Part 23 (2/2)

'Through that guy I told you about, Lord Moynihan. He owns ma.s.sage parlours in loads of hotels in the Philippines, including all the Hyatts. I wouldn't trust him further than I could chuck him, but he's useful and has got some amazing contacts. He knows everyone in the Philippines, from Marcos down. And he can do what he likes in the airport in Manila.'

'How did you meet him?'

'Through Jack the Fibber, Jack Warren. Remember his son Barrie, the one who died in 1979?'

'Is Moynihan a real lord?'

'Definitely. I checked him out. He's Lord Moynihan of Leeds. His half-brother is Colin Moynihan, the Minister for Sport in the British Government. He was a pretty controversial member of the House of Lords, taking Spain's side over the Gibraltar issue. He got busted for some petty fraud, with overtones of murder, and scarpered to Spain. Franco took care of him and made him a Spanish knight or something. Then he set up in the Philippines. He's as bent as a.r.s.eholes. Went to the same university you did, Oxford, but he's a good bit older than you. I told him about you, just said that I knew another crook from Oxford. He wants to meet you. We should go to Manila some day. You'd like it.'

Phil and I caught a Philippine Airlines flight from Bangkok to Manila. The plane doors opened, and Jack the Fibber and Lord Moynihan walked on to the plane. I was impressed. Jack and I hugged each other.

'Sorry to hear about Barrie, Jack.'

'Ain't a day goes by I don't think about it, Howard. You're looking good.'

Phil introduced me to Moynihan.

'Call me Tony. Delighted to meet you, old boy. We'd better get off this plane. Much baggage?'

'None, Tony, just what we're carrying.'

'Oh! I needn't have brought my porter. Never mind. Shall I take your pa.s.sports?'

Marching off the plane and in front of long queues of arriving pa.s.sengers, Moynihan gave our pa.s.sports to an Immigration Officer, who smiled and stamped them. Immediately outside, surrounded by a small ring of armed police, was Moynihan's Cadillac stretch-limousine. We all climbed in.

'You're welcome to stay with us, of course, but we do have slightly more than our usual quota of house guests. I've taken the precaution of booking you into VIP accommodation at the Manila Mandarin in Makati. Phil and Howard, please be my guests for Sunday lunch tomorrow. I'll send this car round to pick you up at 1 p.m. Jack, I know you have other things to do tomorrow.'

Jack was not one of Moynihan's house guests. He was also staying in the Manila Mandarin. Phil went off to see his Manila girl-friend. Jack and I went out drinking.

Although Jack was in his late sixties and had suffered the appalling tragedy of his son dying in a Bangkok gutter from a heroin overdose, he had not lost his ability to make anyone weep with laughter with his Australian wit and his incessant mischief. He had tales to tell. He had shared a cell with Mick Jagger when they busted him in the 1960s. He had thieved from most of the world's top jewellery stores. First we went to Del Pilar, the main night-life area. It was much the same as Bangkok's Patpong lots of bikini-clad girls dancing on bars and tabletops but it was considerably cheaper, and the music was a lot better. The dancing girls' company could be bought for a pittance paid to the, usually American or Australian, bar owner. The hotels never objected to extra overnight guests. Some of the bars were quite outrageous, in particular one named b.l.o.w. .j.o.b on the Rocks, where, if so minded, one could stick one's d.i.c.k into a mouthful of crushed ice.

Wherever he went, Jack would acc.u.mulate a gathering of beggar children. He gave them loads of money. Five young beggars were hanging on to us when Jack suggested going somewhere a bit more off the wall. We all piled into a jeepney, the Philippines' most popular means of transport for short journeys. Jeepneys are reconstructed from Jeeps left in the Philippines by the US Army after World War II. Their outsides are covered with multicoloured paintwork, hundreds of mirrors, and statuettes of horses. Their insides are Aladdin's caves of Roman Catholic bric-a-brac and blaring sound equipment.

Our jeepney stopped outside a bar called The Pearly Gates, whose main difference from any other bar in Manila was in the service: it was performed wholly and exclusively by nuns. Nuns showed customers to their tables, took their orders, and served the drinks. Nuns introduced the raunchy entertainment. Jack and I drank beer. The beggars drank Coca-Cola.

The nuns introduced a ladies' excuse me. Various couples took the floor. A few nuns barged between couples, excused themselves and danced with the bemused male partners. Jack went up to a dancing American couple, tapped the lady on the shoulder, said 'Excuse me', and began trying to dance with her partner, who did not find it amusing. A scuffle broke out. A few of the beggars pulled out knives. If they'd kill for anyone, they'd kill for Jack. The scuffle died down.

