Mr Nice: an autobiography (33 page)

The Soho Square area had a few secretarial/business services. I had spent a fortune on them in the past, each new identity requiring an address, a phone number, and headed notepaper. Now I was trading as myself, perhaps I should open my own business service and charge other people for taking telephone messages, making photocopies, and holding mail. It might even make money as well as being a good front. It wouldn’t be my package that arrived from Karachi, it would belong to one of my clients. I could start with just one secretary. I found one called Kathy.

I went to see Stanley Rosenthal again. Two more companies were formed: Moontape (trading as West End Secretarial Services) for the business service and Drinkbridge
for the wine importation. Each would operate from 18, Carlisle Street, Soho.

Piers Paul Reid backed out of writing my biography. He’d been ruthlessly conned by the train robbers into writing a load of bullshit and had now read enough about me to feel fearful of a similar embarrassment. Bernie suggested David Leigh, the head of the
Observer
’s investigative team and author of books on government secrecy and high-profile trials. He had his own literary agent, Hilary Rubinstein, who could get the best advance. In fact, he managed to obtain only fifteen thousand pounds (less than Judy had found in her Swiss bank account). It was from Heinemann, and was to be split between me and David. But I’d agreed. It looked like fun. The money was super-straight, so I would be able to spend it quite openly. There’d be lots I couldn’t tell David, of course, like Ernie’s involvement in the Colombian scam, but I’d deal with that later. I could always be creative.

David and I went up to Scotland, where I showed him the offloading and storage points in Kerera, Conaglen, and Oban. We visited the falcons in Pytchley. He needed somewhere quiet to interview me and write. I took him to the smallholding in Upper Cwm Twrch and, after a couple of days, left him there. I phoned him a few times. He was spending most days collecting colourful fungi. He could have written
The Observer’s Book of Mushrooms
. It would have been better for both of us if he had.

The hearing for our attempt to retrieve the thirty thousand pounds held by Customs took place at the Royal Courts of Justice in the Strand in the autumn of 1982 before Master Bickstall-Smith. Both parties to the dispute were represented by the same legal counsel that had appeared at the 1981 Old Bailey trial. A bit of a re-run. The Crown’s QC maintained that despite my acquittal, the money resulted from some kind of dope-dealing. I was a notorious drug smuggler and had made no money in any other way. The good Master would have none of it. He summed up with an
extraordinary speech: ‘Mr Marks might be the biggest smug druggler [sic] in the world, but money is money, and we have to stop somewhere. He has been acquitted. The money is his. But before I finish, I want to say a few words about kif. Last summer, my wife and I went to Morocco, to the Kasbah and the Rif. We were driving through the kif plantations when we came across a man sitting in the road blocking our course. My wife told him in no uncertain terms to move. She threatened him with our gun. Do you know he just stayed there! He wouldn’t budge. He was stoned. That’s how strong that stuff is. Well, good luck, Mr Marks. The money is yours.’

Her Majesty’s Customs and Excise appealed against the decision, threatening to take it to the House of Lords if necessary. Eventually, HM Customs relented and agreed the money was mine but they would pay only on the understanding that the money be used to clear my debt to the Inland Revenue. They would not pay me directly. I wasn’t going to get a cheque signed by HM Customs payable to me. But I regarded the decision as some kind of victory.

Ernie still hadn’t been in touch since my release. Then Patrick Lane, who had been financially cared for by Ernie since my 1980 arrest, telephoned me saying that Ernie wanted to meet me in Vancouver. Would I go over? My passport had now been extended for a full year. Of course I would go to Vancouver. I checked into the Seaporter, the same hotel where I’d re-met Jim McCann six years ago. I lay on the bed and waited for Ernie to call. The phone rang. It was Patrick calling from the lobby. He came to the room. It was great to see him. He was already drunk, and I soon joined him in alcoholic reverie.

‘How’s Ernie?’ I asked.

‘Well, it’s a bit embarrassing,’ replied Patrick, ‘but he’s become a hopeless junkie.’

‘What! That’s impossible! Ernie taking smack!’

‘It’s not smack, Howard, it’s Demerol, but it’s just as bad. He’s going to phone here. You’ll see what I mean.’

