Part 15 (1/2)

In Time and s.p.a.ce and Circ.u.mstance we're Night and Day Upon the circle, although the axis is the same.

But all around your friends and family hope that they May share with you and help you play, and win, this game.

In one brief span, as the world turns, the sun's warm kiss Touches many loving hearts that beat with yours: you will get this.

Only three of us pleaded not guilty. Prentiss's defence was that he had committed the offence under duress. This defence works if the jury believe that a more serious offence was avoided by the commission of the offence charged. Prentiss was going to say that he imported fifteen tons of Colombian marijuana because if he didn't, the Mafia would kill him. Hedley Morgan would maintain that he didn't know the money he handled derived from sales of dope. I was a spy whose theatre of operations was dope deals.

The Crown took six weeks to present the prosecution before Judge 'Penal Pete' Mason. John Rogers, QC, was the Director of Public Prosecutions' counsel. Hiding behind bags of weed, address books, pa.s.sports, files, witness statements, and telephone gadgetry, he humourlessly laid out the case: 'This was crime on the grand scale ... It is no surprise that a man of the defendant's background and intelligence set up the UK side of the organisation just like a high-powered business ... He warmed to his work ... Mind-boggling quant.i.ties of cannabis and money. The whole of this smuggling operation was like a military operation ... An intricate web of bluff and counterbluff and false names ... Marks had so many ident.i.ties one wonders how on earth he remembers who he was ... The organisation had to be very slick, very smooth and carefully planned to succeed, and it will not surprise you to learn that those involved are extremely intelligent people.'

This led to the Daily Mail Daily Mail and and Daily Telegraph Daily Telegraph heading their stories: OXFORD MASTERMIND IN A 20M DRUGS RING and THE GRADUATE CONNECTION. heading their stories: OXFORD MASTERMIND IN A 20M DRUGS RING and THE GRADUATE CONNECTION.

Peter Whitehead was the Crown's key witness. He had been put into a most difficult position. His ethics were such that he would not wish to be responsible for putting anyone in prison. But he didn't want to end up in the nick himself. He saw a way out without directly incriminating me and took it. The price he paid was to be a prosecution witness. Peter behaved most honourably when he testified but he had left some question-marks about what I had done. Lord Hutchinson tore into Peter and eliminated most of those. Although Lord Hutchinson's cross-examinations were brilliant and although my junior barrister, Stephen Solley, had a.n.a.lysed the prosecution evidence in the most thoroughly competent and conscientious fas.h.i.+on imaginable, we had achieved only one victory: casting doubt on the observation made by HM Customs Officer Michael Stephenson of me in the Dorchester Hotel. By the time Lord Hutchinson had finished with him, Stephenson wasn't sure he'd ever been to the Dorchester. He's never forgiven me. The rest of HM Customs were already prematurely celebrating their victory. I was going down.

Lord Hutchinson thought so too and had a word with Penal Pete. Plea-bargaining does not happen in British justice, but indications of the judge's likely course of action can sometimes be obtained. Lord Hutchinson went to determine whether Penal Pete would be likely to give a maximum of seven years' imprisonment if I pleaded guilty. I could handle it. I'd get parole. Penal Pete refused. He wanted to give a much longer sentence.

For a whole week, I gave my evidence after first promising to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. I had plenty of doc.u.mentation establis.h.i.+ng I was a Mexican spy, but confirmation of my MI6 activities was then only to be found in old newspaper headlines. Through perfect legal manipulation, Lord Hutchinson managed to get the newspapers read by an enthralled and sympathetic jury. I was a spy all right. All the newspapers were unanimous in that opinion. One even quoted MI6's lawyer as confirming I was an agent. John Rogers rose to cross-examine. His lack of effort astonished me. He had no idea which questions to ask and merely mouthed empty rhetoric about what a bad but brilliant person I was. At one point, he was definitely on my side, saying: 'It is conceded that you worked for the Secret Service until March 1973 ...'

