I arrived in Manila two days before Roger. For reasons that now escape me, I had promised Moynihan to join him at the memorial service commemorating Elizabeth Marcos, sister of ex-President Ferdinand, who had recently died. We duly attended.
Moynihan had opened a hotel in the Ermita area of Manila. Some time ago he had asked if I would put in $50,000. I paid him the money on condition that he would get me a false Philippines passport and allow me and whomever I nominated to stay in the hotel free of charge. With my money and considerably more of other people’s, Moynihan converted the Empire Hotel to the McArthur Hotel (motto: ‘you will return’). There was a full-on massage parlour on the ground floor called ‘The Dawn of Life’ and a magnificent luxury suite. It was called the ‘Howard Marks Suite’. Moynihan knew my weak spots.
I told him about Roger and his search for a quiet place to grow dope. Flushed with the success of finally screwing some money out of me, Moynihan chartered a private plane to fly around some islands that he felt he could persuade Aquino’s government sequestrators to grab and hand over to his control. Roger was delighted with this reception.
We flew to an island called Fuga off the north coast of the Philippines. It had a population of seventeen, no fresh water, and was completely flat. Totally unsuitable for marijuana cultivation. We walked about for a while. The islanders slaughtered a cow, which we ate. Just before the plane took off, Roger dashed out and grabbed a handful of soil.
‘I’ll take this for testing,’ he said.
Back in the ‘Howard Marks Suite’, I asked Roger if he was serious about growing dope on Fuga. It hardly seemed an ideal spot.
‘No, boy, taking that soil was just a show for this Lord. I’ll grow dope somewhere else in these Philippines in some mountains he don’t know about. I saw some from the plane. But I want that island. I want to live there. It’s right on the shipping lanes. Nobody would find me there. And if this Lord thinks I’m growing weed there, he’ll make sure no one knows I’m there. With the real Lord’s help, I’m made. Does this Lord know anyone who sells ships?’
Via a cluster of one-night stops in Asian capitals, I went to London to attend to outstanding matters concerning Hong Kong International Travel Centre and Mehar Paper Mills’ London office.
Balendo and Orca were handling the travel agency beautifully, but although it was moving from strength to strength, there had been a couple of weeks of slack trade. During this period all the goldfish in the fountain at the front of the shop had died.
‘This usually means bad luck,’ said Balendo.
‘What kind of bad luck?’ I asked.
‘Can’t say.’
‘Why do we have to have this bloody fountain in here anyway? It makes an awful noise, it steams up the windows, and kills goldfish.’
‘Chinese always have fountain.’
‘But why?’
‘For good business.’
‘But why does a fountain give good business?’
‘Chinese word for water is same as Chinese word for money.’
‘What is it?’
‘Soy.’
‘What, like in soy sauce?’
‘Like in sauce. Today my uncle from Canton will come here and see what is the problem.’
Balendo’s uncle perceived the problem immediately. He took one look at the fountain and said, ‘Fenshui.’
‘Fenshui?’ echoed Balendo. ‘Ah!’
I smiled knowledgeably.
‘This seems strange to you, Howard?’ asked Orca.
‘Oh no. I know fenshui means geometric omen. We’ve either got to move offices or turn this bloody fountain around.’
Luckily it was the latter. At enormous expense, the twelve-foot-high stone fountain was dismantled and reassembled. It no longer faced outwards. It faced inwards. That way the money would flow into the agency rather than out from it. It made perfect sense to me, but I was beginning to lose it.
Mehar Paper Mills had offices near Hyde Park Corner. Through a firm of head-hunters, I employed a beautiful and intelligent Pakistani lady as a full-time secretary. I had no idea what I was doing. She had no idea who I was. I just gave her and Malik each other’s numbers and let them get on with it. Large consignments of everything from ladies’ underwear to leather suitcases were regularly delivered. Malik was not concerned to sell them. They were all put into storage. On a visit to Pakistan, I asked him what was the purpose of this procedure.