Ernie did phone. He was rather incoherent, but from what I could understand, he had been advised by Tom Sunde that it was too dangerous for him to travel to meet me. Things would quieten down, and he would see me then. I was disappointed.

‘What’s Tom Sunde doing these days?’ I asked Patrick. ‘Is he still at Ernie’s beck and call?’

‘Far from it. He’s now a full-time CIA agent.’

This was incredible. Ernie a junkie and Tom a government spook.

‘But how?’ I asked, finding this very hard to take. ‘I mean, is Tom working for the opposition, or does Ernie have all kinds of spooks on his payroll?’

‘I really can’t say any more,’ said Patrick. ‘I’m sworn to secrecy. Don’t forget, Tom might have been responsible for your acquittal. You’ll find out everything in due course, I’m sure. The only thing to remember now is not to trust Tom or believe anything he says.’

This was getting too bizarre for words.

‘Pat, I’m going back to England to do my own thing. Tell Ernie to call me whenever he feels it’s safe to do so.’

‘That’s definitely the best strategy,’ said Patrick, just a little patronisingly.

I returned to Heathrow, empty-handed and confused about Ernie, Tom, and Patrick. It seemed as if I would have to go straight, whether I wanted to or not.

I did go very straight for several months, and by mid-1983 18, Carlisle Street had become a hive of legitimate business activity. There were several telephone lines, a ten-thousand-pound word processor, a large photocopying machine, and a telex. West End Secretarial Services had over fifty clients who paid good money for message-taking and mail-holding. Office accommodation was let out at extortionate hourly rates, the telex constantly chattered out incomprehensible
gibberish from remote parts of the world, and people would queue to use the photocopying machine.

Following visits to Paris and Dieppe undertaken by the Mad Major and me, Drinkbridge imported thousands of bottles of wines and spirits. The Mad Major stored them in a cellar in Twickenham, and a selection of Jarvis’s and Old John’s friends distributed them to diverse quarters. Our clients included the British Shipbuilders Association and Margaret Thatcher’s throat specialist, Dr Punt.

Kathy word-processed away at wine lists and at letters from strangers to other strangers. She also dealt with David Leigh’s rough drafts for the biography. Heinemann had paid the advance. I’d bought a Mercedes. The Chelsea maisonette had been completed, and we’d moved there from Brighton. Meticulous accounts were maintained, and national insurance, income tax, graduated pensions, corporation tax, and value-added tax were most conscientiously paid. I was very busy and very straight.

I was also very bored. None of this was exciting and none of it was making any real money. Although the cash stash was dwindling more slowly, it was still dwindling. Accordingly, I wasn’t that unhappy to get a phone call from Jim McCann in his absurd Belfast accent.

‘I want to see you in Paris. Right away. Got something for you, kid. Check into the George V. You’ll be safe. My boys will be covering you. We’ve called an amnesty.’

‘Can you send me the air-fare, Jim? I’m skint.’

‘Fuck off!’

Twenty-four hours later, I was working my way through the mini-bar. I wondered what insanity Jim had in store. At my Old Bailey trial, I had publicly accused him of being the world’s biggest narco-terrorist and arms smuggler. He owed me for that bit of PR. The phone rang.

‘Get out of the room, take the lift downstairs, and walk slowly out through the hotel’s main doors,’ whispered a soft Dublin brogue. ‘Your man will be outside.’

I did as instructed. Jim was parked outside in a big Mercedes, bigger than mine. I got into the passenger seat, and he drove off. He burst out laughing and handed me a very strong joint. I burst out laughing and smoked it.

‘I’ve got everything under control, kid, from the fucking Khyber Pass camel jockeys to the decadent fascists that run this poxy pisshole,’ he boasted, for some reason pointing to the Louvre. ‘I can get what I want, where I want, when I want. I’m back in the fast lane.’

‘That’s great, Jim. You know I still owe people for those Thai sticks you lost in a lorry-load of bananas outside Dublin.’

‘I owe you nothing, you Welsh scumbag. You owe me your freedom and your life.’

‘Oh yeah,’ I protested. ‘What would you have done if you hadn’t met me? Probably carried on mugging old ladies in Andytown and setting fire to school libraries in the name of the cause. You Irish prick. You owe me a drink at least.’

