Mr Nice_ An Autobiography Part 5

Mohammed Durrani had a variety of ways of getting has.h.i.+sh into Europe. The most common was in the personal effects of Pakistani diplomats taking up positions in Pakistani emba.s.sies and consular offices throughout Europe. Durrani would arrange with the diplomat to put about a ton of has.h.i.+sh into the diplomat's personal furniture and belongings before they left Pakistan. A diplomat's personal effects would be unlikely to be searched on arrival, and he could always claim diplomatic immunity or blame it on the Pakistani s.h.i.+ppers if the dope was accidentally discovered. On this occasion, the personal effects had been delivered to the diplomat's residence in Bonn. Patrick and I had to rifle through the cabin trunks, remove the has.h.i.+sh, and drive it to a disused gravel pit near Cologne, where Dutch Nik, Dutch Pete, and other Dutch would pick it up and smuggle it to England. Everything went without a hitch, and after taking care of sales in London, I'd made another 7,500.

Graham had made a great deal more and was intent on legitimising his hard-earned money in the form of respectable London businesses. He had met Patrick and liked him. He needed a bent accountant and felt Patrick would be ideal. I could see no disadvantage. Soon Graham and Patrick had established a carpet shop, Hamdullah, and a property company, Zeitgeist, at 3, Warwick Place, Little Venice. They carried appropriate business cards which they flashed at every opportunity.

My lifestyle went from expensive to outrageously flamboyant. In London, Brighton, Oxford, and Bristol, I would pick up the tab at every bar and restaurant I visited. Any of my friends who wished to merely smoke has.h.i.+sh rather than sell it would be given as much as they wanted free of charge. There are few things that give me more pleasure in life than getting people very stoned and giving them good food and wine, but meanwhile I could see very well the sense of using some of my money to set myself up in the way Graham was doing. It would have to be on a smaller scale, but in principle it could be done.

Redmond and Belinda O'Hanlon were undergraduate friends of mine at Oxford. Redmond was now at St Anthony's doing a D.Phil. on Darwin's effect on nineteenth-century English literature while Belinda was running a small dressmaking business with Anna Woodhead, the Spanish wife of Anthony Woodhead, another Oxford undergraduate friend. Their clientele were largely Oxford University ladies looking for suitable ball dresses. Anna and Belinda were badly under-capitalised. I gave them the impression that I had recently inherited some money. We agreed to go into business together from small, tucked-away premises near Oxford railway station. Using cash, I bought a bunch of sewing-machines and formed a company, AnnaBelinda Ltd. It immediately did well, and we looked for suitable street-front rental premises to open up a boutique. We found them at 6, Gloucester Street, where AnnaBelinda still stands.

A few more Durrani scams occurred, but they involved significantly smaller amounts. Occasionally I would drive a stashed car across a European border. I'd get a religious flash and an as.e.xual o.r.g.a.s.m every time I did. Marty Langford and a couple of other Kenfig Hill school friends, Mike Bell and David Thomas, were also living in London doing boring and menial jobs. I gave each the opportunity of working for me moving and stas.h.i.+ng has.h.i.+sh, taking telephone calls, and counting money. Each took it, and I was no longer exposing the London flat to the dangers inherent in street dealing: they were exposing theirs. The four of us were probably London's only Welsh criminal gang, and were jokingly referred to by our fellow dealers as the Tafia. It was dangerous fun. But I was spending almost as much as I was earning. Thousands of pounds a month were not enough.

Four.

MR McCARTHY.

Charlie Radcliffe, Graham, and I were smoking joints and counting money in Graham's Marylands Road flat. We were bemoaning our poverty. Although we were grateful to Mohammed Durrani's Pakistani diplomats for smuggling has.h.i.+sh into Europe and giving it to us to sell, we were jealous of the amount of money they were making. We would make about 20% of the selling price in London. The diplomats and Durrani made the rest. We, or the Dutch, had to drive the dope into England and then deliver it to wholesalers in London. It was a risky business, particularly with road blocks now being set up all over the place to catch IRA activists. We were taking all the chances, while the Pakistanis were taking none. There was no chance of getting the has.h.i.+sh for a better price in Europe. The Pakistanis knew full well that there were plenty of buyers more than willing to pay at least as much as we were. We couldn't beat them down.

