Mr Nice Page 11

  The hotel room door opened, and Jim walked in accompanied by a hotel employee carrying a bottle of Paddy Irish whiskey and a bucket of melted ice.

  ‘You’re a good man, Damien,’ said Jim. ‘Sign the bill, H’ard, and give your man here a twenty-pound tip. He deserves it.’

  I gave the whiskey-bearer his money.

  Jim put his arms around me and squeezed tightly. I was very startled.

  ‘What do you think of the Kid, then? I’ve done it. I’ve cracked it. Send all the fucking dope you want.’

  ‘How did you do it, Jim?’

  ‘I pretended I worked for Fortune magazine and rang up the airport manager to ask for an interview. I went from him down, you understand me, till I got the man I wanted. Anything can be taken out of that trading estate there. Any fucking thing. As long as you got one of these.’

  Jim grabbed hold of the pile of papers I’d been reading and displayed one entitled ‘Out of Charge Note’.

  ‘You can get these copied, can’t you?’

  ‘I should think so, Jim. Charlie Radcliffe worked in the printing and publishing business for years. He’ll know how to get it done.’

  ‘Don’t you tell Charlie Radcliffe what they’re for. You hear me.’

  ‘Well … Okay. Maybe I’ll use someone else. Who examines them?’

  ‘You wired up, H’ard? I just fucking told you I got the man I wanted. He fucking examines them. And, if he values his fucking Guinness, he’ll pass them. His name’s Eamonn. He’s a true Republican.’

  ‘Does he know we’re going to bring in dope?’

  ‘Of course he fucking doesn’t, you Welsh arsehole. He thinks he’s bringing in guns for the cause. He’s against dope.’

  ‘Where’s Alan, Jim?’

  ‘I’ve just sacked the no-good fucker. Him and Radcliffe had better watch out for their lives. And that fucking John Lennon. You ought to get rid of Soppy Bollocks, too.’

  ‘Who is Soppy Bollocks?’

  ‘That fucking Brit that was with you last week.’

  ‘Jim, we need Graham. I don’t know anyone else who can send stuff from Pakistan and Afghanistan.’

  ‘Well, fucking find someone, you hear me. You and me can go to Kabul. Did you bring those pornographic movies you promised?’

  I had forgotten.

  ‘I didn’t want to bring them on the plane, Jim. I’ll get them brought over on the ferry very soon. This plan of yours seems brilliant. When do you want to start?’

  ‘Fucking now. I’m ready. I got it all together.’

  ‘How much shall we send?’

  ‘I’ll let you know, H’ard.’

  ‘What address shall we send the stuff to?’

  ‘I’ll let you know, H’ard.’

  ‘What goods shall we pretend to be shipping?’

  ‘I’ll let you know, H’ard.’

  Jim clearly didn’t have it all together, but it did sound most promising. I wanted to see Shannon for myself. We rented a car and drove via Limerick to Shannon airport. The countryside was spectacular, a large and beautiful estuary surrounded by gentle rolling hills. In the middle of this idyllic setting lay a large industrial estate and airport. Jim was driving. He parked right outside the passenger airport terminal in an obvious no-parking area.

  ‘You can’t be parking there,’ said a quietly spoken Irish airport official.

  ‘It’s a fucking emergency. I’m picking up my boss’s luggage,’ said Jim in his loudest and most aggressive Belfast accent.

  ‘That’ll be grand. I’ll keep an eye on it for you.’

  Jim then took me on a guided tour of the airport, including the Aer Lingus cargo terminal. Various employees nodded to him. He escorted me as if he owned the place. Then he got an Aer Lingus van driver to take us to the industrial estate. There appeared to be no check on anyone or anything. Jim asked a supervisor to tell me how the freeport worked.

  ‘This is like its own country,’ explained the supervisor. ‘No goods are allowed to leave this estate unless, of course, they’ve been specifically cleared to do so.’

  ‘What if someone tried to take them out?’ asked Jim, playing a bit close to the bone.

  ‘They can’t without one of these,’ said the supervisor, displaying an ‘Out of Charge’ note.

