Part 9 (1/2)

'I certainly do. I was going to call him anyway. His work was so shoddily done.'

Rosie gave the policemen the name and number. They shot off to hara.s.s some poor damp-course man. I excused myself on the pretext of having to attend to important matters at AnnaBelinda, sped off down the M40 to London, and checked into Blake's Hotel, Roland Gardens, under the name of Stephen McCarthy.

I was sure the police would return to Yarnton and was haunted by images of Rosie in a police cell and two little girls crying in intense fear and sadness. Rosie was easily persuaded to leave the country, and in my BMW, she, the two little girls, and a wonderful nanny named Vicky drove to Ibiza and rented a house in Santa Eulalia. I stayed at Blake's.

I had to find out what was going on and thought maybe Mac would help. I called the Foreign Office and arranged to meet him. I told him what had happened at Yarnton. Later on the same day, we met again.

'Did you find anything out, Mac?'

'I certainly did. You can rest a.s.sured that the police are not minded to arrest you. Feel free to go home. But I want you to meet one of my superiors, tomorrow, if possible. He has some questions for you.'

'What kind of questions?'

'He mentioned Ireland.'

'Mac, I can't talk about that. It involves my dope-dealing business.'

'Howard, I a.s.sure you we are not interested in your smuggling of cannabis. That is of no concern to us. Other matters in Ireland may be.'

'Like what?'

'Donald will explain to you tomorrow.'

Donald, a stern-faced, well-dressed spy, Mac, and I met for lunch at the Pillars of Hercules, just off Soho Square. Donald came to the point.

'We know you have been meeting a member of the Provisional IRA who supplies them with arms and know why you have been meeting him. We would like you to carry on meeting him to get some information from him.'

'Well, I have no plans to see him again right now.'

'That's fine. But when you do, let McMillan here know.'

'Sure.'

Mac and I went to his home in Putney. We had a whisky each in his sitting room.

'Howard, this might clear up any uncertainties,' said Mac, producing a photograph. I looked at it. It was a picture of McCann with his name underneath. Mac took it back from me and went into his study to make a phone call.

There was no doubt in my mind that I had to let McCann know MI6 were on his case. If MI6 knew he was dopedealing, the IRA would soon get to know, and McCann might get executed. No more Shannon deals. They had to stop. It was just too dangerous, too heavy. Where had all that peace and love stuff gone? Arms smuggling, b.l.o.o.d.y Sunday, executions, and knee-cappings. Ernie's Brotherhood of Eternal Love came far closer to traditional dope-dealing values of s.e.x, drugs, and rock 'n' roll; and they could make far more money. No more McCann. I would warn him of the danger, then get out of his life. I wanted that photograph of him so he would know I wasn't playing games.

Mac returned. I asked if I could telephone AnnaBelinda. He motioned me towards his study, and I made my phone call, letting my eyes roam over Mac's bookshelves. A book named The Unconscious Mind The Unconscious Mind s.n.a.t.c.hed my attention. I picked it up, opened it, and the photograph of McCann fell out. I put it into my pocket. That has remained the most inexplicable event in my life. s.n.a.t.c.hed my attention. I picked it up, opened it, and the photograph of McCann fell out. I put it into my pocket. That has remained the most inexplicable event in my life.

Feeling n.o.ble and resolute, I left Blake's and went back to Yarnton. I cabled Rosie to call me and told her it was safe for her to come back. She said she didn't want to come back. Life in Ibiza was far more meaningful: sun, stars, beaches, and lots of dope to smoke. She suggested that before I turn into a money-making megalomaniac and lose all my friends, I should join her in Ibiza. But I should promise not to bring with me any of my f.u.c.ked-up lifestyle. She'd made some wonderful friends who wouldn't appreciate it. I could tell I was losing her. I went to visit f.a.n.n.y Hill and began a very clandestine affair with her. At the same time, she was having a less clandestine affair with Raymond Carr, the Master of St Anthony's College, Oxford's CIA annexe.

I went to Ibiza and thought it would make a good neutral venue to meet McCann.

'Why the f.u.c.k have you dragged me here, H'ard, in the middle of all this hippie s.h.i.+t? You know I'm busy. Why couldn't you have come to Ireland? This had better be important.'

'It is, Jim. MI6 are on to you.'

'Who the f.u.c.k cares? There's a war going on. And what the f.u.c.k's MI6 got to do with you, you Welsh c.u.n.t?'

'An old Oxford friend of mine works for them. They know you and I have been dope-dealing. If they know, other people know, like maybe the IRA.'

Jim went white.

'f.u.c.k off! f.u.c.k off, will you! You're playing f.u.c.king games.'

I showed him the photograph.

'You and Soppy b.o.l.l.o.c.ks, I knew you were f.u.c.king Brit agents. I knew it. How can I know you haven't been setting the Kid up all along?'

'Try thinking, Jim.'

'f.u.c.k you!'

'This is it, Jim. No more deals for a while.'

'Okay, H'ard. But I'm staying here in Ibiza for a while for a holiday. My new Dutch girlfriend, Sylvia, and my old Irish girlfriend, Anne, are coming over. We'll stop with you.'

'I thought you were busy, Jim.'

In a couple of days, Rosie's Santa Eulalia holiday house had turned into a madhouse. McCann was playing musical beds with Sylvia and Anne, unsuccessfully encouraging Rosie and Vicky to do the same, and forever filling the house with various odd characters he picked up in the bars in Ibiza. He was making me laugh, so I didn't mind. I called AnnaBelinda in Oxford. There was a message to phone Eric in Athens. I knew Eric had picked up the has.h.i.+sh from Lebanon. He must have already landed it in Italy, where Johnny Martin had rented a villa in preparation to receive both the dope and Transatlantic Sounds rock-group equipment. Great!