'If only we could find our own way of getting hash in,' said Graham, 'we would become so rich. Don't either of you know anyone who works in a key position in an airport or in the docks somewhere?'

I didn't.

'I could try Cardiff, Graham,' I suggested. 'There are probably some old school friends of mine working in a freight department somewhere. I could go drinking in the pubs where dock and airport workers hang out. I'll find someone who needs to supplement his income, I'm sure.'

'Good idea,' complimented Graham, but without much enthusiasm.

Charlie spoke up. 'I've just met someone who I'm sure will be able to bring in some hash. I interviewed him for Friends Friends. He's an IRA guy. If he can smuggle in guns, he can smuggle in dope.'

Friends was an underground magazine. Its editor was a South African named Alan Marcuson. Charlie and his lady, Tina, lived in Alan's Hampstead flat. Together with Mike Lessor's was an underground magazine. Its editor was a South African named Alan Marcuson. Charlie and his lady, Tina, lived in Alan's Hampstead flat. Together with Mike Lessor's International Times International Times and Richard Neville's and Richard Neville's Oz Oz, Friends Friends catered for the tastes and beliefs of 1960s drop-outs, dope dealers, rock musicians, acid-heads, and anyone with a social conscience. The underground press was unanimously opposed to the British presence in Northern Ireland. The IRA's struggle was seen as championing the causes of the world's downtrodden and poverty-stricken Catholics. How could one not sympathise? There were increasing doubts and worries, of course, about the violent methods used by the IRA, particularly the Provisional IRA, which had recently broken away from the Official IRA to form a terrorist splinter group. There was also discomfort about the IRA's rather puritanical stance on smoking dope. catered for the tastes and beliefs of 1960s drop-outs, dope dealers, rock musicians, acid-heads, and anyone with a social conscience. The underground press was unanimously opposed to the British presence in Northern Ireland. The IRA's struggle was seen as championing the causes of the world's downtrodden and poverty-stricken Catholics. How could one not sympathise? There were increasing doubts and worries, of course, about the violent methods used by the IRA, particularly the Provisional IRA, which had recently broken away from the Official IRA to form a terrorist splinter group. There was also discomfort about the IRA's rather puritanical stance on smoking dope.

The current issue of Friends Friends carried a very lengthy piece on the IRA, which included an interview with a Belfast member, James Joseph McCann. In the interview he admitted to a petty-criminal childhood in Belfast which led to an involvement during the 1960s with South London's most powerful and feared gangster, Charlie Richardson. A spell in Her Majesty's Prison, Parkhurst, Britain's heaviest nick, had converted McCann into a poet and proponent of Irish nationalism. His poetry sucked, but his rhetoric seemed quite persuasive, especially when it took the form of explicit threat. McCann missed the criminal glamour and clearly felt there would be an even greater opportunity for money, deviousness, and deceit in becoming an Irish folk hero. He achieved this longed-for status by throwing Molotov c.o.c.ktails at Belfast's Queen's University, declaring himself as an IRA man, giving himself up to the authorities, and subsequently escaping from Crumlin Road prison. It was the first escape from there since World War II. He was now on the run in Eire, presenting himself to press photographers in badly fitting military wear and brandis.h.i.+ng a variety of lethal weapons, claiming to have smuggled them into Dublin. Belfast schoolchildren mocked and jeered at British soldiers patrolling the Andersonstown streets yelling, 'Where's your man McCann? Where's your man McCann?' He was a hero all right. carried a very lengthy piece on the IRA, which included an interview with a Belfast member, James Joseph McCann. In the interview he admitted to a petty-criminal childhood in Belfast which led to an involvement during the 1960s with South London's most powerful and feared gangster, Charlie Richardson. A spell in Her Majesty's Prison, Parkhurst, Britain's heaviest nick, had converted McCann into a poet and proponent of Irish nationalism. His poetry sucked, but his rhetoric seemed quite persuasive, especially when it took the form of explicit threat. McCann missed the criminal glamour and clearly felt there would be an even greater opportunity for money, deviousness, and deceit in becoming an Irish folk hero. He achieved this longed-for status by throwing Molotov c.o.c.ktails at Belfast's Queen's University, declaring himself as an IRA man, giving himself up to the authorities, and subsequently escaping from Crumlin Road prison. It was the first escape from there since World War II. He was now on the run in Eire, presenting himself to press photographers in badly fitting military wear and brandis.h.i.+ng a variety of lethal weapons, claiming to have smuggled them into Dublin. Belfast schoolchildren mocked and jeered at British soldiers patrolling the Andersonstown streets yelling, 'Where's your man McCann? Where's your man McCann?' He was a hero all right.

