Mr Nice: an autobiography (66 page)

That would work.

Judy left. Just before she was taken on the plane at Madrid international airport, she was allowed to send me a telegram. ‘Pray for me,’ it said. I prayed and cried and heard the wails of my children.

Darin Bufalino was extradited to Boston. Other fellow-prisoners were extradited to various countries. Roger had requested them to write to him giving full details of the travel procedures they had to undergo. Some of the letters had arrived.

‘Let me tell you something, boy. Escaping from that airport in Madrid is a piece of piss. If I did it in Amsterdam, I’m damn sure that with the help of the Good Lord I can do it here.’

‘But, Roger, you’ll have handcuffs on. You didn’t in Amsterdam.’

‘Hey, I had handcuffs on when I jumped out of the court in Palma. They don’t mean shit to me. But that don’t matter anyway because the cops take the handcuffs off at the departure lounge. I bet you ain’t ever seen a guy with handcuffs on in a departure lounge or a plane. No siree you ain’t. I’ll just get on another plane. Maybe go straight to South Africa. I can’t wait to hit that Madrid airport.’

Shortly after this conversation, Roger was extradited to Germany. He was driven all the way by car. As planned, he pleaded guilty and snitched on me and McCann. The German authorities gave him a seven-year sentence and
housed him in a maximum-security prison in Lübeck.

On Friday October 31st, Gustavo came to see me. He was flustered and angry.

‘Its incredible. Absolutely incredible. The Audiencia Nacional appeals court and the Constitutional Court have dismissed our cases against extradition. The
acción popular
appeal has also been dismissed. Usually these cases take years to resolve. In your case they have acted almost immediately. It’s completely without precedent.’

‘Do I have any chance left, Gustavo, or am I on my way to Miami?’

‘The Supreme Court still has to rule. They shouldn’t extradite you while that is pending. I have some other ideas which I will discuss with you on Monday. Just try to relax over the weekend.’

The next day, Saturday, I worked on my false defence, the one to mislead the DEA. The papers relating to my real Australia defence and my detailed analysis of every item of the prosecution evidence had been given to Gustavo. I created the sort of phoney defence the authorities would believe to be mine: after I had worked for the Mexican Secret Service and been acquitted of any involvement in marijuana smuggling, MI6 posted me to the Khyber Pass. It was declared United States and United Kingdom policy to support the
mujaheddin
against the occupation of Afghanistan by the Soviet Union. Some financial aid was officially given, and covert encouragement was given to illegal fund-raising such as that resulting from the export of Afghan hashish. It was clear that the 1986 hashish load came from the
mujaheddin
. The stamp on each slab said as much. It was clear that the 1984 American President Line load involved the CIA. I was not breaking American law. I was carrying out in Pakistan the work assigned me by MI6 and the CIA, helping to rid the world of the Communist scourge. It was monstrous even to charge me.

In a file headed ‘Try to use if possible’, I put in newspaper
reports on CIA hot money finding its way to the Afghan rebels, the IRA purchasing Stingers from the
mujaheddin
, the September 1986 hijack by the PLO of an American airliner on the runway of Karachi airport,
mujaheddin
bases in the Khyber Pass being used to train Arab and Filipino terrorists, and theories of who assassinated President Zia ul-Haq. For good measure, I also threw in some stoned nonsense about a Communist cell in Nepal controlling the world’s hashish supply.

Just the sort of defence the DEA would expect.

I spent all of Sunday morning and most of the afternoon lying on my bed smoking joints. At four o’clock, when we were locked in to eat our meal, there was a polite knock on the cell door. It was one of the friendly young English-speaking
funcionarios
. He called from the other side of the metal door.

‘Marco Polo, pack up your things, if you please. You are leaving now. I will be back in twenty minutes when all the cells are opened. Please be ready then.’

The
funcionario
’s footsteps receded. I went cold. I started to tremble. Shakily, I started to put my phoney defence notes and other possessions in a pillowcase.

‘Did I hear that right, Howard?’ asked John Parry from the next-door cell. ‘If so, you’d better roll yourself a good strong joint of that Moroccan hash. It might be your last for a while. Don’t worry. You’ll be okay. Keep your chin up. Think of all them hamburgers and hot dogs. Beats this paella.’

I finished packing my bag, rolled a huge strong joint and put what hashish I had left in my underpants. I puffed away frantically. The cell doors opened. Hashish smoke and fumes billowed out and enveloped the
funcionario
. He burst out laughing and walked away. John Parry went running after him.

‘
Funcionario, funcionario
, look at Marco Polo. He is smoking
chocolate
. You must bust him. He must do some time in prison here. You can’t let him go to the United States.’

‘No, no,’ said the
funcionario
. ‘Marco Polo can do what he likes. Only America will make him pay. I allow him to smoke the hashish. But he must hurry. Interpol is waiting.’

‘I don’t think that’ll cause Marco Polo too much bother,’ said John. ‘He doesn’t really like Interpol. And anyway, I have to carry his bag. I always used to carry his bag.’

‘Yes, okay, you can carry his bag. But please be quick.’

John Parry carrying my pillowcase and I smoking my massive joint were led down the corridor. We were met by about ten uniformed guards and a few serious-looking men in sober suits.

‘This is where I say so long, Howard. Stay strong.’

We were both in tears. We hugged and said our goodbyes.

Very quickly I was bundled into a van, taken to Madrid police station, and placed in a holding cell. Although very firm in denying me the opportunity to communicate with anyone, the police were more than friendly, almost apologetic, and plied me with food, coffee, and cigarettes. When locked up for the night, I swallowed the lump of hashish and fell asleep.

