Mr Nice: an autobiography (47 page)

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.

I had to go back to Hong Kong to pick up some money being sent over by Gerry. I would have to overnight in Bangkok. There are worse fates. Phil was out of the country, so I checked into the Bangkok Peninsula, which is walking distance from the Erawan Buddha. It was a Friday. Sompop was there.

‘
Sawabdee
, Kuhn Marks,
sawabdee
, Kuhn Marks. I have Buddha for you. Please wear always.’

He gave me what looked like an antique bronze coin, but it clearly wasn’t currency.

‘Wear always, Kuhn Marks, except when with woman or when in toilet or when in bath,
mai dee
. Wear in sea or lake is okay,
dee mak mak
. No harm come to you, Kuhn Marks. You have good luck. Buddha look after you. Tomorrow you buy gold chain for Buddha. Wear always, Kuhn Marks.’

‘
Ka poon kap
, Sompop, thank you. How is the
tuktuk
going?’

‘Ah, Kuhn Marks, Sompop no more have
tuktuk
. You give money. I buy flower-seller business. You number one, Kuhn Marks.’

Sompop now had a gang of flower sellers hawking their wares to free-spending businessmen having a night of drinking and fucking in Patpong. As a means of intelligence-gathering, these would be second to none. I tried him out.

‘Sompop, have you seen my friend, the one I was with when I first met you?’

‘You mean Kuhn Phil. I know him but he no recognise me. Two night ago, him drink in Kings Castle with big black
fahlang
and
fahlang
from Amsterdam. Last night he leave for Australia.’

So Mickey Williams had somehow got hold of Phil, and the Dutch air-freight scam had, presumably, been resurrected, this time without me. I couldn’t really complain. I didn’t own Phil, and it wasn’t I who had introduced him to Mickey. But I was glad to know what was going on. Sompop was proving most useful.

At a Bangkok’s jeweller’s I bought a gold chain and also set the Buddha into a gold frame. I put it round my neck. I would abide by its rules.

At Hong Kong I met Daniel, Gerry’s powerfully built boat skipper. An Alaskan crab boat had been bought. It was being prepared for its duties. Daniel gave me a few hundred thousand dollars. I gave it to Malik’s friend in BCCI. Daniel also gave me a ghetto-blaster which had been modified into a short-wave radio transmitter/receiver. One could sit on a beach with it and communicate to the boat without attracting attention. Daniel wanted me to take it to Karachi. He said Gerry was on his way to London to see me.

A night in Hong Kong, drinking in Bottoms Up, was followed by another night in Bangkok, and then a day in Karachi. I put Dan’s ghetto-blaster into a room in George and Assumpta’s house that had been set aside for my own use.

I flew to Zurich to meet Hobbs. I was still too nervous to go to Amsterdam. I owed them seven months of my life. Hobbs said he thought the Amsterdam telephone-switching system, through which the previous few months’ travel, meeting, and banking arrangements had all been made, had been compromised. He couldn’t put his finger on the problem. It was just a feeling he had. He looked extremely worried. I told him to close down the Amsterdam operation, give me a bunch of passport photographs, and have a holiday in Bangkok. I told him how to contact Sompop.

In London, Gerry Wills, together with a friend of his, Ron Allen, had arrived before me. They’d brought some money. I’d asked John Denbigh and Jarvis to relieve them of the cash
and take care of them until I got back. John and Jarvis both thought they had been observed during their meetings with Gerry and Ron. Another worry.

Ron Allen was from Chicago and was a major distributor of marijuana in the Midwest and Canada. Gerry wanted Ron to check the quality of the dope in Karachi. I couldn’t see that as presenting any problem.

Jimmy Newton gave me a false passport in the name of William Tetley. I gave him some money, orders for three false passports, and six photographs of Hobbs.

Hong Kong International Travel Centre’s Piccadilly office was officially opened by His Excellency Hu Ding-Yi, the Ambassador for the People’s Republic of China, and Madame Xie Heng, the Ambassador’s wife. His Excellency was introduced by Peter Brooke, the Member of Parliament for the area. Other guests included the Right Honourable Lord Bethell, MEP, senior members of foreign Embassies, and Hong Kong Government officials. Over a hundred people from the travel industry were present. I had invited all my family and friends. They would be impressed and comforted by my legitimate business success. We were the tenth largest travel agency in Great Britain, and we were doing most of the ticketing to Hong Kong and China. My daughter Francesca presented the Ambassador’s wife with a bouquet of flowers.

