Mr Nice: an autobiography (52 page)

‘Vancouver makes a change for you from Far East,’ said Balendo.

Although my name had never meant anything to him, Balendo had slowly come to realise I was a dope smuggler. It was never stated explicitly, but there was no other explanation for the suitcases of cash that would sometimes pass through his hands.

‘Well, I’m going for a good reason, Balendo. I’m going to pick up some money.’

‘Ah! So you will be going to Hong Kong afterwards?’

‘No, I don’t fancy the idea of carrying large amounts of money across borders. I’m too well known. I just give it to someone who gives it to a bank. They transfer it to my Hong Kong account. It costs me 10%.’

‘Too expensive for that service. Should be less than 5%.’

‘Who does it for that price?’

‘Triad. Vancouver is second-largest Chinese community in West. San Francisco, first.’

‘I don’t know any Triads.’

‘All Chinese are Triads.’

Balendo was waiting for me in the lobby of the Sheraton Hotel in Vancouver when I returned with a suitcase containing 300,000 Canadian dollars that I’d just collected from Bob Light. He and Ron Allen were splitting the responsibilities of sales. Within half an hour, Balendo had got rid of the suitcase and returned.

‘That was quick, Balendo.’

‘The money will be in your Hong Kong account tomorrow.’

‘What’s the charge?’

‘No charge.’

‘Can you do this from anywhere to anywhere, Balendo?’

‘If there is Chinese community, yes.’

I then realised how stupid I’d been up to now in dealing with money transfers. All those millions of miles of jet travel, those ludicrous hotel bills, those harrowing moments at borders, and the continual fear of being mugged for one’s loot had all been unnecessary. If anyone wanted to send me some money, all he really had to do was take it to the nearest Chinese restaurant and tell the proprietor to await a call from Balendo, my friend and business partner of some years. This was doing my head in.

‘Balendo, can you stay here and transfer a lot more money over the next few months?’

‘Not possible with travel agency in London. I could come over every month and pick up from you.’

Handling the money from this and the next Vancouver load was going to be a great deal easier than I thought. I wouldn’t even have to be in Vancouver. I would ask John Denbigh to come over and pick up money from Bob or Ron
whenever either had some to give. When the total reached a respectable amount, John would give it to Balendo to do his Chinese magic.

John flew over to Vancouver. I introduced him to Bob Light. He already knew Ron and Gerry from the Pakistani scam. I left him totally in charge.

I flew back to Palma via London. I was questioned lightly by the Special Branch at Heathrow but not searched by anyone. Chief Inspector Rafael Llofriu met me at the airport and whisked me through Immigration and Customs. He was in a bit of a spot. He needed cash. He had a sea-front flat in Palma Nova that he wanted to sell. Did I know anyone who wanted to buy it? I bought it.

Judy had seen very little of me since Patrick was born. We hadn’t been away together anywhere for ages.

‘Howard, unless you stop tearing around the world and spend some time with me and the children, I’m going to freak out. I’ve booked us all for a two-week holiday in Sicily. Remember how much we enjoyed Sicily? I thought you might like it if we all went to Campione d’Italia first, then took a train from Milan to Rome, and then flew to Palermo. The children will love it. Masha can come and baby-sit for us in the evenings. You can get to know your son.’

‘It sounds a great idea, love. I can’t think of anything better.’

It was true. I couldn’t.

After indulging in some nostalgia in Campione d’Italia, we travelled to Sicily and stayed in the Santa Domenico in Taormina, under the shadow of the surprisingly active Mount Etna. We visited Greek amphitheatres, Roman cities, and, for my sake, had lunch in Corleone, the inspiration for Mario Puzo’s
The Godfather
. In Palermo, I popped into the Banca di Sicilia and refreshed my bank account. I had still not used it to receive payments from anyone.

I kept away from the phones. No one knew how to get in touch with me. I was really enjoying time with my family. All
the travelling and scamming had its good points: money and excitement, but I was pushing it too hard. I would have to slow down before I forgot how to be a husband and a father. The resolution stayed with me all the way home.

