Mr Nice: an autobiography (40 page)

Leaving Judy and the children in Bangkok, I took Air India to Bombay, then Pakistan International Airlines to Karachi. I checked into the Sheraton, spent hours looking for a phone box, failed, walked into the Pearl Hotel, and asked to use their hotel phone. I called Malik. He was on his way to the Sheraton.

Malik was in traditional Pakistani garb. With him was a similarly dressed but much younger man.

‘D. H. Marks, welcome to Pakistan. This is my nephew Aftab. His job is to steal duty-free goods from airport and sell them in Bhoti bazaar. He is my business partner.’

‘Welcome to Pakistan, D. H. Marks,’ said Aftab.

‘First, D. H. Marks, the mother-business. The product is ready for your inspection. It is safely in my control at a warehouse in Baluchistan. We can go there any time. Right this minute if you wish. We have a car outside at our disposal. Here is a small sample. Here also is PIA timetable. You will see that a few flights are possibilities. We will need to book space for this quite large consignment at least forty-eight hours in advance.’

I took hold of the soft, sticky slab of black hash and put my
lighter flame to one of its corners. The flame jumped to the hash. That was always a good sign. Wisps of blue smoke accompanied my favourite aroma. I sucked at the smoke, the taste making me want to fill my lungs. The bridge of my nose throbbed. This hash was excellent, the best Pakistani I’d ever tried.

The dope supplies in neighbouring Afghanistan had almost dried up when the Russians took their tanks to Kabul in 1980. The invasion forced over five million Afghanis to flee from their country and become refugees in Pakistan. The Pakistani province bordering Afghanistan was the lawless North West Frontier Province (NWFP). The population both sides of the border is mainly made up of Pathan tribesmen. The NWFP countryside was officially and totally under the control of Pathan tribal chieftains. Pakistan’s military and police had to abide by statutes not allowing them to stray off the main roads between towns, not even in pursuit of a murderer, kidnapper, or rapist. They could negotiate with the tribal representative. Nothing else.

The NWFP became the headquarters, strategy-planning centre, and battle-training ground of the
mujaheddin
, the freedom fighters who have no understanding of the concept of surrender. Either Russia would be defeated and leave Afghanistan or the
mujaheddin
would all die. There could be no compromise.

Arms and supplies, many sent from the governments of countries sympathetic to the
mujaheddin
’s struggle against the Communists, were amassed in settlements in NWFP. To no one’s great surprise, much found its way to the bazaars in NWFP’s main trading city of Peshawar at the foot of the Khyber Pass.

Traditionally, the area now known as NWFP had always been an ideal cannabis-growing region. The Himalayan heights and crystalline pure air enable the life-giving tropical sun to have almost direct contact with the plant, which
responds by massaging itself with hashish, its home-made resin. Afghanistan, on the other side of the Himalayas, was equally ideal, and the holy city of Maza-al-sharif had become famed as the centre of the best hashish in the world. Some of the refugees to NWFP were experienced cannabis cultivators and harvesters. They needed money to live. The
mujaheddin
needed money. For centuries, the Afghan techniques of hashish production had remained within the country’s borders. Now they had been established and expanded in Pakistan and produced limitless quantities of high-grade commercial hashish, known in the Western hemisphere as ‘border hash’.

‘You want to see whole consignment now, D. H. Marks?’ asked Malik.

The jaunt to Baluchistan might have been a laugh but would have achieved nothing. If Malik was going to do a rip-off, he could do it just as well after I’d seen the load as before. I felt there was more to gain by displaying total trust.

‘Malik, if you tell me you have five tons of this, I believe you. There is no need for me to test you.’

‘As you wish. We will now bring consignment to Karachi for packaging and smell-proofing.’

‘Do you know anything about paper-mill business, D. H. Marks? I am wanting to buy second-hand paper-mill machinery from closed-down factories in Great Britain. Paper-mill business will be really wonderful business here in Pakistan.’

‘I’ll have a look when I get back to London. Let me know exactly what you want. Do you need anything else from England?’