'Would he go for it, though, Charlie?' I asked. 'You know what these guys are like about dope. They'd tar and feather someone for smoking a joint. They think it pollutes their youth. They aren't going to help anyone bring it into Ireland, that's for sure.'

'Howard, Jim McCann actually smokes almost as much dope as we do. He's got no problems with it.'

'It's a first-cla.s.s suggestion,' said Graham, this time with enormous enthusiasm. 'Can you set up a meeting?'

A week later Graham and I landed at Cork airport, our first visit to Southern Ireland. We went to the car hire desk. It was called Murray Hertz.

'Now! What are you?' asked the Murray Hertz employee.

'What do you mean?' asked a very puzzled Graham.

'Your profession. I'll be needing it for my files.'

'I'm an artist,' stammered Graham.

'Now! Tell me. Why would an artist be wanting a car on a day like this? And what about your man there? Will he be holding your brushes?'

We gave up and went to the Avis desk, where they tried harder. They gave us a car, and we drove through the misty night to Ballinskelligs, where some time ago Alan Marcuson had rented a fisherman's cottage and placed it at McCann's disposal. Its telephone number was Ballinskelligs 1, and it lay next to a former lunatic asylum for nuns.

'Thank G.o.d you've arrived,' said Alan, 'but you mustn't do anything with Jim, whatever Charlie said. The man's a dangerous lunatic. He's got a boot full of explosives in a car parked right outside, he's stashed guns in the nuns' nuthouse, he's got me looking after this dog, he's stoned or drunk all day, he keeps bringing IRA guys here, and every policeman in Ireland's looking for him. I've never been so scared in my life. Humour him when he comes back from the pub, but don't think of doing business with him. He'll be busted in a flash.'

Jim McCann, drunkenly reeling and staggering, fell through the door and gave the sleeping dog a hefty kick up the a.r.s.e. He ignored me and Graham, farted loudly, and stared at the dog.

'Look at that f.u.c.king dog! What about you? You don't give him any exercise, Alan. It's wrong, I'm telling you. Look at that f.u.c.king dog!'

Alan, Graham, and I stared blankly at the still sleeping mongrel. So this was your man McCann. An Irish freedom fighter.

McCann's eyes s.h.i.+fted from the dog to me. 'You from Kabul, are you?'

'No, I'm Welsh, actually.'

'Wels.h.!.+ f.u.c.king Wels.h.!.+ Jesus Christ. What the f.u.c.k can you do? Why are you here?'

'I've got to help decide whether you could be of any use to us.'

'Use to you!' McCann screamed. 'Listen. Get this f.u.c.king straight. I'm the Kid. The Fox. I decide if youse any f.u.c.king use to me. Not the other f.u.c.king way round. And youse better be of some f.u.c.king use. We need some arms for the struggle. You hear me, do you? Youse were followed from the airport by my boys. This place is f.u.c.king surrounded by the IRA. Any f.u.c.king around, and you're gone, brother, gone.'

He turned and addressed Graham, 'Are you from Kabul, then?'

'Well, not exactly ...'

'Why have you brought me these two w.a.n.kers, Alan? I thought you were going to bring me someone who could get me arms from Kabul.'

'I've been to Kabul,' said Graham, attempting to save the situation.

'Can you get me some guns from there, then? Yes or no. Either s.h.i.+t or get off the pot. I've got John Lennon coming round here this evening. Time's short.'

'Kabul is not a place that sells arms,' Graham explained.

'What the f.u.c.k do you mean? Sell arms? I don't buy f.u.c.king arms. I get given them for the struggle by people who want to insure their future when we finally kick you f.u.c.king Brits out of my country. What's a f.u.c.king Welsh c.u.n.t doing selling arms anyway? You should stick to painting road signs.'