  ‘See what I mean, H’ard,’ said Jim as we were dropped off back at the terminal, where the obliging official was still keeping an eye on our car. ‘This place is wide fucking open.’

  It was.

  ‘You’ll have to give me some more money, H’ard, to rent an office in Limerick and a small workshop in Shannon Trading Estate. How will you take the hash to London and Brighton? You want our Brendan to take it over for you? He needs to work and make some money, that’s for fucking sure.’

  ‘I’ll get friends to drive it over the ferry to Wales, Jim. We have a lot of experience driving across the European borders.’

  ‘Do you just put the gear in the boot and pray?’

  ‘No. We hide it in the door panels and under and behind the back seat. You’d be surprised how much you can get in. I’ll need a place, a cottage or something, or a garage, where I can stash the car before putting it on the ferry.’

  ‘I’ll get you one. Just give me the money to do it.’

  ‘Jim, if I give you another £500, will that cover down payments on the office, workshop, and a place for me to stash?’

  ‘It might just be enough, H’ard.’

  We checked into the Shannon Shamrock, a kind of motel popular with airline pilots. The lobby smelt of peat and Guinness. I used my real name. Jim used the name James Fitzgerald. We had a drink. The pilots were narrating horrifying tales of near misses and bad landings.

  ‘You must never use your real name again, H’ard. It’s too dangerous. It’s fucking dumb.’

  The next morning there was a direct flight from Shannon to Heathrow. I took it. An ‘Out of Charge’ note was in my pocket. I went straight to Graham’s. Charlie Radcliffe was there. One of Dutch Nik’s firm had brought over a hundred kilos of Lebanese from Sam Hiraoui. It had to be sold. That would give me and Charlie another £1,500, Graham £5,000, the Dutch £2,000, and Lebanese Sam, whose diplomats brought it to Holland, £20,000. If Shannon worked, we stood to make so much more.

  ‘Howard, we’ll have to do a dummy first. I can’t risk my Middle East connections just on McCann’s say-so.’

  ‘I don’t think Jim will go for that, Graham. He’s anxious to do the real thing.’

  ‘He’s got no choice.’

  Charlie Radcliffe said he’d have no trouble making copies of the ‘Out of Charge’ note.

  After Charlie Radcliffe, Charlie Weatherley, Jarvis, and I sold the Lebanese, which merely entailed giving it to James Goldsack and waiting for the money, I drove to Brighton. Although no longer living there, I’d kept on the flat and had given McCann its address and phone number. There was a telegram waiting for me. It was from Limerick. Jim had sent it about an hour after I’d left him. It stated: ‘Send sporting goods to Ashling Distribution Services, Shannon airport. I need more money. Fitzgerald.’

  I had no direct way of getting hold of Jim by telephone. There was just a mail drop in Ballinskelligs. I phoned Graham, who suggested we just went ahead and sent a dummy consignment once the ‘Out of Charge’ notes were printed but not to tell Jim it was a dummy until the last possible moment. I didn’t like it. But it made sense. Graham got Patrick Lane to put a stack of London telephone directories in a box and air-freight it to Shannon. I telegrammed the eleven-digit air waybill number to Jim’s Ballinskelligs address and express-mailed some perfectly forged ‘Out of Charge’ notes. Jim telephoned many hours later.

  ‘Those fuckers in Kabul have ripped you all off. Fucking telephone directories. Don’t ever fucking bother me again, you Welsh arsehole. I’m going to Kabul myself. Fucking telephone directories. They could have at least sent some dirty magazines for the boys. Tell Soppy Bollocks his days are numbered. You hear me. Fucking telephone directories.’r />
  ‘Jim, we had to do a dummy first, and there was no way of letting you know. I couldn’t say in a telegram that this was a dummy, could I? You must give me a better way of getting hold of you.’

  ‘I want another £500 tomorrow, without fail. Soppy had better be on the next fucking flight to Kabul, and he’d better send something other than fucking telephone directories, otherwise he’ll be without his fucking kneecaps. What’s his fucking phone number?’

  ‘I’m not giving you his phone number, Jim, but I will be over tomorrow morning with the money. Did you find me a cottage or something?’