‘Yes, information about good schools in Great Britain for my children.’

‘I’d be glad to, Malik. I’m not staying here long. I need to get to Hong Kong. I’ll give your BCCI man $500,000. I’ll find out which date is preferable for air-freighting the consignment. A few days before the date, I’ll come back here
to Karachi from Hong Kong with $500,000 cash. You give me the air waybill. I’ll give you the money.’

‘All right. This is good. But don’t forget to let me know which flight you are on. Oh, that reminds me, D. H. Marks. Phones in Pakistan are not safe to use. I have own operator, my cousin. When he is on duty, I know phone is not tapped. Otherwise, might be tapped. When you call, maybe he is not on duty. Do you have legitimate business with telex machine in London?’

‘Yes, of course. You want me to communicate with you by telex in future?’

‘I prefer. I have big travel agency here in central Karachi, next to American Express building. I will give you the telex number. Always put telex message in terms of legitimate business. And think carefully, D. H. Marks, about legitimate business, like paper-mill, here in Pakistan. We should have some legitimate business between us.’

‘Malik, can your travel agency get PIA airline tickets cheaper than anyone else?’

‘Of course. All Customs Officers and government peoples use my agency, Travel International. My cousin is in very senior position in PIA. It is under-counter price, not official. But PIA does not fly to Hong Kong. I will get you complimentary first-class return ticket to Hong Kong on Lufthansa. This is only airline that flies directly between Karachi and Hong Kong.’

‘Thank you very much, Malik. The reason I ask, though, is that I have a Chinese friend who runs a travel agency in London. Most of his business is with people travelling to the Far East. As PIA fly from Pakistan to both England and China, I thought maybe he could provide a cheaper service from London to Peking than his competitors do by routing passengers through here. I don’t know. It was just a passing thought.’

‘I think it is excellent idea, D. H. Marks. Chinese peoples are good peoples. Relations between Pakistan and China are
first-class. We are very best of neighbours. Did you know that PIA was first-ever foreign airline to go to Communist China? It is no secret that China is testing our atomic bombs. To promote travel to China via Pakistan should be easy matter. I will talk to my family about this.’

Three days later, I was back in Hong Kong, staying at the Shangri-La. From Cable and Wireless, I telephoned Ernie through Flash at LAPD and reported the position. He said to send the consignment from Karachi as soon as possible. Any day was okay.

I booked the next day’s Lufthansa flight to Karachi. From a public telex service I sent a telex to Malik: ‘Arriving tomorrow with German company – UK paper-mill representative.’ I took $500,000 in cash from the Hong Kong & Shanghai Bank to Malik’s friend in BCCI and then another $500,000 to my room in the Shangri-La. It was a large amount to hide in baggage when flying. There was no real worry. I would simply check it in at Hong Kong airport, and Malik was ensuring I wouldn’t get searched or embarrassed on arrival at Karachi airport. Nevertheless, the plane could be diverted from Karachi for some reason, and I might find myself somewhere with some explaining to do. I ought to make some effort to conceal it.

I phoned April and asked her to buy three large and expensive matching suitcases, books on education and schools in England, and books on the paper industry, and arrange for them to be delivered to the Shangri-La Hotel. I rang up Sam Tailor, told him I was delighted with the clothes, said I was on my way back to London, and offered to promote his business as best I could through my connections in London. Did he have any promotional material I could take back? Sam sent over a cardboard box full of cloth samples, brochures, patterns, and sales literature. I rang up April again and asked her to get some lengths of different materials sent round to the hotel.

Wrapping bundles of money in a selection of voiles and
silks, I arranged each suitcase so that the top layer, occasionally allowing glimpses of clothing and textile samples, was crammed with innocuous paperwork and sales promotional trivia. I stayed in.

