Part 17 (1/2)

'What on earth do you think you're up to talking to that evil screw from Brixton prison? You're meant to be glad to have seen the back of people like that. Was he the one you were secretly meeting in Palermo?'

It was a fact. Neil Kinnock looked remarkably like a Brixton screw whom Judy had frequently encountered while visiting me in prison.

'Judy, that was Neil Kinnock. He would have been a good straight man to know. You just blew it.'

Judy went a deep shade of red and buried her head in my chest. We broke into laughter.

After we boarded the plane, the children saved our faces a little by going up to Kinnock and getting his autograph.

The Dutch system of justice is extremely civilised. Mickey was released after serving a few months, and the authorities did not appear to want to find anyone else to arrest. We met again at Richaux, opposite Harrods.

'Them Dutch nicks ain't 'arf good, H. Blinding food, screws you can 'ave a laugh with. You could do a ten standing on your head. So what you been up to, H?'

I explained my intention to live abroad.

'Ever been to Palma, H?'

'Not really, Mick.' I had, in fact, once visited Palma when doing the Morocco to Scotland scam, but it was only for one night, and I'd stayed on a boat.

'Give it a whirl, H. I got a gaff there. You can use it anytime.'

Mickey's kind offer was accepted. We flew to Palma de Mallorca and stayed at Mickey's flat in Magaluf. The immediate vicinity fulfilled all one's nightmares about package holidays. The streets were packed with screaming British soccer hooligans. Pubs with names such as London Pride, Rovers' Return, Benny Hill, and Princess Di emptied lager louts into a bewildering array of discotheques, souvenir stalls, and fish and chip shops. Strangely enough, there were very few street fights. A similar alcoholic and boisterous ma.s.s thronging an English street would very quickly turn into a riot. The holidaymakers looked happy. Even paradise couldn't compete with guaranteed suns.h.i.+ne, ubiquitous promiscuity, and non-stop drinking. A lot of money was being spent. It would be easy to make some with minimum investment. But could one bear to live here?

'It can't all be like this,' said Judy. 'Let's rent a car and have a look around the island.'

She was right. Within minutes, the stench of booze and vomit was replaced by sweet perfumes of cherry and almond blossoms. Most of Mallorca is deserted and beautifully tranquil. The highest mountain is taller than any in the British Isles. At its foot live people who have never seen the sea, thirty miles away. Small villages hang off hills and provide accommodation for some of the world's greatest artists, musicians, and writers. The city of Palma is a delightful mixture of medieval Italian and Moorish architecture. Non-vandalised telephone boxes are in abundance, and people smoke hash in the street. The airport is one of the busiest in the world. The weather is perfect. We figured we could live here. We looked around for a home, found a few possibilities, and went back to London to decide.

Nine.

MARKS.

Ernie had left several messages on my private answering machine asking me to call. I rang the number he'd left and spoke to him in the same code we'd used for a decade. Through other well-rehea.r.s.ed codes, he asked if I still knew hash exporters in Pakistan and, in particular, did I know one able to air-freight five tons of the best hash to New York? Ernie was very definitely back in business. I said I'd get on to it right away. Ernie was the one person Judy could not object to my dealing with. He'd done so much for us. I mentioned to Ernie the DEA manual McCann had given me. Ernie told me they were selling them in dime stores. Concentrate on Pakistan.

I thought of Salim Malik, whom I'd met at Mohammed Durrani's deathbed. He might not even remember me. He'd only spent two minutes in my company and thought my name was Mr Nice. I called the number from a London phone box. He answered. He didn't remember me from Adam but agreed to meet me on neutral territory. He suggested Hong Kong or Damascus. I chose Hong Kong.

It had been four years since I'd last visited the Far East. I was looking forward to it. I thumbed through Time Out Time Out in search of a cheap air fare. A company called Hong Kong International Travel Centre appeared to have the best prices, so I went to its offices in Beak Street. All the company's considerable business was run by just one Chinese couple, a heavily birthmarked young male called Chi Chuen (Balendo) Lo and his beautiful and older girlfriend, Orca Liew. He was from Hong Kong, she from Malaysia. I was impressed by the way they operated and took an immediate liking to them. I promised to visit them on my return from Hong Kong. They promised to buy their Christmas and New Year refreshment from Drinkbridge. in search of a cheap air fare. A company called Hong Kong International Travel Centre appeared to have the best prices, so I went to its offices in Beak Street. All the company's considerable business was run by just one Chinese couple, a heavily birthmarked young male called Chi Chuen (Balendo) Lo and his beautiful and older girlfriend, Orca Liew. He was from Hong Kong, she from Malaysia. I was impressed by the way they operated and took an immediate liking to them. I promised to visit them on my return from Hong Kong. They promised to buy their Christmas and New Year refreshment from Drinkbridge.

British Caledonian took me from Gatwick to Dubai and from Dubai to Kai Tak, arriving mid-morning, the day before my arranged meeting with Salim Malik. I checked into the Park Hotel on Chatham Road, Kowloon side, and decided to be a tourist for a day.

During my few years' absence, Hong Kong had changed; or maybe there was just an awful lot more of it and twice the population. Vast stretches of development land had been reclaimed from the sea. Monstrous high-rise buildings wrapped in bamboo scaffolding cages were hastily replacing not-so-high-rise buildings. Due to a respect for plant life far exceeding that of most Western environmentalists, Hong Kong's civil engineers and planners had ensured that no trees would be damaged by construction work. The result was a series of incongruous juxtapositions of gnarled woodwork and neon. The trees looked pitifully small, like bonsai trees in Kensington Gardens.

