Mr Nice: an autobiography (16 page)

‘Jim, there’s a war on out there. Karachi airport is surrounded by soldiers. It’s impossible to get anything out of there at the moment.’

‘A war! What the fuck do you think is happening in my country? I’m surrounded by fucking soldiers everywhere. It doesn’t stop me from fucking operating.’

‘Well, it stops some people, including our man in Karachi.’

‘Fucking Welsh academics. Can’t you get the nordle from somewhere else?’

‘Hopefully, yes. Graham’s got people in Beirut and Kabul.’

‘Kabul! You just said there’s a fucking war there and you can’t fucking do anything. Don’t play fucking games, H’ard. I warned you about that.’

‘Jim, the war is in Pakistan, which was where we were going to send the sporting goods from.’

‘What fucking sporting goods?’

‘The nordle, Jim. You know what I mean. Anyway, there’s no war in Afghanistan. So Graham should be able to do it from there.’

‘Tell Soppy Bollocks he’s got three days to deliver or he’s got a pair of busted kneecaps.’

‘Okay, Jim.’

There were several similar conversations. Eventually Mohammed Durrani said he could send an air-freight consignment from Kabul within a week. On the strength of this, I flew back to Shannon, taking with me Marty Langford, who had agreed to live in Paradise Cottage until the hashish arrived and then guard it until it was ready for onward transportation to Britain. Jim met us at the Shannon Shamrock. He was very subdued but still a bit scary. He addressed Marty.

‘This had better fucking work if you want to see Wales again. You hear me?’ Then he left.

‘I don’t want to be a hostage, Howard. I don’t mind sitting in a cottage all by myself, but I don’t like all this heavy stuff like Niblo’s on about, you know.’

‘Don’t worry, Marty. Niblo, as you call him, just talks threateningly. He never does anything.’

We drove a hired car to Paradise. Marty liked it. He was a widely read man of simple pleasures and looked forward to
a period of reading books and pottering about. I left him there and flew back to London to see Graham. Jim had found out Graham’s number (probably by ringing directory enquiries but claiming he had done so through his Kilburn investigation unit), so Graham was not answering the phone. His wife, Mandy, dutifully informed Jim every time he rang that Graham was in Kabul.

While I was at Graham’s, Mohammed Durrani phoned. The consignment had left Kabul for Frankfurt, where it would be placed on an Aer Lingus flight to Shannon, and one of Durrani’s men had arrived in London with the air waybill. Graham and I went to a flat in Knightsbridge to pick it up. We examined it closely. The consignment was described as being one of antique carpets being sent by an Ali Khan in Kabul to a Juma Khan in Shannon. It did not look good. I called Jim’s Dublin number and left a message for him to call me at Graham’s in a couple of hours. He did so.

‘Well, it’s left, Jim. It’ll be with you tomorrow.’

‘About fucking time.’

‘There’s a few problems, though, Jim.’

‘What?’

‘It’s not sporting goods.’

‘You mean it’s not nordle?’

‘No. It is nordle, but the paperwork doesn’t describe it as being sporting goods as we instructed. It’s described as antique carpets.’

‘That’s no fucking problem. I don’t care what it’s fucking described as. It’s sent to Ashling, right?’

‘Well, that’s the other problem, Jim. It’s addressed to Juma Khan, Limerick.’

‘You stupid Welsh cunt. What did you put my fucking name on it for?’

It wasn’t until then that I realised the similarity in pronunciation between the names Jim McCann and Juma Khan. This was too ridiculous for words.

‘Have you got no idea about security? False names and codes. I fucking told you that a hundred fucking times, and you put my fucking name on it. What you fucking think this is? Amateur night?’

‘Jim, Khan is like Mister in the Middle East. And it’s Juma, not Jim. Juma means something like Friday in their language.’

Explanations to Jim fell on stony ground.

‘Jim McCann might fucking mean Man Friday in Kabul, but in Ireland Jim McCann means it’s fucking me, the Kid. I’ll still get the nordle, but because of your fucking cock-ups, it’ll cost me an extra £500. I need it right now.’

Early the next morning, I flew back to Shannon. This time Jim was waiting at the airport. He was fired up. He took the £500 and ran, screaming at the top of his voice, ‘Wait for me in Paradise or the Shannon Shamrock. Check in as McCarthy.’