Now the jury definitely knew I was a spy. Occasionally, Rogers went for me: 'You are using a little bit of the truth and then glossing it ... You fanned your legend, didn't you? You encouraged the Marks religion to grow, that you were a secret agent on the run from the police, and made as many smokescreens as you could, while indulging in very highlevel drug trafficking ... Let me challenge you to name this MI6 controller you say recruited you for the Mexicans.'

I had no problem answering that one and gave the name of Anthony Woodhead, the husband of Anna of AnnaBelinda, the man who had ripped me off for a million dollars. I don't know what repercussions he experienced, but I expect he could afford them. My cross-examination was at an end.

Leaf was the first defence witness. He was so obviously telling the truth that the jury were left in no doubt that HM Customs Officer Michael Stephenson was wrong when he testified that he saw me at the Dorchester Hotel. The last defence witness was Jorge del Rio, a bona fide senior Mexican Government law-enforcement officer. Because of the sensitivity of his testimony, the Old Bailey court was cleared and the Mexican's evidence was given in camera. The Mexican confirmed that he knew me as Anthony Tunnicliffe, that he was introduced to me by Anthony Woodhead, that I was employed by the Mexican Secret Service, and that I had been paid large amounts of cash to infiltrate Colombian drug organisations. The jury loved it. Officers of HM Customs and Excise were beginning to look a bit worried.

In his closing speech, John Rogers, QC, launched into an attack: 'Marks is the biggest-ever trafficker apprehended with a single consignment. His claims of being a secret agent are utter rubbish. It is conceded that Marks was recruited for three months in 1973 by someone who was indiscreet enough to ask for his a.s.sistance. The rest is a myth mounted by Marks in order to conceal his real activities. His cover story is that he was an Intelligence agent. I invite you to treat that as a load of rubbish.'

Lord Hutchinson was far more convincing: 'Howard Marks was used by MI6 to infiltrate the IRA. Three times he traced James McCann, but three times he managed to slip away. But British Intelligence would not come into this court and admit, as the prosecution did, that Howard Marks was working for them. They just sit up in the public gallery here. You can see them, members of the jury, I'm sure. Howard Marks was left as the ”spy out in the cold”. It is the code of the Intelligence services. They say, ”You are on your own, old boy.” You may remember the cases of those Russian spies, not only Kim Philby, but also Anthony Blunt. It appears that British Intelligence can grant immunity from prosecution to spies who have acted against this country. But not so, it would seem, when they have actually been acting on behalf of this country.'

Judge 'Penal Pete' Mason summed up: 'You have seen Mr Marks, ladies and gentlemen of the jury. He has extraordinary charisma and an encyclopaedic knowledge of the evidence, enabling him to come up with an answer to every question. As with the other defendants, you must decide whether he partic.i.p.ated in this conspiracy or not. Either he had nothing to do with it, or he was into it up to his neck.'

The jury returned verdicts of not guilty on each of us. I don't think for one minute they believed the defences presented to them. They just didn't want us nice guys to spend countless years in prison for transporting beneficial herbs from one part of the world to another. A juror can acquit a defendant for any reasons he or she wishes: a fact that is infrequently broadcast. Enough acquittals, and the law will change. Stuart Prentiss and Hedley Morgan walked free from the Old Bailey. I received a two-year sentence for false pa.s.sports. With remission, I had five days to do. I looked up at the public gallery and saw Judy. I would be with her, Amber, and little Francesca for Christmas. All her love and relief came forth in the most beautiful smile I had ever seen. I had beaten the system. I had triumphed and would walk the streets within a week.

Not everyone shared my jubilation. HM Customs had other ideas in mind than my immediate freedom. I had completely forgotten about the 1973 rock-group scam. HM Customs hadn't. The trial was set for the middle of February. Bail was refused.