I walked along Kowloon's new promenade and gazed at the mind-blowing skyline of Hong Kong Island. I took the Star Ferry, still plying between Hong Kong and Kowloon, still as cheap as ever and still plastered with instructions for the Chinese not to spit. I did the Hong Kong Island tourist routine: took the tram up the Peak, ate a tiger's p.r.i.c.k at the Jumbo floating restaurant in Aberdeen, took the world's longest escalator to Ocean Park, sipped snake's blood in Jervois Street, and drank in a hooker bar in Wan Chai.

Newspapers were full of reports bemoaning the promises London was making to Peking regarding the return of Hong Kong to Chinese rule. British Government supporters excused the apparent cowardice by maintaining that it was simply a case of a 100-year lease running out. But this was blatantly misleading. In fact, the lease applied to just a part of the Kowloon peninsula and the so-called New Territories. The rest, a main chunk of the Kowloon peninsula (Tsim Sha Tsui), Hong Kong Island, and a few hundred other islands, the British had simply ripped off and appended to the Empire. The Chinese had no internationally recognisable claim of owners.h.i.+p. But this caused Peking little concern. After all, at any time since the Sixties, the Chinese could have grabbed the lot by making one phone call to Westminster. Margaret Thatcher would not be able to do what she did in the Falklands. When Portugal turned left in the mid-Seventies and tried to give up Macao, its colony in China, Peking refused. Not yet. The Chinese would take everything back when it wanted to. It wants to in 1997. It will. Who runs the place, anyway? Five million Chinese, twenty thousand Americans, and seventeen thousand British. Who's kidding whom? The Chinese are long-term planners. It took them over 150 years to build their Great Wall. It took them only 100 years to be given on a silver platter the largest shopping, banking, and s.h.i.+pping centre in the world. They know what they're doing.

Malik and I had agreed to meet in the lobby of the Peninsula for morning coffee. It would be full, and strangers would be sitting next to each other having idle conversation and complaining about the newly built planetarium blocking the view of the sea. We wouldn't stick out. Malik was sitting alone at a table staring intently at the entrance. He nodded recognition. This was a relief. But he did not smile.

'Do you mind if I join you?' I asked in a voice clear and loud enough to be heard by nearby customers totally absorbed in their own affairs.

'Why not? It's a free country.'

'Well, I don't know about that,' I said. I sat down.

'Did you think you were free before 1947, when you were part of British India?' I whispered.

Malik almost smiled.

'How have you been, Malik, since we met on that sad day?'

'I am in good health. How well did you know my friend?' he asked.

'I know he was a policeman here for eleven years. I know he had a textile business in Dubai. I know he was a grandson of the former King of Afghanistan. He drank Johnnie Walker Black Label and smoked Benson & Hedges. I visited him many times at his house just outside Cannes. In my pocket I have a photograph of him standing next to me and my daughter, Amber.'

Suddenly, Malik's eyes dug right into me. He turned away; then he looked alarmed. 'Give me your hotel phone number. I'll call you later.'

I gave him a Park Hotel card and scrawled my room number on it.

As I walked to the lobby doors, I was aware of being watched. I was going to be followed. I wondered by whom: Her Majesty's Customs and Excise, the Inland Revenue, people working for Malik, McCann's henchmen, or the DEA trying to catch Ernie? It didn't much matter. Hong Kong is one of the easiest places to lose a tail. I ran out of the hotel, turned left, crossed Nathan Road, and ran up to Chungking Mansions, a 1960s high-rise that had been converted to a warren of Middle Eastern-run emporia and cafes. No business licences were issued for premises on the upper floors. Each door there displayed a sign stating: 'Do Not Knock. Private Residence.' If one should knock, the door was immediately opened, revealing a small, illegal restaurant. Within a few minutes of leaving the Peninsula, I was eating a vegetable curry prepared by Bombay Muslims.

There didn't appear to be any tail when I left Chungking Mansions, but just in case, I took a speedy walk through a maze of alleyways and dived into the Tsim Sha Tsui underground station. This was my first sight of Hong Kong's new Ma.s.s Transit Railway. To familiarise myself, I took a train to another station a few stops down. I bought a Railcard. Next time, I would be able to do it much quicker. I emerged from the underground and went to the Park Hotel for a lie-down.

Malik called in a few hours.

'Same place at eleven,' he suggested.

I didn't like the idea of giving the tail a second chance, but I agreed. The Peninsula lobby was a lot quieter, but Malik seemed infinitely more relaxed. His eyes twinkled, and he smiled broadly.

'So, you are not the Mr Nice. You are D. H. Marks. According to hotel.'

'You can call me Mr Nice if you want, Malik.'

'No. I shall call you D. H. Marks. In Pakistan, we know your good reputation.'

'Thank you, Malik. Are you happy to do business with me? Because if so, I have a proposition to discuss with you, at your convenience.'

'D. H. Marks, I am always happy if, by the grace of Allah, I am doing business with honest people.'

'Are you able to get the product?' I asked.

'Yes, inshallah inshallah, but I will not deal with the devil product.'

I presumed he couldn't possibly have meant has.h.i.+sh and was referring to either heroin from the Golden Crescent area of Iran, Pakistan, and Afghanistan or black-market Stinger missiles. These latter had been donated by the Americans to the Afghan rebels for use in their struggle against the former Soviet Union, but an alarming number found their way to the weapon shops of Peshawar and were sold to a variety of terrorist groups.

'Malik, the product I'm talking about is the one you used to sell in Hyde Park in 1965.'

His smile was broader than ever. He held out his hand.