'Jim,' I said, 'we're a couple of hash smugglers. We want to know if you're able to get the stuff in for us. We'll pay you a lot for doing it.'

'Where's the has.h.i.+sh coming from?'

'Kabul.'

'Where the f.u.c.k's that, you Welsh p.r.i.c.k?'

The conversation was in danger of getting out of control. Graham came to the rescue.

'Kabul is the capital of Afghanistan. But we can also get it out of Karachi, Pakistan. Do you have any suggestions of how we could get it into Ireland?'

'Put it into a coffin. You understand me, do you? They never search those. I'll give youse the address to send it. My brother Brendan knows the priest. Our Gerard can drive the hea.r.s.e, and our Peter will make sure no one touches it.'

Not the best scam. Not even original, but at least we were talking the same language. I brightened up a bit, but Graham seemed unimpressed.

'Handling coffins has its problems in places like Kabul, Jim. It really does. There'd be all sorts of paperwork to do. They'd want to know the ident.i.ty of the corpse, etcetera.'

'Alan f.u.c.king told me youse could do anything from Kabul. Youse can't get ahold of any guns there. Youse can't even get ahold of a dead f.u.c.king body. I'll send youse a dead f.u.c.king body with a f.u.c.king pa.s.sport tied round his neck so those idjits in Kabul know who the f.u.c.k he is. Where the f.u.c.k's John Lennon? He's late again. Go upstairs and call him, Alan.'

Alan disappeared up the stairs, scratching his head.

'He's not getting a f.u.c.king penny,' said Jim, pointing up the stairs. 'That's my first condition. Charlie Radcliffe doesn't get a f.u.c.king penny either. That's condition number two. Condition number three. I want 500 cash, now, to set everything up, and I want 5,000 for doing it.'

I spoke up, 'Jim, if we just sent you some boxes, not a coffin, just some boxes, to the airport, would you and your brothers be able to get them?'

'Of course we could, you Welsh a.r.s.ehole. What do you think I've been telling youse for the last ten minutes? We run this f.u.c.king country. Give me some of that f.u.c.king joint.'

Graham, getting noticeably tired, reached into his pocket and said, 'Okay, Jim, here's 500. Let us know when you have an address for us to send you some boxes. I'm going to bed now.'

Graham and Alan pa.s.sed each other on the stairs. Alan yawned and told Jim, 'There was no answer from that number you gave me for Lennon.'

'He must be on his way. You fancy a pint of Guinness, H'ard? Alan will wait here for John Lennon. A couple of the boys might be coming, too, so they'll keep John company when we're having a wee drink.'

We walked in total silence to a shop a hundred yards away. It was about 2 a.m., dark, and foggy. Jim banged at the door hard and long. It was opened by an elderly farmer, who led us through the shop into a bar at the back. About a dozen people of a.s.sorted sizes and professions were downing pints of Guinness and breaking into song. Jim had left just a couple of hours ago and was greeted by warm cries of 'How about yer, Seamus.' We sat at a table and were brought several pints of Guinness. Jim began telling me his life story or someone's life story. Essentially, his account was the same as what had appeared in Friends Friends with even further embellishments. He asked me details of my past. I told him. with even further embellishments. He asked me details of my past. I told him.

'So, youse a f.u.c.king Oxford academic, are you? The f.u.c.king brains of this f.u.c.king crazy gang from Kabul. The Welsh wizard. Oxford? You're not British Intelligence, are you? Coming to catch the Kid? Who do you sell all the dope to? Other f.u.c.king academics and hippie s.h.i.+t? Do you just carry a f.u.c.king bag down to Brighton seafront and go to Hyde Park for big deals? I know people who can sell dope in Brighton. You know the Weavers, don't you? Or Nicky Hoogstratten? You must know him, for Christ's sake?'

'I know of them, Jim, but don't really know them.'

The Weavers were Brighton's best-known criminal family. The capo capo was James Weaver, who had been sentenced to death for murder and kidnap but who had later been reprieved. The family were known for taking a dim view of any of its rank and file who succ.u.mbed to the temptation of selling recreational substances. Nicholas Hoogstratten was Brighton's millionaire slum landlord. His heavies were continually evicting impoverished, dope-smoking hippies. was James Weaver, who had been sentenced to death for murder and kidnap but who had later been reprieved. The family were known for taking a dim view of any of its rank and file who succ.u.mbed to the temptation of selling recreational substances. Nicholas Hoogstratten was Brighton's millionaire slum landlord. His heavies were continually evicting impoverished, dope-smoking hippies.

