Part 5 (1/2)

Mohammed Durrani had a variety of ways of getting has.h.i.+sh into Europe. The most common was in the personal effects of Pakistani diplomats taking up positions in Pakistani emba.s.sies and consular offices throughout Europe. Durrani would arrange with the diplomat to put about a ton of has.h.i.+sh into the diplomat's personal furniture and belongings before they left Pakistan. A diplomat's personal effects would be unlikely to be searched on arrival, and he could always claim diplomatic immunity or blame it on the Pakistani s.h.i.+ppers if the dope was accidentally discovered. On this occasion, the personal effects had been delivered to the diplomat's residence in Bonn. Patrick and I had to rifle through the cabin trunks, remove the has.h.i.+sh, and drive it to a disused gravel pit near Cologne, where Dutch Nik, Dutch Pete, and other Dutch would pick it up and smuggle it to England. Everything went without a hitch, and after taking care of sales in London, I'd made another 7,500.

Graham had made a great deal more and was intent on legitimising his hard-earned money in the form of respectable London businesses. He had met Patrick and liked him. He needed a bent accountant and felt Patrick would be ideal. I could see no disadvantage. Soon Graham and Patrick had established a carpet shop, Hamdullah, and a property company, Zeitgeist, at 3, Warwick Place, Little Venice. They carried appropriate business cards which they flashed at every opportunity.

My lifestyle went from expensive to outrageously flamboyant. In London, Brighton, Oxford, and Bristol, I would pick up the tab at every bar and restaurant I visited. Any of my friends who wished to merely smoke has.h.i.+sh rather than sell it would be given as much as they wanted free of charge. There are few things that give me more pleasure in life than getting people very stoned and giving them good food and wine, but meanwhile I could see very well the sense of using some of my money to set myself up in the way Graham was doing. It would have to be on a smaller scale, but in principle it could be done.

Redmond and Belinda O'Hanlon were undergraduate friends of mine at Oxford. Redmond was now at St Anthony's doing a D.Phil. on Darwin's effect on nineteenth-century English literature while Belinda was running a small dressmaking business with Anna Woodhead, the Spanish wife of Anthony Woodhead, another Oxford undergraduate friend. Their clientele were largely Oxford University ladies looking for suitable ball dresses. Anna and Belinda were badly under-capitalised. I gave them the impression that I had recently inherited some money. We agreed to go into business together from small, tucked-away premises near Oxford railway station. Using cash, I bought a bunch of sewing-machines and formed a company, AnnaBelinda Ltd. It immediately did well, and we looked for suitable street-front rental premises to open up a boutique. We found them at 6, Gloucester Street, where AnnaBelinda still stands.

A few more Durrani scams occurred, but they involved significantly smaller amounts. Occasionally I would drive a stashed car across a European border. I'd get a religious flash and an as.e.xual o.r.g.a.s.m every time I did. Marty Langford and a couple of other Kenfig Hill school friends, Mike Bell and David Thomas, were also living in London doing boring and menial jobs. I gave each the opportunity of working for me moving and stas.h.i.+ng has.h.i.+sh, taking telephone calls, and counting money. Each took it, and I was no longer exposing the London flat to the dangers inherent in street dealing: they were exposing theirs. The four of us were probably London's only Welsh criminal gang, and were jokingly referred to by our fellow dealers as the Tafia. It was dangerous fun. But I was spending almost as much as I was earning. Thousands of pounds a month were not enough.

Four.

MR McCARTHY.

Charlie Radcliffe, Graham, and I were smoking joints and counting money in Graham's Marylands Road flat. We were bemoaning our poverty. Although we were grateful to Mohammed Durrani's Pakistani diplomats for smuggling has.h.i.+sh into Europe and giving it to us to sell, we were jealous of the amount of money they were making. We would make about 20% of the selling price in London. The diplomats and Durrani made the rest. We, or the Dutch, had to drive the dope into England and then deliver it to wholesalers in London. It was a risky business, particularly with road blocks now being set up all over the place to catch IRA activists. We were taking all the chances, while the Pakistanis were taking none. There was no chance of getting the has.h.i.+sh for a better price in Europe. The Pakistanis knew full well that there were plenty of buyers more than willing to pay at least as much as we were. We couldn't beat them down.

'If only we could find our own way of getting hash in,' said Graham, 'we would become so rich. Don't either of you know anyone who works in a key position in an airport or in the docks somewhere?'

I didn't.