I hired a car and drove to Paradise. Marty was standing outside looking very relieved.

‘Thank God it’s you, Howard. I thought it was those Pakistanis again.’

‘Pakistanis? What Pakistanis?’

‘Two days ago, I heard a car pulling up. I thought it was you or Niblo from the IRA. The car stopped outside the gate, and two Pakistanis got out. You’d told me something about some Pakistani dope coming, and I remembered you telling me something about a pretend dead body or something coming from Pakistan, so I thought they were something to do with that, like. I thought they would either give me some dope or a coffin or something. In fact, they were selling shirts. Yeah, shirts! Then I figured you sent them as a joke. Then I thought Niblo had sent them to freak me out. Then I thought they were undercover Pakistani cops. I bought a couple of shirts off them. There they are. Not bad really for what I paid for them.’

The coincidences were beginning to get out of hand.

‘You’ve had any other visitors?’

‘No, that’s it. Everything has been as quiet as a mouse, except for the rats. Rats freak me out.’

We had a cup of tea and some egg, peas, and chips. Marty always made the best. I’d brought over a little hash, and we had a smoke. I drove back to the Shannon Shamrock and checked in as Stephen McCarthy. My mother had seriously thought of christening me Stephen, and my ancestor Patrick Marks used the surname McCarthy. I hadn’t yet graduated to using only false names that have absolutely no connection to one’s past. These were early days.

I had dozed off for a few minutes when the phone rang. It was Jim.

‘Come down right away, H’ard. Since when do antique carpets fucking rattle when you move them around?’

In the lobby, Jim was all smiles. I followed him to the hotel car park. In the middle was an unlocked, beaten-up Ford with a sack-covered cabin trunk on the back seat and a similar one in the boot, which, because of the size of the cabin trunk, had been left wide open. It stank of hashish.

‘You see, H’ard, the Kid’s done it. The Kid delivers with the grace of a Mozart concerto. I want my two grand, and another five hundred for extra expenses. And next time I don’t want my fucking name on the paperwork, and I don’t want fucking carpets that rattle, and I want some pornographic movies. But between me and you, Howard, it was a fucking good job the carpets did rattle. It convinced them they were bringing in guns. They knew they weren’t fucking carpets. You understand me, do you? Here’s the keys. Take this shit to Paradise. When do I get my fucking money?’

‘Do you still want it in Amsterdam, Jim?’

‘What the fuck use is it to me there, H’ard? You say some fucking stupid things sometimes. I want it here.’

‘I’ve got a couple of hundred on me which you can have right now. The rest will arrive tomorrow.’

‘Give it to me, and give me the keys of your car, H’ard. I’ll drive it over to Paradise in about an hour. I’ve got to see
some of my people. Don’t open those fucking boxes till I get there.’

Jim tore off in my rented Volkswagen. The old Ford he’d left me was difficult to start. The gauge registered less than an eggcupful of petrol. The body of the car almost touched the ground. I drove to a nearby petrol station and was comforted to discover that most other vehicles on Irish roads also look suspicious. No one gave me a second glance on my journey to Paradise. Marty and I unloaded the car and, abiding by Jim’s instructions, left the trunks unopened. Soon the aroma of the packaged hashish filled Paradise Cottage. Jim wasn’t long. The three of us unpacked the trunks. There were two hundred pounds of the finest hand-pressed Afghani hashish. We smoked joint after joint. Marty and I giggled nervously as Jim tore around the room screaming, ‘I’ve done it. I’ve done it. The Kid’s done it.’

Marty and Jim collapsed into a deep sleep. I drove the hired Volkswagen a few miles to the nearest phone box and telephoned Graham with the good news. He was pleasantly surprised and told me that Patrick Lane would drive over right away with the balance of the money owed McCann and drive back with the hashish. Leaving the phone box, I noticed that the boot of the car was very low. I opened it. Inside were stacks of London telephone directories and boxes of plastic-covered chemicals. A little confused, I drove it back to Paradise. Jim was waiting outside the cottage door.

‘You didn’t go over any bumps, did you? That car’s full of fucking explosives.’

‘Well, take them out of there, Jim. Stick them in your wreck.’