Two weeks after my acquittal, Chief Superintendent Philip Fairweather of Thames Valley Police took an eight-inch kitchen knife into his garden and plunged it into his stomach. He had recently confessed to having leaked to the press the MI6 report doc.u.menting my work for the Intelligence services, and he knew that I had obtained my unjust acquittal partly on the basis of this leak. Rather than face charges under the Official Secrets Act, this 58-year-old World War II veteran and distinguished police detective committed hara-kiri in his home. No one was meant to die in all this nonsense.

Bernard Simons had discovered that after my arrest and deportation from Amsterdam, the Dutch authorities proceeded to try me in my absence. For reasons best known to themselves, they found me not guilty of exporting from Holland the Lebanese has.h.i.+sh that had got busted in Las Vegas in 1973. British law embodies the doctrine of autrefois acquit autrefois acquit, whereby a previous acquittal in a foreign court may, in certain circ.u.mstances, serve as a bar for prosecution of a similar offence in a British court. A jury is empanelled to decide if the offences are similar enough for autrefois acquit autrefois acquit to apply. It seemed to us that exporting a certain quant.i.ty of has.h.i.+sh from Amsterdam to Las Vegas was a similar charge to knowingly a.s.sisting precisely the same export. Beating the 1973 charge was going to be easy. It wouldn't even get to trial. to apply. It seemed to us that exporting a certain quant.i.ty of has.h.i.+sh from Amsterdam to Las Vegas was a similar charge to knowingly a.s.sisting precisely the same export. Beating the 1973 charge was going to be easy. It wouldn't even get to trial.

At the Old Bailey, in front of the Recorder, Sir James Miskin, I entered a plea of autrefois acquit autrefois acquit. The judge explained to a bewildered jury the nuances of dissimilarity of offences. He asked them if they thought the Dutch offence could be considered the same as the British one. The jurors stared in baffled silence. Judge Miskin said that 'No' would be an appropriate answer. The foreman said 'No.' Lord Hutchinson jumped up and objected. Judge Miskin told him to take it up at the Court of Appeal and dismissed the jury. The case was going to trial.

I won the first round. Gary Lickert, the friend of Ernie's who had brought all the dollars to Amsterdam and driven to pick up the speakers in Las Vegas, had been flown over to pick me out in an ident.i.ty parade. He didn't really want to be British justice's first American supergra.s.s, and at Snowhill Police Station he looked closely at everyone except me. He couldn't identify anyone. The prosecution case was considerably weakened. Despite this advantage, Lord Hutchinson felt I would be unlikely to get acquitted again, and on the day of trial went to the judge's chambers to plea-bargain. He came back with an offer of three years maximum. I took it. I got three years. What the judge and HM Customs did not realise, but I did, was that due to my being arrested first for the 1973 rock-group scam, all the time I had done in custody would count as credit for that offence, even though it also counted for credit against my two-year sentence for false pa.s.sports. With remission, I would be free in less than three months. I felt as if I'd beaten the system again, almost. However, I did have a criminal record. I was a convicted marijuana dealer who used false names. Could I live with the shame?

Eight.

HOWARD MARKS.

Her Majesty's Prison, Heathfield Road, Wandsworth, is a good place to be released from. At 8 a.m., May 6th, 1982, I was standing outside clutching a plastic bag containing a picnic lunch and a few books. In my pocket was about fifteen pounds and a travel warrant to Brighton. A few others being released at the same time were waiting at the bus stop. I was lucky: Judy was picking me up. I wouldn't need the travel warrant. I'd frame it as a souvenir.

The two years had gone by quickly enough, and I'd beaten the real charge. A daily dose of yoga and a vegan diet had made me feel fitter than ever. I was going to play tennis, run, meditate, stand on my head, have inner peace, and join yuppie health clubs. Johnny Martin was holding a large stash of my cash in Brighton. Ernie had paid for the purchase of the ground floor above Judy's Chelsea bas.e.m.e.nt in Cathcart Road and for the costs of converting the two floors to a maisonette. Furthermore, he'd promised to give me a load of dollars once I became a free man (he still felt responsible for my being busted for the Colombian load). Judy had booked tickets to Corfu for me, her, her sister Masha, and my three daughters Myfanwy, Amber, and Francesca. I was looking forward to jogging on Greek beaches, imprinting footprints at the edge of the tide. But now it was raining, heavily. Why was Judy taking so long? Maybe there were traffic jams on the Brighton road.