'I could try Cardiff, Graham,' I suggested. 'There are probably some old school friends of mine working in a freight department somewhere. I could go drinking in the pubs where dock and airport workers hang out. I'll find someone who needs to supplement his income, I'm sure.'

'Good idea,' complimented Graham, but without much enthusiasm.

Charlie spoke up. 'I've just met someone who I'm sure will be able to bring in some hash. I interviewed him for Friends Friends. He's an IRA guy. If he can smuggle in guns, he can smuggle in dope.'

Friends was an underground magazine. Its editor was a South African named Alan Marcuson. Charlie and his lady, Tina, lived in Alan's Hampstead flat. Together with Mike Lessor's was an underground magazine. Its editor was a South African named Alan Marcuson. Charlie and his lady, Tina, lived in Alan's Hampstead flat. Together with Mike Lessor's International Times International Times and Richard Neville's and Richard Neville's Oz Oz, Friends Friends catered for the tastes and beliefs of 1960s drop-outs, dope dealers, rock musicians, acid-heads, and anyone with a social conscience. The underground press was unanimously opposed to the British presence in Northern Ireland. The IRA's struggle was seen as championing the causes of the world's downtrodden and poverty-stricken Catholics. How could one not sympathise? There were increasing doubts and worries, of course, about the violent methods used by the IRA, particularly the Provisional IRA, which had recently broken away from the Official IRA to form a terrorist splinter group. There was also discomfort about the IRA's rather puritanical stance on smoking dope. catered for the tastes and beliefs of 1960s drop-outs, dope dealers, rock musicians, acid-heads, and anyone with a social conscience. The underground press was unanimously opposed to the British presence in Northern Ireland. The IRA's struggle was seen as championing the causes of the world's downtrodden and poverty-stricken Catholics. How could one not sympathise? There were increasing doubts and worries, of course, about the violent methods used by the IRA, particularly the Provisional IRA, which had recently broken away from the Official IRA to form a terrorist splinter group. There was also discomfort about the IRA's rather puritanical stance on smoking dope.

The current issue of Friends Friends carried a very lengthy piece on the IRA, which included an interview with a Belfast member, James Joseph McCann. In the interview he admitted to a petty-criminal childhood in Belfast which led to an involvement during the 1960s with South London's most powerful and feared gangster, Charlie Richardson. A spell in Her Majesty's Prison, Parkhurst, Britain's heaviest nick, had converted McCann into a poet and proponent of Irish nationalism. His poetry sucked, but his rhetoric seemed quite persuasive, especially when it took the form of explicit threat. McCann missed the criminal glamour and clearly felt there would be an even greater opportunity for money, deviousness, and deceit in becoming an Irish folk hero. He achieved this longed-for status by throwing Molotov c.o.c.ktails at Belfast's Queen's University, declaring himself as an IRA man, giving himself up to the authorities, and subsequently escaping from Crumlin Road prison. It was the first escape from there since World War II. He was now on the run in Eire, presenting himself to press photographers in badly fitting military wear and brandis.h.i.+ng a variety of lethal weapons, claiming to have smuggled them into Dublin. Belfast schoolchildren mocked and jeered at British soldiers patrolling the Andersonstown streets yelling, 'Where's your man McCann? Where's your man McCann?' He was a hero all right. carried a very lengthy piece on the IRA, which included an interview with a Belfast member, James Joseph McCann. In the interview he admitted to a petty-criminal childhood in Belfast which led to an involvement during the 1960s with South London's most powerful and feared gangster, Charlie Richardson. A spell in Her Majesty's Prison, Parkhurst, Britain's heaviest nick, had converted McCann into a poet and proponent of Irish nationalism. His poetry sucked, but his rhetoric seemed quite persuasive, especially when it took the form of explicit threat. McCann missed the criminal glamour and clearly felt there would be an even greater opportunity for money, deviousness, and deceit in becoming an Irish folk hero. He achieved this longed-for status by throwing Molotov c.o.c.ktails at Belfast's Queen's University, declaring himself as an IRA man, giving himself up to the authorities, and subsequently escaping from Crumlin Road prison. It was the first escape from there since World War II. He was now on the run in Eire, presenting himself to press photographers in badly fitting military wear and brandis.h.i.+ng a variety of lethal weapons, claiming to have smuggled them into Dublin. Belfast schoolchildren mocked and jeered at British soldiers patrolling the Andersonstown streets yelling, 'Where's your man McCann? Where's your man McCann?' He was a hero all right.