We had several drinks in Castell’s and Régine’s. By now, Jim was well known at each. His front had progressed, buying and selling art. We moved to Elysée Matignon, a club patronised and rumoured to be owned by Jean-Paul Belmondo, who greeted Jim as a long-lost friend.

‘Jean-Paul, let me introduce you to Mark Thatcher, just back from Saudi Arabia. Mark Thatcher, this is Jean-Paul Belmondo.’

I hated Jim when he did this. Why did people believe him? I pretended to be Mark Thatcher. It wouldn’t last long. We got drunk. We smoked more joints. Roman Polanski walked in. McCann introduced me to him as Andrew Lloyd Webber. I left. Jim followed. We got back into his Mercedes.

‘Can you still sell dope? I mean lots.’

‘Of course, Jim. You know I’m the best.’

‘Can you pick it up in Amsterdam, take it over to England, and sell it?’

‘I’ll get someone to do that, Jim, for sure. It’ll have to be on credit, mind.’

‘I know. I know. You Welsh arsehole. I’ll have 250 kilos ready for you next Wednesday. Leave a car in the Marriot Hotel park. Leave a copy of
Playboy
on the passenger seat. Leave the keys in the exhaust pipe. I’ll load the car up, and somewhere in the country you’ll have to transfer the dope to a truck or caravan or whatever you’re using to carry it over the Channel. Here’s a sample of the dope and a book for you to read. I’m taking you back to your hotel now. Let me know when you’ve sold the gear. And no rip-offs.’

The dope was half a kilo of excellent Afghanistan/Pakistan border hashish. The book was an internal DEA publication instructing dope-busting agents what to look for in commercial shipments. There were hundreds of pages of examples of busted dope shipments and what had caused them to look suspicious in the first place. This was fascinating. Where had Jim got it from? Throwing caution to the wind, I smuggled both sample and book into England.

Who could I use to pick up the 250 kilos? Selling it once it was in England would be no problem. I still knew plenty of dealers, but they didn’t have trucks. Only London villains tended to have those at their disposal. I wondered if Mick Williams was out of the nick yet. He’d be able to handle it. I called his number.

‘H, you don’t know, old son, how glad I am to hear yer. Let’s ’ave a meet, shall we?’

We met at Richaux, opposite Harrods. Mick listened to my proposal.

‘I’m over the moon to do it, H. I need a quick trade. My mate’s got a truck. Goes over all the time. Sweet as a nut. My other mate’s got a BMW. He just done a ten stretch. Did every day. One of your own, H. Straight up. It’s all sorted.’

The truck went to Rotterdam. The BMW was taken from the Marriot Hotel, Amsterdam, by one of McCann’s henchmen, loaded to saturation with well over 250 kilos of hashish, and reparked in the Marriot. Mick Williams went to
pick it up and was descended upon by the Dutch drug squad. Mick’s sister told me about it. Mick was ‘gutted’.

I was pretty ‘gutted’ myself. Mick was in prison. I’d lost money I’d put up as expenses for Mick and his mates. I’d have to take care of Mick’s defence costs. I’d almost got busted. I might get busted. McCann would figure I owed him a million pounds.

‘Don’t ever fucking see me again, you Welsh piss-artist, unless your act is completely together. You hear me?’

‘Okay, Jim. Thanks for the shit.’

Shortly afterwards, McCann was arrested in Amsterdam by Dutch police, not for hashish but on the basis of a German extradition warrant relating to the 1973 charge of blowing up a British Army post in Mönchengladbach. Still furious over France’s previous refusal to hand over McCann, the Germans were going to strong-arm the Dutch into doing just that.

Mickey’s bust was a bit of a lesson. Maybe I really should go straight: concentrate on my little straight business empire in Soho and normalise my tax affairs.

However, the Inland Revenue made it clear that whatever settlement might be reached, they’d be on my back for ever. Stanley Rosenthal explained the advantages of non-residency. If I could live outside the United Kingdom and spend only two months a year physically doing business in the country, I would incur no British tax liability, and the Revenue would have no business being on my back in the future. Judy did not wish to live too far away from Britain. Switzerland was out of the question, much too cold and expensive. We wanted somewhere new and warm. Our time in Corfu had been enjoyable enough, but the island’s telephone technology was still prehistoric, and who needed Greek as a second language? We narrowed down the choice to Italy or Spain.