There was a ton of messages waiting for me when I got home to Palma. John Denbigh was accumulating substantial funds in Vancouver. He wanted someone to give them to in a week’s time. McCann was in the Sofia Hotel, Barcelona. If I didn’t get there immediately, he’d come directly to my house in Palma. It was urgent. Moynihan was in the Orient Hotel, Barcelona. He had my Philippine passport. Could I come to pick it up? Malik was in London. He wanted to discuss some business proposals, not mother-business. Tom Sunde was in Düsseldorf. He needed some more money. Frederick was still at sea but imminently due to unload his cargo in Canada.

I called Phil in Bangkok and asked if he would go to Canada. The money that John Denbigh was holding would partly pay him off. I made arrangements to fly from Palma to Barcelona and return in a few days. I told Malik to come to Palma. I rang Sunde at the Düsseldorf Hilton. He agreed to fly out to Palma, provided I paid for his ticket.

On the flight to Barcelona, I mischievously thought about introducing McCann to Moynihan. An English Lord having dinner with an IRA terrorist could be quite entertaining.

‘So what’s a fucking English Lord doing with this Welsh cunt?’ said McCann as he shook Moynihan’s hand.

‘Well, I could well ask you the same question. Prudence forbids,’ said Moynihan.

‘I’m no fucking Lord,’ Jim quickly retorted.

‘Well, what I meant was, what are you doing with Howard?’

‘Howard fucking works for me. Do you fucking work for him, Lord? Because if you do, you fucking work for me.’

Jim laughed at his own wit.

‘Not wishing to offend – no, I wouldn’t describe myself as an employee of Howard’s. But we do enjoy both a business
relationship and friendship. We both went to Oxford. We have a number of mutual interests. We both like good food and good wine. Wouldn’t you say so, Howard?’

Before I could answer, Jim interrupted.

‘You realise we’re at war, Lord Moynihan.’

‘Do call me Tony. Who’s at war?’

‘You and fucking me.’

‘I fail to follow.’

‘England and Ireland.’

‘My dear Jim …’ Moynihan began.

‘I’m not your fucking dear. Don’t start that fucking Oxford academic talk with me.’

‘Jim, Moynihan is probably one of the most Irish names in the world. I regard myself as Irish. One of my middle names is Patrick. Senator Moynihan is a cousin of mine.’

‘But you’re a Prod,’ objected McCann.

‘War is about power, not religion. I am probably more Irish than you, Jim.’

‘You won’t find me sitting in the fucking House of Lords, that’s for sure.’

‘You won’t find me there now. I was a far greater thorn in their side than you’ve been. And please bear in mind, I have lived in Roman Catholic countries for most of my adult life. That is not coincidence. I am a vigorous supporter of complete independence for the whole of Ireland.’

‘Are you? How many British Army soldiers have you shot? How many Army posts have you blown up?’

And so the conversation continued, each trying to convince the other he was a diehard Irish Republican with the highest of patriotic ideals.

Moynihan told me that he had been entrusted with some of President Marcos’s missing millions. It seemed that Carl was right. Could I help him out with my money-laundering connections? I said yes. Moynihan gave me the false Philippine passport. He had another to deliver to someone else in Palma. He was going to ask me to take it, but now his
plans had changed, and he and Lady Editha would be visiting Palma themselves. They asked if I had anywhere they could stay. I said they could stay in the Palma Nova flat. I was in the process of purchasing it from Rafael Llofriu. The flat was still in his name, but I had the keys.

McCann’s purpose in summoning me was merely to get hold of Roger Reaves. Roger had given Jim the £50,000 he required. Jim was ready to deliver. I felt a bit disgruntled about the two of them just carrying on as if I didn’t exist, but I certainly didn’t want to get in the way. I told Jim that Roger, his wife, and children were now living in Mallorca. Jim decided he’d better come to Palma after all.

I got to Palma first. Malik rang from Heathrow airport. Iberia were refusing to let him board the flight because he did not have a Spanish visa.

I called Rafael. I explained that a rich investor friend of mine from Pakistan was having problems visiting me. Rafael said to leave it to him. Within twenty minutes, Rafael rang back and said that Malik was on his way. It had been fixed. Rafael was proving to be most helpful.