‘What’s wrong with you? You only deal in fiction. Nordle is fiction. Fucking explosives and arms are non-fiction. That’s reality, man. I deal in non-fiction. Not this fucking hippie shit.’

He threw away his half-smoked joint into the Irish night,
transferred his odd cargo of telephone directories and explosives from my car to his, and drove off.

Twenty-four hours later, Patrick Lane checked into the Shannon Shamrock. I was waiting in the lobby. I took the keys of his rented Ford Capri and drove it to Paradise while he had a sleep. Marty looked agitated and said, ‘Niblo’s just been here. He took away about twenty pounds of the hash. He said he’d be back very soon. He wants his money. And some dirty movies. He’s a bit funny, Howard.’

We stashed the rest of the dope into the car, in the front door panels, the rear panels, and under the back seat. It fitted in easily enough, but the stench was overpowering. Jim arrived.

‘Where’s my fucking money?’

‘You just took it, Jim. Twenty pounds of nordle is worth about £2,000. You’ve been paid.’

‘You can have all of that hippie shit back right now.’

He went to his car, pulled out a bag, and gave it to me.

‘That’s only about ten pounds, Jim. Where is the rest?’

‘That’s all I fucking took.’

Then I realised I had forgotten to get the money off Patrick. I tried to explain to Jim, but he was most unreceptive.

‘I’m getting it myself right now. This had better not be another of your fucking games. Wait here till I get back.’

Several hours later, Jim and Patrick arrived at the cottage. They were drunk and extremely angry with each other. Patrick had refused to pay Jim without my authorisation. Jim had threatened Patrick with Gus and other assets of the Belfast Brigade. Patrick, for the first time realising that there was a possibility of IRA involvement in the scam, had exploded. His grandfather, Patrick Murphy, a Catholic policeman in Belfast, had been murdered by the IRA. Jim said he must have deserved it. They were a hair’s breadth away from coming to blows. Patrick gave me the money. I gave it to Jim.

‘H’ard, I’m holding you personally responsible to make sure this man never comes to Ireland again. He’s got an amnesty to drive back tonight, but that’s it. I’ll be in touch. I’ll be in touch with you, brother.’

Patrick was still fuming but insisted on leaving immediately for the ferry. Within a day, Jarvis and the two Charlies had sold all the hash and had collected over £20,000. A number of people had to be paid. Given all the expenses, particularly Jim’s, no one had made a fortune. But Jim, undoubtedly, could deliver the goods. It was we who were experiencing problems sending them. We’d have to get our act a bit more together to take advantage of this extraordinary opportunity.

On January 1st, 1972, Graham made a New Year’s Resolution. He was going to get things together and personally oversee matters in Karachi in readiness for the next load to Shannon. The intention was to do a ton, a big increase. This time there’d be no mistakes.

Marty Langford had two old art college friends who owned a car repair and sales business in Winchester. With their assistance, we examined various cars to see how much hashish could be safely stashed in each. The two-door Ford Capri was perfect. It could hold at least 200 pounds just in the rear panels and under the back seat. We bought a few. There never seemed to be any eyebrows raised when cars were paid for in cash.

There was tremendous wrangling about how the next deal would divide up. McCann was getting wise to how much money could be made in this business. Finally, it was settled that he would be paid £30 for every pound of hashish he imported.

Durrani and Raoul’s costs in Karachi amounted to £35 a pound. We would pay £10 a pound to anyone prepared to drive a stashed Ford Capri on and off the Irish Channel ferry. There would be some other small expenses. Hashish was selling in London for about £120 a pound. On a ton
load, Graham and I should make £50,000 each. McCann would make more, but that was a pain we had to suffer.

Pretending to be arranging a farm-equipment salesmen’s conference, McCann rented a remote farmhouse near Newmarket-on-Fergus, about twenty miles from Limerick. Shannon airport could be seen from some of the bedroom windows. I bought a stack of pornographic films and loaded them into one of the doctored Ford Capris. I drove from London to Swansea, on to the British & Irish ferryboat to Cork, and from Cork via Limerick to the Shannon Shamrock, where a room in the name of Stephen McCarthy had been booked. I was at the check-in desk about midday when a loud Belfast accent screamed in my ear, ‘Don’t fucking bother. We can stay at the farm. We’ll go in your car. Gus has just taken mine to Dublin. We’re going to burn down the British Embassy.’