Balendo had become very keen on exploiting Malik’s relationship with Pakistan International Airlines to offer a cheap deal to China. He wanted to go to Pakistan and do some of his own travel research. I suggested he go immediately. I could use his company over there to lend credibility to my travel-agent cover. Visiting Karachi with two well-known American dope dealers, one needs all the front one can get.

Balendo, Gerry, Ron, and I flew separately to Karachi. I went first. I got drunk on the flight and reeled through
Karachi airport looking for George and Assumpta, whom I’d asked to meet me. They were nowhere to be seen. I thought they might be waiting in their car outside. I walked out into the open car park. I could see the yellow ILCK car about twenty yards away. George and Assumpta were standing by its side, waving. To my left was a white car with three Caucasians inside. The driver looked like Harlan Lee Bowe. I drunkenly staggered up to the car. It was Bowe.

‘You waiting for me?’ I slurred.

The three stared at me in embarrassed silence.

‘Come on, admit it. You’re waiting for me, aren’t you?’

‘Why do you think we are waiting for you?’ one of the others said in a pronounced Dutch accent. I guessed him to be Holland’s ‘drug man’ in Pakistan.

‘I’m expecting to be met. You’re obviously waiting for someone, aren’t you? Are you sure it’s not me? Who are you waiting for? What are you doing here?’

‘Look,’ drawled Bowe, ‘we are not here to meet you, okay. Who were you expecting to see?’

‘Someone who fits your description.’

‘His name?’ asked Bowe.

What the hell was I doing? It was definitely not cool to be having this drunken banter with the DEA and Dutch CRI while I was in the middle of the biggest deal I’d ever done from Pakistan. I wriggled out.

‘Ah, there’s the guy I’m meeting. Sorry.’

I walked over to the ILCK car and got inside.

Balendo was arriving the next day. At the arrivals hall, I was peculiarly pleased to catch sight of Her Majesty’s Customs and Excise Officer Michael Stephenson furtively creeping around and whispering to Pakistani Immigration Officers. Let him see me meet Balendo. Let him see my impenetrable straight front. This would be fun.

Balendo did not emerge. Stephenson had disappeared. I gave it another hour, then asked an Immigration Officer if any more passengers from London were still to come
through. I was told there were always some delays. I called Malik. Aftab and Malik arrived within about forty minutes. Malik had checked the passenger list. Balendo was on it. Malik had rung up the Immigration Department. Balendo was being detained. No further information.

I found this hard to take. Why would Balendo get held? If this happened to my straightest contact, what would happen when Gerry and Ron arrived tomorrow? Should I stop them?

Malik went to the airport Immigration Office. He would have a friend or cousin who worked there. After a while he reappeared with three Pakistani Immigration Officers and Balendo. Immigration were maintaining there was some irregularity in Balendo’s passport. It was a British Hong Kong passport, which as such did not entitle the bearer to quite the same range of privileges as a normal British passport. However, as Malik had offered to sponsor Balendo, it would be all right for Balendo to spend his intended few days in Pakistan. Malik seemed content with the explanation. I wasn’t. Perhaps simply because I’d noticed Stephenson.

George and Assumpta had employed a secretary for the school. She was one of the very few Chinese living in Pakistan. Her mother, Ellie, ran an illegal Chinese restaurant which was very popular with the Europeans, almost a home from home.

We thought it would be a good idea to take Balendo, who was staying with us in George’s house, for a meal. Some Cantonese noodles might help him recover from his immigration ordeal. Armed with a few bottles of wine, the four of us turned up at Ellie’s. Sitting at a table were Bowe, the Dutch cop, and a few others. On the wall above them was a large poster advertising the International Language Centre, Karachi. They looked astonished to see Balendo. They got up and left. We had a good meal.

Malik and Aftab were waiting for us at George’s house. The Immigration Department had just called Malik.
Balendo had to go back in detention. Malik had arranged that Balendo be ‘detained’ at the Karachi airport hotel, but that was the best he could do. We drove Balendo to the hotel. Balendo apparently fitted the description of a wanted Chinese heroin trafficker and could not be officially let into the country until extensive enquiries had been made.

Something was clearly adrift. Balendo has an enormous raspberry birthmark covering the side of his face. There isn’t another birthmark like it in the world.

The hotel was comfortable enough, but Balendo had seen enough of Karachi. He didn’t feel he could recommend it as a stopover to China. He wanted to go home. Malik fixed it.