say I am behind you all the way. One needs a s
trong army. And I must say I do approve of the way you are creatively dealing with the previous regime’s ill-gotten gains. My foreign guests here are investors of the shrewdest kind, and they see good possibilities now in the Philippines.’

  ‘Would your honoured guests be interested to see the onetime summer palace of Mrs Marcos in Leite? Her collection of shoes is still there.’

  Moynihan looked at us expectantly. The three of us nodded vague enthusiasm. Moynihan went on. ‘Then I suggest the following. Joe has his private plane in Manila airport. Let’s all fly down to Davao, stay a night, eat some tuna jawbone for lunch the next day, fly up to Leite, look at the summer palace of Lady Imelda, I mean Mrs Marcos, and fly on back. I think that would be a lot of fun. Howard and I could play Trivial Pursuit on the plane. Shall we do it?’

  ‘You mean you want me to fuel my plane, rent some pilots, and fly across the country just to eat some fucking fish heads and look at women’s shoes?’

  ‘It’s rather more than that, Joe, really,’ protested Moynihan.

  ‘Oh, I’ll do it,’ said Joe. ‘I’ll go down to the airport now to see to it.’

  He walked out, tossing me a small bag of his home-grown Thai/Philippine grass.

  The next morning, Moynihan, Joe, Embley, and I were flown to Davao by two pilots in Joe’s private turbo-prop. Malik had to return to Pakistan and could not join us. I clutched my Buddhas as we almost hit a dog on landing. A short way from the landing strip, squeezed between the jungle and the ocean, was a hotel called the Intercontinental. It didn’t look like an Intercontinental. The mail was delivered by a windsurfer. People from anthropology documentaries ran up and down palm trees and emerged from the sea clutching enormous lobsters. The bar played Noël Coward. Joe and I walked into the jungle and smoked some of his stuff. Pretty girls pretending to be savages danced around us.

  After a drunken night, we drove quite a long way through the rebel strongholds of Mindanao. Kidnaps and robberies were common in these areas. I had my Buddhas. At the edge of an estuary was a collection of huts on poles. A raft took us to one of the huts. It was a café which served only the jawbone of the tuna and was the only place in the world that did so. I can’t remember the taste.