Very early the next morning, I was brought up from the cells. Alongside the Spanish police stood three very obvious Americans, one Hispanic, one Black, and one Irish.

‘Are you Dennis Howard Marks?’ asked the Hispanic.

I nodded.

‘We are the United States of America Federal Marshals Service. We have a warrant to take you to the United States of America. You will now be relieved of all your possessions other than the clothes you are wearing. I will now perform a strip-search on your person.’

‘He has already been searched,’ lied one of the senior plain-clothes Spanish police.

‘I would have preferred to search him myself. Please note that for the record. Mr Marks, kindly hand over those cigarettes of yours, and slip your hands into these handcuffs.’

‘I’m a heavy smoker, particularly on planes.’

‘We will administer you cigarettes when you require them.’

‘I want one now.’

‘You will have to wait until we get to the airport. We are pressed for time. We have been waiting for you since Friday. There was a lot of paperwork to do. In any event, I doubt if my Spanish colleagues would allow you to pollute their office with your cigarette smoke.’

‘
Por favor, hombre!
’ said the Interpol man, and handed me one of his cigarettes.

At breakneck speed, the three marshals, the Interpol man, and I were driven to Madrid airport. After an hour in a holding cell, I was taken at gunpoint aboard an absolutely empty Pan Am 747. A marshal sat each side of me, one behind. Regular passengers were beginning to board. The Hispanic marshal suddenly looked very proud of himself.

‘This is American territory. An American aircraft is on American territory wherever it is. Read him his Miranda rights.’

And they did, like they do in the movies.

I hated every minute of the journey. Once we landed at New York, the Hispanic US Marshal put a chain around my waist and led me like a pet chimpanzee through a maze of corridors. At first the US Immigration and Naturalisation Service wouldn’t let me through because I did not have a US visa and was a convicted, drug-dealing felon. Then the US Marshals were prevented from boarding because they had lost the onward flight tickets to Miami and had overlooked getting permission for the firearms they were carrying in order to kill me if I decided to jump out of the plane. Shortly before midnight, we arrived at Miami International Airport, where we were greeted by another US Marshal, a very young, very big, bald Black wearing a hideously multicoloured Mickey Mouse tee-shirt. The four US Marshals and I got into a large limousine driven by yet another US Marshal and drove down a freeway to a large complex containing apartment blocks, factory, chapel, and a lake. It looked like a garden village. A notice indicated that it was Miami Metropolitan Federal Correctional Center (Miami MCC), United States Federal Bureau of Prisons. An obese female sporting a semi-automatic and a grotesquely short
mini-skirt waved us through to the reception area. I was the only arrival. The prison guards, called hacks rather than screws, took away all my personal possessions, stripped me naked, looked up my arse, and made me pull my foreskin back. I was assigned a number, 41526-004, had my photographs and fingerprints taken, and marched to a solitary cell. I couldn’t sleep. Two hours later, at three o’clock in the morning, a guard shouted through the door.

‘Name?’

‘Marks,’ I answered.

‘Number?’

‘I don’t know. I’ve only just got here.’

‘Number?’

‘I don’t know.’

The guard disappeared and came back with three more. They took me to a cold holding cell full of Colombian and Cuban cocaine dealers. I gathered we were all being taken to Miami Courthouse. Most of the Colombians and Cubans were on trial and were absolutely shattered. Each day they were woken at 3 a.m., kept in holding cells for five hours, handcuffed and shackled by US Marshals, taken by bus to the courthouse, produced in the actual courtroom for a maximum of four hours, held in the courthouse’s ‘bullpen’ holding cell for several hours, and taken back to prison. They never got to sleep before midnight and were not allowed any books or papers during the hours they were awake. In these conditions, they fought the US Government for their freedom.

I was in the courtroom for a mere few minutes. The magistrate told me to come back tomorrow. For four or five days I was shunted between the prison and the courthouse, each day appearing for a few minutes. There was no DEA and no press. On the last occasion, I saw Robert O’Neill, the prosecuting Assistant United States Attorney I had seen in Spain. He told me I had now been arraigned. I had been assigned a lawyer, a federal public defender whose fees
would be paid by the US Government. O’Neill advised me to pay for a better one.

After this last court appearance, I was taken back to Miami MCC. Having completed the first few days of mandatory isolation, I was now taken to dormitory accommodation in the main compound of the prison complex. The next morning was beautifully sunny, and at the permitted time I took a walk around the lake. There were ducks on the surface and a plastic alligator on the bank. Concrete tables and benches were scattered around. Racket-ball courts, tennis courts, outdoor gymnasium, jogging track, football field, horseshoe-throwing pitch, basketball court, bowling pitch, cafeteria, shop, library, outdoor cinema, pool rooms, television rooms, vending machines, lay conveniently close at hand. A man came running towards me. It was Malik.

‘D. H. Marks. So we are here together. It is wish of Allah. And this, American bastard say, is God’s country, land of free.’

‘How the hell did they manage to extradite you, Malik?’

‘Political reason. With Zia, it would not happen in blue moon. But Benazir, she is now in charge. She wants American dollar. Appeal Court judges in Pakistan extradite me. Next day American pig give them US visa and Green Card. Now they live handsome life in Washington. They think they have left Third World for better life. DEA ask me to plead guilty and co-operate and become snitch. Then they will send me back to Pakistan. I say “Why not?” I will tell them the bullshit.’