'You want me to let you back in, Marks?' joked a key-jangling screw turning up for work.

'Not yet, chief. I need just a bit more freedom,' I said with a feeble attempt at humour.

'Well, when you do, just knock on door.'

Then hundreds of screws started turning up for work.

'She's not turning up, Marks. She's s.h.a.gging the taxi-driver around the corner. And she was with me last night. Come in and have some porridge.'

It was almost 9 a.m. I couldn't handle it any longer and splashed away from the jeering contingent of uniformed Geordies. There were no phone boxes. I hailed a cab.

'Where to, guv?'

'Victoria Station,' I said.

It seemed as good a place as any. There were trains to Brighton, and phone boxes.

It was a very wet rush-hour. The journey took an hour and cost me a tenner. I got out of the cab and became mesmerised by the ma.s.s of humanity speedily leaving the station. An ingrained prison habit made me automatically start waiting until everyone else had pa.s.sed. I realised where I was. I went to a phone box. There was no answer from our Brighton number. Where was Judy? I had a coffee. I rang again.

'She was very late. She's awfully sorry. She's gone to the Chelsea flat,' said Masha.

I took a Tube, the wrong one, got lost, and took another cab to the flat. I was already out of money.

The flat was a building site. The rain had stopped, but there was no one there. I stood outside feeling sheepish.

Then the car drew up and Judy emerged. I'd seen her in Wandsworth visiting-room only yesterday, but now she looked even more amazing. I knew I could touch her. We hugged, got into the car, and began a dreamlike drive to Brighton, the sun strengthening after each mile and illuminating one magnificent view after another. We stopped at the Gatwick Airport Hilton for sausage, bacon, eggs, and champagne. I needed a joint. We resumed the drive to our Brighton home, where I was welcomed and hugged by Amber and Francesca. The air was charged with emotion, champagne, and the scent of has.h.i.+sh.

'You won't go back to dealing, will you?' said Judy. 'I couldn't stand another two years on my own.'

'Of course not.' I think I might have meant what I said. Life was good. There was no pressure.

The Pa.s.sport Office had told Judy that I would have to present myself in person at Petty France in order to get a renewed pa.s.sport. Just a formality, I a.s.sumed. It was strange thinking of travelling again under my own name. I hadn't done so for nine years. On arrival at Petty France, I was ushered down a series of corridors to an office labelled simply 'Special'.

'Mr Appleton will be along in a minute,' a very bashful secretary said as she motioned me towards a seat. 'You may smoke if you wish,' she added, looking distastefully at my Old Holborn roll-up.

Appleton marched in and looked puzzled as I stretched out my hand. But he shook it.

'How do you do, Mr Marks? I must say I really ought to congratulate you on the high quality of your false pa.s.sport applications. They were far superior to what we usually get. Most people must think we're idiots. You should see some of the insulting rubbish sent us.'

'I'd like to,' I said, genuinely curious.

Appleton ignored the remark and affected a stern and formal voice.

'We are in principle prepared to give you a pa.s.sport in your own name, Mr Marks, but we must have the false ones returned to this office. Immediately. We know Her Majesty's Customs have confiscated pa.s.sports bearing your likeness in the names of c.o.x, G.o.ddard, Green, and McKenna, all of which we issued from this office. But our records show you have obtained at least two more pa.s.sports from us in the names of Tunnicliffe and Nice. We must have those back, and we must have any others that perhaps we don't yet know about.'

The Tunnicliffe pa.s.sport had been kept by the Old Bailey clerical staff after I had produced it in my own defence. The Nice pa.s.sport had been buried in a small park on the SwissItalian border at Campione d'Italia. I explained this to Appleton, though I modified the location of the burial to Milan's Monumental Cemetery. I might need the Nice pa.s.sport one day. Strange things happen.