Mr Nice: an autobiography (31 page)

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?

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.