Twenty-four hours later I was standing next to the carousel in Karachi arrivals hall. I rarely did this. When travelling alone, I would almost invariably take just hand luggage. I didn’t like checking-in suitcases. I could stand neither the wait nor the weight. The three matching suitcases came up first. The advantages of first-class travel: one’s luggage was susceptible to no ridiculous weight restrictions and was the first to get unloaded. I’d already grabbed a porter and given him a handful of Pakistani rupees. We trundled over to Customs. There is no green channel in Karachi airport.

‘Why are you visiting my country? Is it business, pleasure, or official?’

‘Business.’

‘May I see your passport?’

I expected this question. How else would he know not to search me? Malik would have had to give him my name. I gave the Customs Officer my passport.

‘I see you visited my country a few days ago. What is your business, sir?’

This question was a surprise. Malik had assured me there would be no confrontation of this kind.

‘I have a few business interests. This visit to your country concerns the paper-mill business.’

‘Who will you be seeing in this country?’

‘Prospective purchasers of second-hand paper-mill machinery. I represent a British firm who dismantle closed-down paper-mills and sell the equipment.’

‘Do you have a business name-card, sir?’

‘Yes, I do.’

To say no would have guaranteed a search. My wallet contained three separate business name-cards: I was either a
manager of West End Secretarial Services, London; a company director of Drinkbridge Hong Kong Limited, who from other documentation could be deduced to be a bulk carrier of water; or a researcher for Drinkbridge (UK) Limited, a wine importation company. None was an obvious choice for a would-be second-hand paper-mill machinery salesman. I picked out one at random.

‘According to this, you are in alcohol business. Do you know alcohol is illegal in Pakistan? What is this to do with paper-mill business? Please open this suitcase, sir.’

Bloody Malik! Why was he letting me go through all this? I opened the suitcase the Customs official was touching. A few books on English public schools tumbled out.

‘Are you in book-selling business, too? Please, sir, open this suitcase also.’

It was getting difficult.

‘Drinkbridge has been a British family company for generations. The company has several businesses, including bulk haulage, real estate, and heavy plant machinery. We have wine distribution networks throughout the world. A large percentage of our overseas profits is reinvested in the country concerned and channelled into education and cultural promotion. We have plans to finance both paper-mills and schools in Pakistan.’

I opened the second case. Revealed was a variety of literature related to paper manufacturing.

‘Please pass, Mr Marks. Welcome to Pakistan.’

That was close. And he still had my business card. Where was Malik?

The porter wheeled my suitcases outside. Still no sign of Malik or his sidekick, Aftab. Malik had not only failed to protect me against a possible bust, he was also leaving me stranded with $500,000 not knowing where to go.

The airport is one of the few places in Pakistan to have a public telephone box. I called Malik’s number. Aftab answered.

‘D. H. Marks, how are you? Uncle is not here at the moment. He has been in Baluchistan for a couple of days. He is expected back at any moment. When are you coming to Pakistan?’

‘I’m already here. Didn’t you get my telex yesterday?’

‘No. I have been at the telex machine since Uncle left. There has been nothing from you.’

‘I sent a telex saying I’d be arriving today with the German company. You didn’t get it? That’s impossible. I got an answerback from your telex.’

‘No, I did get that telex, but how am I to know that it’s from you? It was not signed D. H. Marks; it was from Hong Kong, not London; and we are not doing business with any German company.’

‘Aftab, the German company meant Lufthansa, the airline on which I was arriving. Never mind. I’ll take a cab to the Sheraton. Tell Uncle Malik to come and see me when he gets back.’

I put the phone down.

‘Mr Marks. Mr Marks.’

Someone in uniform was running towards me. I thought I was going to be grabbed and properly searched. I wondered about Pakistani prisons.

‘Mr Marks, I am the steward of the Lufthansa aircraft cleaning crew. You left your duty-free perfume on the plane. Here it is.’

I climbed into the Sheraton courtesy bus. It felt safer than a taxi.

‘D. H. Marks, I am so sorry. Please believe me. I am so sorry. I am so cross with that stupid Aftab for not understanding simple telex. What is matter with him, I don’t know. I assure you it won’t happen again,
inshallah
.’