Part 10 (1/2)

'No, look, I'm perfectly all right,' I said, leaping out of the wreck. 'If someone could give me a lift to the nearest telephone, I'll be able to take care of everything myself.'

'That'll be at Bernard Murphy's down the road. Jump in.'

Bernard Murphy's, which was actually named something like the Crazy Horseshoe, was heaving with serious Irish Sat.u.r.day-night revelry. A large group were energetically performing an Irish jig around the telephone. A few young lads were holding the phone and sticking fingers in their ears. I made a reversed charges call to McCann at Drogheda and told him I was stuck in the Crazy Horseshoe about ten miles outside Rosslare. Would he please come and get me? He arrived in a couple of hours.

'Some f.u.c.king operator you are. Can't drive a f.u.c.king car. Got nowhere to go. Can't even go back to selling dope on Brighton seafront, or dresses to f.u.c.king academics. Like a rolling f.u.c.king stone. Why don't British Intelligence help you out? You can't do things without the Kid, can you? This is war, H'ard. Soppy b.o.l.l.o.c.ks has joined the struggle. You f.u.c.king better, too. You got two f.u.c.king choices: I'll lend you 500 and you f.u.c.k off, or, with a new pa.s.sport that the Kid'll give you, you handle these two deals from Kabul and Lebalon, or whatever the f.u.c.k that place is called, that Soppy b.o.l.l.o.c.ks told me you and him are in the middle of.'

'What you mean by handle?'

'Soppy told me the Lebalon nordle is in London. Sell it. The Kabul nordle is in f.u.c.king n.a.z.i land. I've already blown up a British Army base in Monchengladbach, and the Baader-Meinhof gang eat out of my f.u.c.king hand. I want you to give the Kabul nordle to my man in Hamburg. He'll sell it.'

'How much do we all make?'

'We're partners, H'ard. Me, you, and Soppy. Equal shares after everyone else has been paid off.'

'That's fair enough for the dope in Hamburg if your guys are selling it. But why should you get anything from the Lebanese deal?'

'Soppy's already agreed, H'ard.'

We picked up my belongings from the wrecked car and drove to McCann's Drogheda hideout. The false Irish pa.s.sport took a few days, during which time McCann constantly berated me for incompetence. It looked perfect and was in the name of Peter Hughes.

'Is this a real person, Jim?'

'Peter Hughes is f.u.c.king real all right. He's a member of the Provos, and he's interned by the Brits.'

'In that case, it doesn't seem to be a particularly good idea for me to pretend to be Mr Hughes,' I said.

'Well, the cops are not f.u.c.king looking for him. He's in Long Kesh, and they f.u.c.king know that. They're looking for you, H'ard. Think, you stupid Welsh c.u.n.t.'

McCann took me to the airport.

'Let me give you some advice, H'ard. Never fly to where you're really going. Do the last bit by train, bus, or car. See, there's an Aer Lingus flight to Brussels. Go on it, then take a train to Hamburg.'

On my arrival in Brussels, the Immigration Officer looked carefully at my Peter Hughes pa.s.sport. He looked up.

'Howard?' he asked.

I froze. I'd been found out. But the Immigration Officer was smiling. Then I realised he was merely making a joking reference to billionaire Howard Hughes.

'You have a famous name, Mr Hughes.'

After several hours on the train, I checked into the Atlantic Hotel, Hamburg, where I was meant to stay until McCann called with his friend's whereabouts. I had the keys to the car and garage. Meanwhile, Marty Langford had checked into the International Hotel, Earls Court, London, with a carload of Lebanese has.h.i.+sh in the hotel car park. Charlie Weatherley was going to sell it. I called Marty. He wasn't in his room. I left my number with reception. I called again after a while. Someone else answered the phone in his room.

'Could I please speak to Marty?' I asked.

'Yes, this is Marty, go ahead.'

The voice wasn't remotely like Marty's.

'This is Marty. Who are you?'

I put the phone down and rang again.

'Could you put me through to Mr Langford's room, please?'

'h.e.l.lo, h.e.l.lo, this is Marty speaking.'

It was now obvious to me what had happened. Marty had been busted, and the police were in his room finding out what they could. I had stupidly left my hotel number in Hamburg with the receptionist at the International Hotel, Earls Court. It was time to check out and scarper.