I went to Palma airport to Rafael’s office in the police station. The office had two entrances: one from the public area of the airport and one from the arrivals hall. Rafael said he would meet Malik off the plane and bring him straight to the police station to avoid confrontation with Immigration or Customs. I waited in his office. Minutes later a very frightened Salim Malik was being briskly escorted by Chief Inspector Rafael Llofriu. Malik thought he was being busted. His relief on seeing me was palpable.

‘You are bloody limit, D. H. Marks,’ was all he said.

Malik stayed at our house. Rafael liked Malik. The next day he introduced both me and Malik to a wealthy Algerian, Michel Khadri, who was living on the island. Enormous deals covering everything from Bangladeshi furniture to luxury hotels in Morocco were fervently discussed. Nothing came from any of them.

Malik’s latest proposal for me was to promote the sale of toothpaste made from the bark of a specific Pakistani tree. Apparently chewing this bark had for several generations prevented a particular Himalayan tribe from experiencing the discomforts of tooth decay. Malik was also concerned about the pile of hash he was holding in Pakistan on my behalf. I told him I was working on the latter and would begin investigating the former.

McCann was next to arrive. I put him up in Hobbs’s flat in Placa del Banc de Loli in the old part of Palma. Then came Sunde. He told me the DEA were back in Palma. Through reasons of mischief, I also put him up in Hobbs’s flat. Tom was over the moon with my news of Moynihan’s access to Marcos’s missing millions. Finally, Moynihan and Editha arrived. They stayed in Rafael’s Palma Nova flat. I told Tom where they were staying.

One square mile of this small Spanish island was well out of control. A Philippine-brothel-owning member of the House of Lords was staying at the house of a Spanish Chief Inspector of Police. The Lord was being watched by an American CIA operative who was staying at the house of an English convicted sex offender. The CIA operative was sharing accommodation with an IRA terrorist. The IRA terrorist was discussing a Moroccan hashish deal with a Georgian pilot of Colombia’s Medellin Cartel. Organising these scenarios was an ex-MI6 agent, currently supervising the sale of thirty tons of Thai weed in Canada and at whose house could be found Pakistan’s major supplier of hashish. Attempting to understand the scenarios was a solitary DEA agent. The stage was set for something.

The stage was set for disaster, which began with a call from Phil in Vancouver at the beginning of September 1987. John Denbigh, Gerry Wills, Ron Allen, Bob Light, and many others had been busted in Vancouver by the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. Several tons of marijuana and a few million dollars had been confiscated. The marijuana had been seized
from a sailing boat attempting to berth in Vancouver. This was the method Bob normally used when transporting the Thai weed from his North Vancouver Island warehouse to Vancouver city.

I was stoical about losing the money and the Thai grass – these things can happen – but the arrest of my dear friend John Denbigh hit me like a ton of bricks: we forget these things can happen.

What about Frederick? Was he sailing into disaster? Was anyone left to meet his boat? Could this have been Frederick’s Vietnamese dope the Mounties just busted?

It was. The busted boat had just met Frederick’s and was landing the Vietnamese grass when the Mounties stepped in. Frederick had sailed off obliviously. Although John Denbigh, Bob Light, and some others were intimately involved in Frederick’s Vietnamese scam, Gerry Wills and Ron Allen were uninvolved and totally unaware of it. The overlap of personnel in the Thai and Vietnamese scams had caused them to be busted for a deal they knew nothing about. They could hardly tell the Mounties that the millions of confiscated dollars were actually the proceeds of a previous Thai importation and nothing to do with the current Vietnamese one. If Ron and Gerry were upset with me, I couldn’t blame them. It was my fault.

On the day I heard this tragic news, I visited Moynihan at the Palma Nova flat. He was uncomfortable, flustered, and unable to look me in the eye. I knew he was tape-recording me. I was tempted to say so, but I didn’t let on. I tried to turn the situation to my advantage.

‘You look worried, dear boy. Is anything wrong, Howard?’