'I could sell the dope for you. I could sell it here in Ireland. There was a bust in Dublin last week.'

There had indeed been a bust in Dublin. It was of half a pound of has.h.i.+sh, and a Dublin police chief had described it on television as Ireland's biggest 'burst'. I wasn't at all sure if any dope-smuggling venture with McCann could possibly work. But if it did, it would definitely be a bad idea for him to be hawking our has.h.i.+sh around the streets of Dublin, gathering all the cash and probably getting 'bursted'.

'Jim, surely it would be better that none of the gear gets sold in Ireland. We don't want the cops thinking that the dope's being imported into this country. Once you get the gear, give it to me, and I'll take it over on the ferry to Wales, drive it to London, and sell it. In a couple of days, I'll drive back on the ferry with the money, if you want it here.'

'I want my money in Amsterdam.'

'That's fine, Jim.'

'Can you get me any guns, and bring those over on this f.u.c.king Welsh ferry? It would help the cause.'

'No, Jim.'

'What about p.o.r.nographic movies? Bring all you can.'

'Yes, Jim, I can do that.'

A record player was turned on, and some of the other drinkers began dancing an Irish jig. Jim joined them. I went to the bar and bought drinks all round. There was a telephone on the counter. Its number was also Ballinskelligs 1. The revelry continued until dawn. Jim and I were the last to leave.

We walked across soaking wet fields. The sea was a few yards away. Through patches in the early morning mist, we could see nearby small islands.

'That's Scarriff Island. John Lennon's buying it. We probably missed him when we were in the pub. Still, it was a good crack. Better than a f.u.c.king Welsh pub, I'm sure.'

Back at the fisherman's cottage, Graham and Alan were still soundly asleep. There was no sign of John Lennon. Jim and I smoked some joints.

'You know condoms are illegal in Ireland, Howard. But they won't be for long. Once we get the Brits out, we're getting rid of the f.u.c.king priests, and people will be able to f.u.c.k each other without having wee kids to support. It's a British conspiracy to keep us poor. Charging us for s.e.x, a kid a f.u.c.k. I'm forming a company called Durex Novelty Balloons, so Durex will have to call their condoms some other f.u.c.king name, and they won't sell any. You hear me? Dan Murray did the same with Hertz. We'll screw those f.u.c.king capitalists. But I have to get some money first. I might need you there, H'ard. Let's go to the shop and buy something to eat. I'm f.u.c.king starving.'

We traipsed back over the wet fields, this time pa.s.sing the nuns' lunatic asylum. 'That's our arms dump,' said Jim. 'We could hole up here for months.'

The same shop/bar we had not long left had now opened for its breakfast trade. A kindly lady was serving customers enormous breakfasts, and a young lad was selling groceries. At the back, last night's mess remained uncleared at the bar, but five characters were propping it up and swallowing Guinness. The bar phone rang. It was for Jim. I looked aimlessly at the groceries, then sat down at a table in the bar. Jim walked back.

'Was it John Lennon?' I asked.

'No, it's Graham and Alan. They're coming over now for some food. Don't say a f.u.c.king thing about what we've been talking about. That's important. You hear me.'

I was wondering how Ballinskelligs 1 could dial Ballinskelligs 1. Jim ordered four large breakfasts and four pints of Guinness. They were ready when Graham and Alan arrived. They said it was too early for them to drink, so Jim and I drank their Guinness.

'Jim, we have to fly back to London today. Is there anything further to discuss?' asked Graham.

'No. I'll see you in seven to ten days. I'm away.'

With that, Jim got up, shook our hands, and walked out of the shop.

'So, what do you think?' I asked Graham and Alan.

'You've got to forget it,' said Alan. 'The man's nuts. All this John Lennon nonsense. And he's got no idea where Kabul is.'

'I think he can do it,' said Graham. 'He's the kind of person who can get away with things. Look, we should leave now and get on the road. I have to get to London.'