  ‘It’s all together, man. I do what I fucking say. I deliver. I’m the Kid.’

  I reported to Graham. He agreed to go out to Pakistan in the next couple of days. I flew back to Shannon, rented a car, and, as arranged, waited in the lobby of the Shannon Shamrock. Jim came in accompanied by what appeared to be a giant all-in wrestler.

  ‘This is Gus, H’ard. He’s a member of the Belfast Brigade’s assassination squad. I want him to know your face. Okay, Gus, you can fuck off now. Don’t forget to get John Lennon’s London address. I’ll teach that fucking arsehole a lesson he’ll never forget. H’ard, I don’t want any more fucking games, you understand me, do you?’

  ‘It was a simple communication breakdown, Jim. There were no games. Here’s your £500. Where’s this cottage?’

  We drove to a village called Ballynacally. At one of the pubs, we picked up a farmer with whom Jim had negotiated a rental the day before. The three of us drove up a winding road to a burned-down and abandoned stately home.

  ‘This is Paradise,’ said the farmer.

  I mumbled puzzled agreement.

  ‘Are we renting that, Jim? There’s no roof.’

  ‘Colonel William Henn used to live in that very house,’ the farmer continued, ‘but it’s the cottage nearby you’ll be renting. I didn’t get your name, by the way.’

  ‘His name’s Brendan,’ Jim quickly interjected.

  ‘Brendan what?’ asked the farmer.

  ‘McCarthy,’ I said. ‘My family were originally from Cork.’

  ‘Welcome to Paradise, Mr McCarthy.’

  We drove to the remote cottage. There was absolutely no passing traffic. It would suit our purposes admirably.

  ‘What’s the address of this place?’ I asked the farmer.

  ‘Paradise Cottage, Paradise House, Paradise. But if I were you, Mr McCarthy, I’d also put on the envelope that it’s near Ballynacally.’

  Driving back in the direction of the Shannon Shamrock, I asked Jim why he had chosen the name Ashling for the Limerick company.

  ‘Can’t you even work that out with your fucking Oxford brain? Ashling means vision in Gaelic. It’s also a combination of hashish and Aer Lingus. We could go and see the Limerick office if you like.’

  The rented office was squashed between a small car-rental company and a do-it-yourself shop. Jim unlocked the door. It was a simple room with a desk and a phone. The phone worked, but Jim did not know its number. It had been the previous tenant’s private line.

  ‘Has Soppy Bollocks gone to Kabul?’

  ‘Yes, he left this morning,’ I lied.

  ‘How long will it take him to send me the nordle?’

  ‘What the hell is nordle, Jim?’

  ‘You have to use codes, you stupid Welsh cunt. Codes and false names. Nordle is hashish.’

  ‘Oh! Okay. Well, Soppy will take about a week to send you the nordle.’

  ‘A week! A fucking week! Why so fucking long?’

  ‘I don’t know, Jim.’

  We continued on our journey back to the Shannon Shamrock. There was plenty of time for me to make the flight back to Heathrow, so we had a meal in the hotel’s restaurant. Jim made a phone call, and a few minutes later Gus came in. He took a seat at another table in the corner. He ignored us. We ignored him.

  ‘Remember, H’ard, no fucking games. Codes and false names. Then it will all flow like the grace of a Mozart concerto. You’re with me, kid. No one will bother you in Ireland. Anytime you want to get hold of me, call this number in Dublin. Don’t give it to anybody. I mean anybody. See you next time.’

  A few days later, Graham still hadn’t left for the Middle East. The connection of his most suitably equipped to air-freight hashish was a man named Raoul, Mohammed Durrani’s man in Karachi. I had met him several times at Graham’s. He was a small, bespectacled, slightly overweight Pakistani about ten years my senior. Whenever I saw him, he was smiling broadly and counting large stacks of money. Graham and his Californian connection, Ernie Combs, a member of the Californian dope-dealing organisation, the Brotherhood of Eternal Love, had often sent vehicles of various descriptions to Pakistan to be filled up with Raoul’s hashish. They were then driven overland to Europe, and, in some cases, put on ships to be taken across the Atlantic. Raoul was a rich man and owned cinemas and numerous other businesses in Karachi. All Graham had to do was give Raoul instructions for air-freighting or sea-freighting, and the job was done. He could do what he wanted in Pakistan when he wanted, except in times of natural disaster and war. India was threatening to invade East Pakistan and free it from West Pakistan’s yoke. Serious war was inevitable. Visitors to Pakistan were discouraged. Raoul was unable to operate.

