Part 9 (2/2)

'Never tried that either.'

'Not an ocean lover, huh? Okay. You want to go motorcycle riding in the desert? I got a bunch of real nice bikes.'

'That's another thing I've never done. I've been a pa.s.senger, but I've not ridden one. Not even a pushbike.'

Ernie started laughing uncontrollably. I joined in.

'I guess it seems strange to you, Ernie, yeah?'

'You got that right. So what do you do when you ain't working, watch television?'

'Sometimes. But usually I just get stoned, read books, and listen to music.'

'You'll like California,' said Ernie.

I did, or what I saw of it, which was mainly the inside of a hotel room in Newport Beach. I wandered around the hotel complex, the bars, swimming pools, and other public areas, and realised that American movies weren't about fantasy: they were doc.u.mentaries about Hollywood. There were hundreds of radio stations and dozens of TV channels. In Britain we had only three. The radio stations were fantastic. I listened to a few hours of doo-wop and golden oldies before the commercials drove me mad. All the TV channels were showing sport, cop shoot-outs, sit-coms, game shows, or news. I watched the news. A reporter said, 'Hey, one of you guys out there has just lost $5,000,000. Today, law enforcement officers seized Nevada's biggest ever haul of illegal drugs. Has.h.i.+sh, highly concentrated cannabis from the Middle East, almost half a ton of it, was discovered hidden in speaker cabinets. Over to Las Vegas ...' On the screen came pictures of the Lebanese has.h.i.+sh and the speakers Gater and I had stashed in Holland.

In the movies, the crook, usually a fugitive, always immediately switches off the radio or television when the relevant news bulletin finishes. I didn't. I stared at it blankly for at least an hour. Was this really happening? I was very jetlagged from my first-ever long flight, and Ernie had given me the most varied collection of has.h.i.+sh and marijuana imaginable. I was as stoned as I'd ever been. This was Hollywood. It probably wasn't happening.

There was a knock on the door. It was Ernie, and it was happening.

'Well, we lost that one. The cops ...'

'I know, Ernie. I just saw it on TV.'

'No kidding. That was quick. What you figure on doing next?'

'I think I ought to leave.'

'That's smart. Here's $10,000. I guessed you didn't bring a bunch of money over with you. It'd be kinda dumb if you were coming to pick some up. Here's my new phone number. Call me.'

'Thanks, Ernie. How did the load get busted? Do you know?'

'Sure I do. Didn't it say on TV? The load transited in John F. Kennedy Airport, New York. When the airport loaders put it on the plane to Vegas, they f.u.c.ked up and left one speaker behind, which they stuck in some shed in Kennedy overnight, and a dog sniffed it. The DEA took the dope out of the speakers once they were in Vegas and let my guy, Gary Lickert, the kid you met in Amsterdam, pick it up so they could see where he was taking it to. I had that covered. I was watching Gary from a distance. I saw him being followed, overtook him, gave him the signal, and haula.r.s.ed outa there.'

'What did Gary do?'

'Drove in circles around the airport until the cops stopped him.'

'Will he tell the cops about you and me?'

'No. He did a tough stint in Vietnam. He won't crack. But we should play it cool for a while, like a few days. I got friends in the FBI. I'll find out what they got on us. Take a limo from here to LA airport. When you get there, buy a ticket in some dumb English name like Smith for a flight to the East Coast, somewhere like Philadelphia, then fly in your own name to anywhere you want.'

I flew to New York and stayed at the Hilton overnight, visiting Greenwich Village, Times Square, and the Statue of Liberty. Then I flew to London. Mac wanted to see me. We met at Dillons bookshop and took a cab ride to nowhere in particular.

'Howard, you know that recently we have had to suffer some embarra.s.sment over the Littlejohn affair.'

'Yes.'

Kenneth and Keith Littlejohn were bank robbers who had claimed to be infiltrating the IRA at the behest of MI6. The claims had been substantiated, and the British public expressed outrage at their Secret Service's employing of notorious criminals for undercover work in the independent Republic of Ireland.

'For that reason, and that reason alone, you and I have to terminate our relations.h.i.+p. We can no longer liaise with criminals.'

'Dope smuggling is hardly a crime, Mac.'

'Of course it is, Howard. Don't talk rot. It's illegal.'

'I thought you agreed has.h.i.+sh shouldn't be illegal. It's the law that's wrong, not the activity.'

'I do. But until the law changes, you're a criminal.'

'Don't you think, Mac, there's a duty to change laws which are wrong, evil, harmful, and dangerous?'

'Yes, but by legal means.'

'You would use the law to change the law.'

'Of course.'

'I suppose you would recommend saving a drowning man by telling him to drink his way out of it.'

'That's sophistry, Howard, and you know it. This end to our relations.h.i.+p is not my decision. I've been ordered to tell you this.'

I felt curiously cheated. My career as a spy was over without my having derived any benefit from it.

'Mac, if by abiding by my own decisions and beliefs, rather than those of others, I come across something which affects the security of this country, do I take it that I should now no longer bring it to your attention?'

Mac smiled. I've not seen him since.

After the Greek sponge fishermen fiasco, Eric was determined to make amends; he went to Beirut. He found his own source of supply who was prepared to give him 100 kilos of has.h.i.+sh on credit. Eric offered to extend this credit to us and bring another suitcase to Geneva. The deal went ahead smoothly. Anthony Woodhead drove the has.h.i.+sh from Geneva to England.

One of Mohammed Durrani's diplomats turned up in Hamburg with 250 kilos of Pakistani has.h.i.+sh. Graham and I sent out one of the Tafia, who rented a car and a lock-up garage in the outskirts of Hamburg to store the dope.

James Morris rang from Los Angeles. Three of his workers had been arrested in London. He didn't know why. Neither did Graham or I. We knew American law had been broken, but we couldn't see how anyone involved had been guilty of breaking British law. Graham didn't want to bother to find out. He'd been to prison once; that was enough. He wanted to go to Ireland under a false ident.i.ty to join McCann and supervise matters from there. It was safer. McCann had got him a false Irish driving licence. He left London that night.

Graham was right. Whatever reason was used to bust James Morris's workers could be used to bust us. I didn't want to rejoin McCann so soon after breaking from him, but Ireland was the only foreign country one could travel to from England without showing a pa.s.sport. If there really was a danger of being arrested, I clearly shouldn't travel around under my own name. I had no choice but to seek refuge with McCann. I borrowed Denys Irving's driving licence, hired a car, stashed my pa.s.sport, some dope, money, and bits and pieces in the back panels, and drove to Fishguard. On the ferry I drank several pints of Guinness at the bar before it docked at Rosslare. Once I reached open country, I stopped and rolled a very stiff joint of Afghani. As night fell, I drove towards Drogheda, where McCann was now based. Cruising along at 50 mph, I totally missed a right-angled bend and crashed through a hedge into a field. I lost consciousness.

'Will he be needing a doctor or a priest?'

Two carloads of people surrounded the steaming, dripping vehicle. Although I was lying awkwardly, I felt no pain and could move all my muscles.

'I'm all right,' I said.

'Don't you be moving now. We'll have an ambulance and tow-truck here in no time. No time at all.'

I thought of the dope and my inconsistent ident.i.ty doc.u.ments.

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