On the way back to Cork airport, we pa.s.sed near Blarney. I wanted to stop and kiss the stone to get some luck. Graham said there was no time. This was the area where my great-great-grandfather, Patrick Marks, then McCarthy, spent his young life. How Irish did this make me?

At Cork airport, I picked up a payphone and asked the operator for Ballinskelligs 1. A beautiful Irish voice said, 'Now, who would you be wanting: Michael Murphy's, the shop, the farm, or the strangers? Two arrived last night, but they've gone early this morning.'

'To whom am I speaking?' I asked.

'Why now, I'm the Ballinskelligs operator.'

It all made a bit more sense now, but it was still weird.

There were things to do back home. The new AnnaBelinda premises included a self-contained flat. Rosie, Emily, and I were leaving both our Brighton and our London flats to go and live there and open the planned-for up-market boutique. I supervised, or rather smoked joints and watched, the extensive refurbis.h.i.+ng of the one-time transport cafe. The dress-shop front was beginning to look good and was already attracting a great deal of the city and university's interest. Pattern-cutting and other workshop rooms sprouted out of the timber and sawdust. The flat was comfortable, and there were separate offices. In one of these I had an interior decorating company which, with an accommodating local builder, Robin Murray, I'd formed primarily for the purpose of being able to fiddle the accounts when refurbis.h.i.+ng the premises. Although money-laundering then was nothing approaching the problem it is these days, one still had to be a little devious if one ventured from underground. I definitely didn't want the authorities to know how much money I had. Accordingly, I paid a lot of money in cash for the refurbis.h.i.+ng, but the accounts showed an expenditure of considerably less. Another office was set aside to convert my hobby of collecting stamps into a philatelic business. My plan was to buy in my own name ma.s.sive quant.i.ties of unsorted stamps, known in the trade as kiloware, at cheap prices. At the same time, expensive rare stamps would be bought anonymously by me for cash from reputable dealers in the Strand. My business records would state that these valuable stamps had been recovered from the kiloware after a painstaking, time-consuming search. I would then sell the valuable stamps to stamp dealers in the provinces and appear to be shrewdly making legitimate money. There would be some financial loss, but who cared? 6, Gloucester Street, Oxford, was shaping up to be a great headquarters. Only the large, empty cellar remained without a function.

A week after my return from Ireland, Alan Marcuson rang saying that McCann had set everything up. He said he had totally underestimated McCann's abilities. He really had got it together. Graham and I should come over to Dublin right away. I pictured McCann standing behind Alan at some Ballinskelligs 1 location, threateningly prompting Alan's every word.

Graham couldn't make it; he was too tied up with his property and carpet businesses. I flew alone to Dublin and checked in at the Intercontinental Hotel. It overlooked the Lansdowne Road rugby ground, where just the year before the Irish had cruelly robbed the Welsh of the Triple Crown. There was a package waiting for me at the reception desk. An attached note said: 'Read this. Seamus.'

I opened the package. Inside was a ma.s.s of detail about an airport I had never heard of. It was called Shannon and was situated on the Atlantic coast just outside Limerick.

The airport boasted a number of unique characteristics. It was the closest European airport to North America, and, as such, was a connection and refuelling point for European and Asian airlines on long hauls across the Atlantic. In 1952, Irish government and individual entrepreneurs, doing their utmost to exploit Shannon's position as an airways crossroads, invented the first ever duty-free shop where transit pa.s.sengers could purchase alcohol, cigarettes, perfumes, and watches at bargain prices. The area surrounding Shannon airport had been declared a freeport, to which raw materials and other bonded goods could be s.h.i.+pped for use for manufacturing purposes provided the finished products were exported from Ireland and not offered for sale within the country. A ma.s.sive trading estate housing numerous businesses anxious to take advantage of this incentive spread around the airport. Every day, several hundred cars and trucks drove in conveying factory employees and locally built machinery. I began to see the point. Gear could be sent into Shannon Trading Estate from abroad without going through customs checks and would, somehow or other, be taken out of the trading estate camouflaged by the exodus of factory workers leaving at the end of their s.h.i.+ft. There were maps of every inch of the estate and airport and a variety of airfreighting/importation forms. I was very, very impressed.