  At least once every day, a very impatient Jim McCann rang up asking, ‘How much fucking longer are you going to take?’

  ‘Jim, there’s a war on out there. Karachi airport is surrounded by soldiers. It’s impossible to get anything out of there at the moment.’

  ‘A war! What the fuck do you think is happening in my country? I’m surrounded by fucking soldiers everywhere. It doesn’t stop me from fucking operating.’

  ‘Well, it stops some people, including our man in Karachi.’

  ‘Fucking Welsh academics. Can’t you get the nordle from somewhere else?’

  ‘Hopefully, yes. Graham’s got people in Beirut and Kabul.’

  ‘Kabul! You just said there’s a fucking war there and you can’t fucking do anything. Don’t play fucking games, H’ard. I warned you about that.’

  ‘Jim, the war is in Pakistan, which was where we were going to send the sporting goods from.’

  ‘What fucking sporting goods?’

  ‘The nordle, Jim. You know what I mean. Anyway, there’s no war in Afghanistan. So Graham should be able to do it from there.’

  ‘Tell Soppy Bollocks he’s got three days to deliver or he’s got a pair of busted kneecaps.’

  ‘Okay, Jim.’

  There were several similar conversations. Eventually Mohammed Durrani said he could send an air-freight consignment from Kabul within a week. On the strength of this, I flew back to Shannon, taking with me Marty Langford, who had agreed to live in Paradise Cottage until the hashish arrived and then guard it until it was ready for onward transportation to Britain. Jim met us at the Shannon Shamrock. He was very subdued but still a bit scary. He addressed Marty.

  ‘This had better fucking work if you want to see Wales again. You hear me?’ Then he left.

  ‘I don’t want to be a hostage, Howard. I don’t mind sitting in a cottage all by myself, but I don’t like all this heavy stuff like Niblo’s on about, you know.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Marty. Niblo, as you call him, just talks threateningly. He never does anything.’

  We drove a hired car to Paradise. Marty liked it. He was a widely read man of simple pleasures and looked forward to a period of reading books and pottering about. I left him there and flew back to London to see Graham. Jim had found out Graham’s number (probably by ringing directory enquiries but claiming he had done so through his Kilburn investigation unit), so Graham was not answering the phone. His wife, Mandy, dutifully informed Jim every time he rang that Graham was in Kabul.

  While I was at Graham’s, Mohammed Durrani phoned. The consignment had left Kabul for Frankfurt, where it would be placed on an Aer Lingus flight to Shannon, and one of Durrani’s men had arrived in London with the ai
r waybill. Graham and I went to a flat in Knightsbridge to pick it up. We examined it closely. The consignment was described as being one of antique carpets being sent by an Ali Khan in Kabul to a Juma Khan in Shannon. It did not look good. I called Jim’s Dublin number and left a message for him to call me at Graham’s in a couple of hours. He did so.

  ‘Well, it’s left, Jim. It’ll be with you tomorrow.’

  ‘About fucking time.’

  ‘There’s a few problems, though, Jim.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s not sporting goods.’

  ‘You mean it’s not nordle?’

  ‘No. It is nordle, but the paperwork doesn’t describe it as being sporting goods as we instructed. It’s described as antique carpets.’

  ‘That’s no fucking problem. I don’t care what it’s fucking described as. It’s sent to Ashling, right?’

  ‘Well, that’s the other problem, Jim. It’s addressed to Juma Khan, Limerick.’

  ‘You stupid Welsh cunt. What did you put my fucking name on it for?’

  It wasn’t until then that I realised the similarity in pronunciation between the names Jim McCann and Juma Khan. This was too ridiculous for words.