On the flight schedule board at Hamburg airport there were two flights leaving almost immediately, one to Helsinki and one to Paris. I couldn't remember in which country Helsinki was situated, so I bought a ticket for the Paris flight. At Paris I was able to get a flight to Barcelona, and from there to Ibiza. By the time I landed, I had a heavy fever. For the next two days, I stumbled around Rosie's primitive finca finca deliriously searching for a telephone and a toilet. Rosie ignored me. When I recovered, I went straight to Ibiza airport and called Marty's, Weatherley's, and a host of other London numbers. No answer. I called McCann's in Drogheda. No answer. I caught the next flight to Amsterdam and went to Arend's flat. I called McCann's again. deliriously searching for a telephone and a toilet. Rosie ignored me. When I recovered, I went straight to Ibiza airport and called Marty's, Weatherley's, and a host of other London numbers. No answer. I called McCann's in Drogheda. No answer. I caught the next flight to Amsterdam and went to Arend's flat. I called McCann's again.

'Don't you ever call this f.u.c.king number or show your f.u.c.king face in my country again. My Anne is in prison because of your f.u.c.k-ups. She's with those f.u.c.king n.a.z.is, man. Marty and his two friends are over here. I've given them sanctuary. You promised them riches and gave them f.u.c.king ashes, you Welsh c.u.n.t.'

The torrent continued. I was able to piece together what had happened. Charlie Weatherley had gone to Marty's rooms to get a sample of the Lebanese. He was stopped by a hotel security man on the way out, and when asked which room he had come from, gave Marty's. The security man hauled Charlie up to Marty's room to check. Marty, thinking that Charlie must have been busted, denied all knowledge of him. Marty panicked, packed his clothes, left his room, left the carload of Lebanese, and fled to Ireland, taking the rest of the Tafia with him. McCann had no idea what had happened to me. He sent his girlfriend, Anne McNulty, and a Dutchman to Hamburg to pick up the car from the lock-up garage with the spare keys that Graham had. They got busted by the Hamburg police.

'Jim, I'm genuinely sorry about Anne. Is there anything I can do?'

'I don't need your f.u.c.king help. I've already personally declared war on those f.u.c.king n.a.z.is. They know what the Kid's capable of. Unless they want a f.u.c.king reminder of World War II, they'd better let Anne go.'

I called up Ernie. He said he'd come over to see me in Amsterdam during the next few days. The Paradiso, Amsterdam's first legal joint-smoking cafe, had just opened. I was beginning to like the city with its pretty ca.n.a.ls, hooker window displays, and liberal dope-smoking policy. Perhaps I should settle here. One evening, I went to the Oxhooft, a night-club, and ran into Lebanese Joe.

'Hey, Howard, man, it's good to see you. What are you doing here?'

'I might be living here from now on.'

'Same as me, man. It's a cool place. Give me your number. Here, have a smoke.' He put a piece of Lebanese has.h.i.+sh in my top pocket.

Ernie arrived and checked in under a false name at the Okura Hotel. I told him my tales of woe.

'Hey, don't worry. We're going to do something from this Amsterdam place real soon, even if we go back to our old way of taking new European cars to the States. It made me a bunch of money, I'll tell you. Here's $100,000. Start buying. And here's a sole of Afghani. I know there ain't nothing good to smoke in Europe. Can I give you a lift anywhere? I got a rent-a-car.'

'Yes please, Ernie. I think I'll open up a bank deposit box to put this money in and then get to Arend's.'

Ernie drove me to the Algemene Bank Nederland. I opened up a safe-deposit box in the name of Peter Hughes and placed the $100,000 and the Irish Peter Hughes pa.s.sport inside. Arend was overjoyed at the idea of buying some more has.h.i.+sh in Amsterdam. We made a pipe out of Ernie's Afghan. There was heavy knocking on the door. It burst open, and six Dutch police swarmed through the flat. I got up to leave.

'I don't live here. I have an appointment. I have to go,' I stammered.

One of the police stopped me and searched me. He found the piece of has.h.i.+sh Lebanese Joe had given me. He asked for my pa.s.sport. I still had my own. I gave it to him.

'Are you Dennis Howard Marks?'

'Yes, I am.'

'We are arresting you and will now take you to the police station.'

Three of them marched me downstairs and put me into the back seat of a car before climbing in. At the police station, they went through my pockets again and took everything away. They took down my particulars and led me towards the cells. Mick Jagger was singing Angie Angie on the police-station radio. I was busted. on the police-station radio. I was busted.