Part 6 (2/2)

'I don't think Jim will go for that, Graham. He's anxious to do the real thing.'

'He's got no choice.'

Charlie Radcliffe said he'd have no trouble making copies of the 'Out of Charge' note.

After Charlie Radcliffe, Charlie Weatherley, Jarvis, and I sold the Lebanese, which merely entailed giving it to James Goldsack and waiting for the money, I drove to Brighton. Although no longer living there, I'd kept on the flat and had given McCann its address and phone number. There was a telegram waiting for me. It was from Limerick. Jim had sent it about an hour after I'd left him. It stated: 'Send sporting goods to Ashling Distribution Services, Shannon airport. I need more money. Fitzgerald.'

I had no direct way of getting hold of Jim by telephone. There was just a mail drop in Ballinskelligs. I phoned Graham, who suggested we just went ahead and sent a dummy consignment once the 'Out of Charge' notes were printed but not to tell Jim it was a dummy until the last possible moment. I didn't like it. But it made sense. Graham got Patrick Lane to put a stack of London telephone directories in a box and air-freight it to Shannon. I telegrammed the eleven-digit air waybill number to Jim's Ballinskelligs address and express-mailed some perfectly forged 'Out of Charge' notes. Jim telephoned many hours later.

'Those f.u.c.kers in Kabul have ripped you all off. f.u.c.king telephone directories. Don't ever f.u.c.king bother me again, you Welsh a.r.s.ehole. I'm going to Kabul myself. f.u.c.king telephone directories. They could have at least sent some dirty magazines for the boys. Tell Soppy b.o.l.l.o.c.ks his days are numbered. You hear me. f.u.c.king telephone directories.'

'Jim, we had to do a dummy first, and there was no way of letting you know. I couldn't say in a telegram that this was a dummy, could I? You must give me a better way of getting hold of you.'

'I want another 500 tomorrow, without fail. Soppy had better be on the next f.u.c.king flight to Kabul, and he'd better send something other than f.u.c.king telephone directories, otherwise he'll be without his f.u.c.king kneecaps. What's his f.u.c.king phone number?'

'I'm not giving you his phone number, Jim, but I will be over tomorrow morning with the money. Did you find me a cottage or something?'

'It's all together, man. I do what I f.u.c.king say. I deliver. I'm the Kid.'

I reported to Graham. He agreed to go out to Pakistan in the next couple of days. I flew back to Shannon, rented a car, and, as arranged, waited in the lobby of the Shannon Shamrock. Jim came in accompanied by what appeared to be a giant all-in wrestler.

'This is Gus, H'ard. He's a member of the Belfast Brigade's a.s.sa.s.sination squad. I want him to know your face. Okay, Gus, you can f.u.c.k off now. Don't forget to get John Lennon's London address. I'll teach that f.u.c.king a.r.s.ehole a lesson he'll never forget. H'ard, I don't want any more f.u.c.king games, you understand me, do you?'

'It was a simple communication breakdown, Jim. There were no games. Here's your 500. Where's this cottage?'

We drove to a village called Ballynacally. At one of the pubs, we picked up a farmer with whom Jim had negotiated a rental the day before. The three of us drove up a winding road to a burned-down and abandoned stately home.

'This is Paradise,' said the farmer.

I mumbled puzzled agreement.

'Are we renting that, Jim? There's no roof.'

'Colonel William Henn used to live in that very house,' the farmer continued, 'but it's the cottage nearby you'll be renting. I didn't get your name, by the way.'

'His name's Brendan,' Jim quickly interjected.

'Brendan what?' asked the farmer.

'McCarthy,' I said. 'My family were originally from Cork.'

'Welcome to Paradise, Mr McCarthy.'

We drove to the remote cottage. There was absolutely no pa.s.sing traffic. It would suit our purposes admirably.

'What's the address of this place?' I asked the farmer.

'Paradise Cottage, Paradise House, Paradise. But if I were you, Mr McCarthy, I'd also put on the envelope that it's near Ballynacally.'

Driving back in the direction of the Shannon Shamrock, I asked Jim why he had chosen the name Ashling for the Limerick company.

'Can't you even work that out with your f.u.c.king Oxford brain? Ashling means vision in Gaelic. It's also a combination of has.h.i.+sh and Aer Lingus. We could go and see the Limerick office if you like.'

The rented office was squashed between a small car-rental company and a do-it-yourself shop. Jim unlocked the door. It was a simple room with a desk and a phone. The phone worked, but Jim did not know its number. It had been the previous tenant's private line.

'Has Soppy b.o.l.l.o.c.ks gone to Kabul?'

'Yes, he left this morning,' I lied.

'How long will it take him to send me the nordle?'

'What the h.e.l.l is nordle, Jim?'

'You have to use codes, you stupid Welsh c.u.n.t. Codes and false names. Nordle is has.h.i.+sh.'

'Oh! Okay. Well, Soppy will take about a week to send you the nordle.'

'A week! A f.u.c.king week! Why so f.u.c.king long?'

'I don't know, Jim.'

We continued on our journey back to the Shannon Shamrock. There was plenty of time for me to make the flight back to Heathrow, so we had a meal in the hotel's restaurant. Jim made a phone call, and a few minutes later Gus came in. He took a seat at another table in the corner. He ignored us. We ignored him.

'Remember, H'ard, no f.u.c.king games. Codes and false names. Then it will all flow like the grace of a Mozart concerto. You're with me, kid. No one will bother you in Ireland. Anytime you want to get hold of me, call this number in Dublin. Don't give it to anybody. I mean anybody. See you next time.'

A few days later, Graham still hadn't left for the Middle East. The connection of his most suitably equipped to air-freight has.h.i.+sh was a man named Raoul, Mohammed Durrani's man in Karachi. I had met him several times at Graham's. He was a small, bespectacled, slightly overweight Pakistani about ten years my senior. Whenever I saw him, he was smiling broadly and counting large stacks of money. Graham and his Californian connection, Ernie Combs, a member of the Californian dope-dealing organisation, the Brotherhood of Eternal Love, had often sent vehicles of various descriptions to Pakistan to be filled up with Raoul's has.h.i.+sh. They were then driven overland to Europe, and, in some cases, put on s.h.i.+ps to be taken across the Atlantic. Raoul was a rich man and owned cinemas and numerous other businesses in Karachi. All Graham had to do was give Raoul instructions for air-freighting or sea-freighting, and the job was done. He could do what he wanted in Pakistan when he wanted, except in times of natural disaster and war. India was threatening to invade East Pakistan and free it from West Pakistan's yoke. Serious war was inevitable. Visitors to Pakistan were discouraged. Raoul was unable to operate.

At least once every day, a very impatient Jim McCann rang up asking, 'How much f.u.c.king longer are you going to take?'

'Jim, there's a war on out there. Karachi airport is surrounded by soldiers. It's impossible to get anything out of there at the moment.'

'A war! What the f.u.c.k do you think is happening in my country? I'm surrounded by f.u.c.king soldiers everywhere. It doesn't stop me from f.u.c.king operating.'

'Well, it stops some people, including our man in Karachi.'

'f.u.c.king Welsh academics. Can't you get the nordle from somewhere else?'

'Hopefully, yes. Graham's got people in Beirut and Kabul.'

'Kabul! You just said there's a f.u.c.king war there and you can't f.u.c.king do anything. Don't play f.u.c.king games, H'ard. I warned you about that.'

'Jim, the war is in Pakistan, which was where we were going to send the sporting goods from.'

'What f.u.c.king sporting goods?'

'The nordle, Jim. You know what I mean. Anyway, there's no war in Afghanistan. So Graham should be able to do it from there.'

<script>