‘D. H. Marks, this is export rebate business. We can make fortune. I will explain you. Government of Pakistan needs to encourage export. Accordingly they will pay exporter a percentage kickback of price that exporter sells his product. Government of Pakistan do not look at what money is actually paid. This would make it too easy for people to cheat. So they send in government official to value product and give export price. Like in your country, D. H. Marks, it is Customs who decide value of all products. I have many Afridi friends in Pakistani Customs. This is in your knowledge. They come and declare big value. We get big kickback. For example, last week I buy two more container full of ladies’ knicker. In Karachi, ladies’ knicker cost maybe 10 rupees each. I show to Afridi Customs I have order for ladies’ knicker from Saudi Arabia. He sign form saying value is 100 rupees each. Government chart show that kickback for ladies’ knicker is 30% of export price. Government pay me 30 rupees for each ladies’ knicker.’
‘So, Malik, you’ve made a good profit without even selling anything. That’s excellent.’
‘This is what I am telling you. That is why Mehar Paper Mills’ London office has so many boxes of ladies’ knicker and other textile product. In Djibouti, where I have cowshit business, I have ten container of ladies’ knicker. Nobody wants.’
Gerry’s boat, completely free from any DEA surveillance, moved from the Arabian Sea, back through the Indian Ocean, through the Straits of Mallaca, and into the South China Sea.
Moynihan rang me while I was in London. He had just spent several hours being interrogated by Philippine Immigration Officers – a very novel experience for him. Scotland Yard were trying to get the Philippines to deport him so that they could grab him for the old British fraud charges. He’d sorted matters out, and in the process had discovered there was an absolute emergency regarding my security. He suggested that for my own good I come to Manila immediately. I didn’t like the sound of this.
Tom Sunde had come round to collect money from me. He was still coming through with interesting information about my past and present associates. He mentioned Lord Moynihan. He said Carl was very interested in this guy because of his closeness to the Marcos family. Carl was currently attempting, on behalf of the CIA, to uncover Marcos’s millions. I told Tom about Moynihan’s recent warning. He offered to go out to Manila, meet Moynihan, find out what it was all about, and report back to me.
Tom reported that Moynihan had been approached by a Manila-based DEA agent, Art Scalzo, to help him set me up for a bust: a sting operation. Moynihan felt he had no alternative but to play along. But I shouldn’t worry. He felt he could handle it without endangering him or me. He had my Philippine passport ready, and he would soon bring it to Europe to give to me.
Tom said not to trust Moynihan. I never did. There had never been any need to.
Gerry’s boat was almost motionless in the southernmost part of the Gulf of Thailand. A few Thai fishing boats carrying thirty tons of high-quality Thai weed left a small harbour near Rayong, South Thailand. The voluminous cargo was transferred to the waiting holds in Gerry’s boat, which set off through the Luzon Straits between Taiwan and the Philippines and into the Pacific Ocean. It straddled the Tropic of Cancer for a while, then headed for the Bering Sea and the frozen wastes of North Canada.
Some weeks later, the same thirty tons were in a warehouse on Vancouver Island, and Gerry’s boat was in Lima, Peru. The scam, my and many others’ biggest ever, had worked without a hitch. The DEA were either looking for Gerry’s boat in the Arabian Sea or looking for ten tons of hash in California. We’d b
eaten them again.
Frederick, the marijuana-smuggling Dutch count, had his boat in position two hundred miles west of the Vietnamese port of Da Nang. A Vietnamese smuggling boat left Triton, a small, lawless island under joint Chinese and Vietnamese rule, well known as a safe haven for the world’s pirates and their wares. The boats met. Seven and a half tons of Vietnamese grass masquerading as Thai were quickly transferred. Frederick set sail for Canada.
Just after Frederick had picked up the load of Vietnamese weed, I went to Vancouver to pick up the money from the first sales of the Thai weed. Before going, I collected my ticket from Balendo.
‘Vancouver makes a change for you from Far East,’ said Balendo.
Although my name had never meant anything to him, Balendo had slowly come to realise I was a dope smuggler. It was never stated explicitly, but there was no other explanation for the suitcases of cash that would sometimes pass through his hands.
‘Well, I’m going for a good reason, Balendo. I’m going to pick up some money.’
‘Ah! So you will be going to Hong Kong afterwards?’