'Would he go for it, though, Charlie?' I asked. 'You know what these guys are like about dope. They'd tar and feather someone for smoking a joint. They think it pollutes their youth. They aren't going to help anyone bring it into Ireland, that's for sure.'

'Howard, Jim McCann actually smokes almost as much dope as we do. He's got no problems with it.'

'It's a first-cla.s.s suggestion,' said Graham, this time with enormous enthusiasm. 'Can you set up a meeting?'

A week later Graham and I landed at Cork airport, our first visit to Southern Ireland. We went to the car hire desk. It was called Murray Hertz.

'Now! What are you?' asked the Murray Hertz employee.

'What do you mean?' asked a very puzzled Graham.

'Your profession. I'll be needing it for my files.'

'I'm an artist,' stammered Graham.

'Now! Tell me. Why would an artist be wanting a car on a day like this? And what about your man there? Will he be holding your brushes?'

We gave up and went to the Avis desk, where they tried harder. They gave us a car, and we drove through the misty night to Ballinskelligs, where some time ago Alan Marcuson had rented a fisherman's cottage and placed it at McCann's disposal. Its telephone number was Ballinskelligs 1, and it lay next to a former lunatic asylum for nuns.

'Thank G.o.d you've arrived,' said Alan, 'but you mustn't do anything with Jim, whatever Charlie said. The man's a dangerous lunatic. He's got a boot full of explosives in a car parked right outside, he's stashed guns in the nuns' nuthouse, he's got me looking after this dog, he's stoned or drunk all day, he keeps bringing IRA guys here, and every policeman in Ireland's looking for him. I've never been so scared in my life. Humour him when he comes back from the pub, but don't think of doing business with him. He'll be busted in a flash.'

Jim McCann, drunkenly reeling and staggering, fell through the door and gave the sleeping dog a hefty kick up the a.r.s.e. He ignored me and Graham, farted loudly, and stared at the dog.

'Look at that f.u.c.king dog! What about you? You don't give him any exercise, Alan. It's wrong, I'm telling you. Look at that f.u.c.king dog!'

Alan, Graham, and I stared blankly at the still sleeping mongrel. So this was your man McCann. An Irish freedom fighter.

McCann's eyes s.h.i.+fted from the dog to me. 'You from Kabul, are you?'

'No, I'm Welsh, actually.'

'Wels.h.!.+ f.u.c.king Wels.h.!.+ Jesus Christ. What the f.u.c.k can you do? Why are you here?'

'I've got to help decide whether you could be of any use to us.'

'Use to you!' McCann screamed. 'Listen. Get this f.u.c.king straight. I'm the Kid. The Fox. I decide if youse any f.u.c.king use to me. Not the other f.u.c.king way round. And youse better be of some f.u.c.king use. We need some arms for the struggle. You hear me, do you? Youse were followed from the airport by my boys. This place is f.u.c.king surrounded by the IRA. Any f.u.c.king around, and you're gone, brother, gone.'

He turned and addressed Graham, 'Are you from Kabul, then?'

'Well, not exactly ...'

'Why have you brought me these two w.a.n.kers, Alan? I thought you were going to bring me someone who could get me arms from Kabul.'

'I've been to Kabul,' said Graham, attempting to save the situation.

'Can you get me some guns from there, then? Yes or no. Either s.h.i.+t or get off the pot. I've got John Lennon coming round here this evening. Time's short.'

'Kabul is not a place that sells arms,' Graham explained.

'What the f.u.c.k do you mean? Sell arms? I don't buy f.u.c.king arms. I get given them for the struggle by people who want to insure their future when we finally kick you f.u.c.king Brits out of my country. What's a f.u.c.king Welsh c.u.n.t doing selling arms anyway? You should stick to painting road signs.'

'Jim,' I said, 'we're a couple of hash smugglers. We want to know if you're able to get the stuff in for us. We'll pay you a lot for doing it.'

'Where's the has.h.i.+sh coming from?'

'Kabul.'

'Where the f.u.c.k's that, you Welsh p.r.i.c.k?'

The conversation was in danger of getting out of control. Graham came to the rescue.

'Kabul is the capital of Afghanistan. But we can also get it out of Karachi, Pakistan. Do you have any suggestions of how we could get it into Ireland?'

'Put it into a coffin. You understand me, do you? They never search those. I'll give youse the address to send it. My brother Brendan knows the priest. Our Gerard can drive the hea.r.s.e, and our Peter will make sure no one touches it.'

Not the best scam. Not even original, but at least we were talking the same language. I brightened up a bit, but Graham seemed unimpressed.