It wasn't great. Eric said that there'd been a slight problem. I should come to Athens now. I packed my bags, and Rosie exploded.

'That's right. Leave me in the middle of all this chaos you've brought to ruin my holiday. I told you not to do this. Where are you going?'

'Athens. Fancy coming? Vicky can look after the children.'

The 'slight problem' was that Eric had temporarily stashed 700 pounds of Lebanese has.h.i.+sh on a remote Greek island. A herd of goats had unearthed the dope, which was spotted by some Greek sponge fishermen. The sponge fishermen had taken the has.h.i.+sh to Crete and were selling it at absurdly cheap prices. I knew Eric was telling me the truth. Eric's solution was to launch a commando-style attack in Crete and recover the has.h.i.+sh. I told him to forget it, but if he ever did get it back, I'd like some. After a quick tour of the Acropolis, Rosie and I flew back to Ibiza.

Graham favoured a commando solution and wanted to proposition McCann. I persuaded him not to. With no other means at his disposal, he sent Patrick Lane to Heraklion. A week later, Patrick returned with a sun-tan, lots of tall stories, and no dope, but I'm sure he did his best.

Graham told Ernie that the Italian speaker s.h.i.+pment was off. Ernie said it wasn't: some friends of his were soon to arrive in Italy having driven from Kabul in a camper stashed with Afghani hash. One of his friends was a draft-dodging Californian scientologist named James Gater. James Morris and I met Gater at Johnny Martin's rented villa in Cupra Maritima, near Ancona, on the Adriatic coast. We destashed the camper that had come from Afghanistan, put the has.h.i.+sh into Transatlantic Sounds speakers, and air-freighted it to Los Angeles from Rome. James Morris and I caught a flight from Rome to Zurich, where he introduced me to his Swiss banker. I opened up an account at the Swiss Bank Corporation. The banker a.s.sured me there would be no problem in my depositing large amounts of cash. Ernie gave me $100,000 for my a.s.sistance. Graham said I could keep it all. He wouldn't interfere with any deal I made with Ernie as long as I did not interfere with deals he intended doing with McCann. We would remain partners on all other deals and could invest in each other's individual deals without partic.i.p.ation. I agreed but couldn't help worrying about Graham. He was changing from a bourgeois, middle-cla.s.s monarchist buccaneer to the exact opposite. That was okay, but he was doing it too quickly and doing it under the influence of McCann. G.o.d knows what McCann had in mind, but it wouldn't have been Graham's political development.

In Ibiza, Rosie had given up the Santa Eulalia holiday house and rented a finca finca in the middle of nowhere. She was going back to nature. There wasn't even a bathroom or toilet, and it was several miles from a telephone. I put up with it for a while. Rosie and I were getting on well again. We had confessed our infidelities and were pretending they didn't matter. She introduced me to one of many Dutchmen who had places on the island. His name was Arend, and he was a heavy-drinking, fun-loving dope dealer from Amsterdam. I asked him what sort of prices and quant.i.ties normally prevailed in Amsterdam. I reported them to Ernie. He sent over Gater and another friend of his, Gary Lickert, to Amsterdam with several hundred thousand dollars, and Arend and I invested some money of our own. Gater rented a flat in Maastricht, near Utrecht. A hired truck full of Transatlantic Sounds speakers was parked outside. Arend and I purchased 700 pounds of Lebanese has.h.i.+sh from an Amsterdam wholesaler friend of his. Gater and I stashed the speakers, and one of James Morris's people drove the truck to Schiphol Airport and air-freighted them to Las Vegas via New York. in the middle of nowhere. She was going back to nature. There wasn't even a bathroom or toilet, and it was several miles from a telephone. I put up with it for a while. Rosie and I were getting on well again. We had confessed our infidelities and were pretending they didn't matter. She introduced me to one of many Dutchmen who had places on the island. His name was Arend, and he was a heavy-drinking, fun-loving dope dealer from Amsterdam. I asked him what sort of prices and quant.i.ties normally prevailed in Amsterdam. I reported them to Ernie. He sent over Gater and another friend of his, Gary Lickert, to Amsterdam with several hundred thousand dollars, and Arend and I invested some money of our own. Gater rented a flat in Maastricht, near Utrecht. A hired truck full of Transatlantic Sounds speakers was parked outside. Arend and I purchased 700 pounds of Lebanese has.h.i.+sh from an Amsterdam wholesaler friend of his. Gater and I stashed the speakers, and one of James Morris's people drove the truck to Schiphol Airport and air-freighted them to Las Vegas via New York.

It was early September 1973, and Ernie had invited me to come over to California once the Dutch load had been sent. I could pick up my own profit and maybe spend some of it. I was in Los Angeles before the speakers arrived at Las Vegas. Ernie and James Morris met me at the airport. Ernie was tall, thin, bearded, bespectacled, long-haired, and suntanned. He was Californian.

'Hi. How you doing? Have a good flight?'

'Yeah. It was long, though.'

Ernie thought for a second, then machine-gunned a few sentences.

's.h.i.+t! I used to do that son-of-a-b.i.t.c.h once a week when I was working with Graham in the early days. What's his beef, these days? He's been really kinda rude to me. I get p.i.s.sed with that. Well, we should pick up our load from Las Vegas airport tonight. You're booked into the Newporter Inn, an old Richard Nixon hangout. Nixon cracks me up. What you like to do for fun? There's real good surf here. I got a shed full of surfboards.'

'I've never tried surfing, Ernie.'

'How about sailing?'