'Are these real nuns, Jack?'

'Often wondered the same myself. There's one sure way to find out.'

'What's that, Jack?'

'Try to buy a couple of them out for the evening. I'll go and ask the Mother Superior there behind the bar.'

Jack and the senior nun had a discussion at the bar. Jack paid her some money and returned, all smiles.

'We got two of them until midnight.'

Back in the jeepney, they certainly seemed like nuns and answered all questions as if they were nuns. They were not the least bit shy and did not bat an eyelid when I lit up a Thai gra.s.s joint I'd smuggled in from Bangkok.

We stopped at a bar named The Hobbit House. Nine of us poured down the miniature stairway. We were warmly greeted by a roomful of midgets. None of the bar staff or entertainers was over five feet high.

'You going to buy a couple of these out, Jack?' I said as a joke.

'That's an idea. I'll buy seven of them out. Seven f.u.c.king dwarves. I'll grab me a Snow White before the night's out.'

After several more drinks in bizarre bars, five Manila street beggars, seven dwarves, two nuns, Jack the Fibber, and I fell out of the jeepney outside the Manila Mandarin. Jack walked to Reception and asked for a table for sixteen to be prepared in the hotel's gourmet restaurant.

The hotel staff were used to being surprised by requests from Jack. He tipped them fortunes, so they always accommodated his every demand. They weren't exactly keen on this freaky entourage traipsing through the plush lobby, but they'd put up with it.

Jack ordered too much of everything: lobsters, oysters, roast meats and poultry, and the entire dessert trolley. The nuns and dwarves ate handsomely. The beggar children ate nothing, but put all the uneaten food into plastic bags to take away. Jack paid the huge bill, gave all the waiters enormous tips, escorted the nuns, dwarves, and beggars to the still waiting jeepney, and bid them all goodnight.

Lord Moynihan's limousine was outside the Manila Mandarin at 1 p.m. the next day. The chauffeur took Phil and me beyond the city limits of Metro Manila to a plush and expansive residential area. We pulled into the driveway of a large house, once the residence of the Peruvian Amba.s.sador. Moynihan greeted us and introduced me to his beautiful Filipina wife, Editha, and their three house guests: Jimmy Newton, a London solicitor; his Australian wife, Helen; and an Australian named Joe Smith. Joe looked like a cross between Crocodile Dundee and Kirk Douglas. His arms were tattooed, and his eyes laughed. Several servants brought us Pimm's c.o.c.ktails. Moynihan took me to his office. We sat at his desk.

'Howard, what we say in this room remains private, you understand. I know Phil is your good friend, at least, he claims to be, no? But I prefer him not to know the details of all conversations we might have. Understood? I understand a book has been written about you. I would be absolutely thrilled to read it. Do you have a copy?'

I usually carried a few copies with me to flash at impressionable strangers.

'Yes, Tony, I do,' I replied. 'It's at the Manila Mandarin. I'll give it to you. Who told you about it?'

'Your friend, Phil. You see why I'm hesitant to trust him. I find him a little indiscreet. But you'll give me a copy?'

'Sure.'

'Signed?'

'If you wish.'

'Excellent. Now Jimmy, whom you just met, is my very best friend. We were at both Stowe and Oxford together. By the way, which school did you attend? Phil was a bit vague when I asked him. He said you went to Oxford but did not know anything else.'

'I went to a mixed grammar school in South Wales.'

'In that case, Howard, I presume I'm safe in saying you went on to Jesus College, Oxford, the home of brilliant Welsh minds, no?'

'No. I went to Balliol.'

'Really! It's some considerable time since I've had the honour of a Balliol man for lunch. Well, anyway, back to my point. Howard, I won't beat about the bush. I know you are a man of great charm, intelligence, wealth, and abilities in, shall we say, certain unorthodox trading techniques. I have the strongest intuition we should be able to help each other. Forgive me being blunt, but you have the occasional need for a false pa.s.sport, no?'

I smiled.

'Well, Jimmy gets the very best pa.s.sports. British, naturally. One wouldn't want to be anything else these days. If you wanted one, it would be very easy to arrange. Would you like me to suggest to him you might like to be his client?'

I hadn't used a false pa.s.sport since I was Mr Nice and didn't feel I actually needed one these days. Still, it could come in handy.

'Yes, please, Tony. Thanks. Does Joe sell false pa.s.sports too?'

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