‘No, I don’t fancy the idea of carrying large amounts of money across borders. I’m too well known. I just give it to someone who gives it to a bank. They transfer it to my Hong Kong account. It costs me 10%.’
‘Too expensive for that service. Should be less than 5%.’
‘Who does it for that price?’
‘Triad. Vancouver is second-largest Chinese community in West. San Francisco, first.’
‘I don’t know any Triads.’
‘All Chinese are Triads.’
Balendo was waiting for me in the lobby of the Sheraton Hotel in Vancouver when I returned with a suitcase containing 300,000 Canadian dollars that I’d just collected from Bob Light. He and Ron Allen were splitting the responsibilities of sales. Within half an hour, Balendo had got rid of the suitcase and returned.
‘That was quick, Balendo.’
‘The money will be in your Hong Kong account tomorrow.’
‘What’s the charge?’
‘No charge.’
‘Can you do this from anywhere to anywhere, Balendo?’
‘If there is Chinese community, yes.’
I then realised how stupid I’d been up to now in dealing with money transfers. All those millions of miles of jet travel, those ludicrous hotel bills, those harrowing moments at borders, and the continual fear of being mugged for one’s loot had all been unnecessary. If anyone wanted to send me some money, all he really had to do was take it to the nearest Chinese restaurant and tell the proprietor to await a call from Balendo, my friend and business partner of some years. This was doing my head in.
‘Balendo, can you stay here and transfer a lot more money over the next few months?’
‘Not possible with travel agency in London. I could come over every month and pick up from you.’
Handling the money from this and the next Vancouver load was going to be a great deal easier than I thought. I wouldn’t even have to be in Vancouver. I would ask John Denbigh to come over and pick up money from Bob or Ron whenever either had some to give. When the total reached a respectable amount, John would give it to Balendo to do his Chinese magic.
John flew over to Vancouver. I introduced him to Bob Light. He already knew Ron and Gerry from the Pakistani scam. I left him totally in charge.
I flew back to Palma via London. I was questioned lightly by the Special Branch at Heathrow but not searched by anyone. Chief Inspector Rafael Llofriu met me at the airport and whisked me through Immigration and Customs. He was in a bit of a spot. He needed cash. He had a sea-front flat in Palma Nova that he wanted to sell. Did I know anyone who wanted to buy it? I bought it.
Judy had seen very little of me since Patrick was born. We hadn’t been away together anywhere for ages.
‘Howard, unless you stop tearing around the world and spend some time with me and the children, I’m going to freak out. I’ve booked us all for a two-week holiday in Sicily. Remember how much we enjoyed Sicily? I thought you might like it if we all went to Campione d’Italia first, then took a train from Milan to Rome, and then flew to Palermo. The children will love it. Masha can come and baby-sit for us in the evenings. You can get to know your son.’
‘It sounds a great idea, love. I can’t think of anything better.’
It was true. I couldn’t.
After indulging in some nostalgia in Campione d’Italia, we travelled to Sicily and stayed in the Santa Domenico in Taormina, under the shadow of the surprisingly active Mount Etna. We visited Greek amphitheatres, Roman cities, and, for my sake, had lunch in Corleone, the inspiration for Mario Puzo’s The Godfather. In Palermo, I popped into the Banca di Sicilia and refreshed my bank account. I had still not used it to receive payments from anyone.
I kept away from the phones. No one knew how to get in touch with me. I was really enjoying time with my family. All the travelling and scamming had its good points: money and excitement, but I was pushing it too hard. I would have to slow down before I forgot how to be a husband and a father. The resolution stayed with me all the way home.
There was a ton of messages waiting for me when I got home to Palma. John Denbigh was accumulating substantial funds in Vancouver. He wanted someone to give them to in a week’s time. McCann was in the Sofia Hotel, Barcelona. If I didn’t get there immediately, he’d come directly to my house in Palma. It was urgent. Moynihan was in the Orient Hotel, Barcelona. He had my Philippine passport. Could I come to pick it up? Malik was in London. He wanted to discuss some business proposals, not mother-business. Tom Sunde was in Düsseldorf. He needed some more money. Frederick was still at sea but imminently due to unload his cargo in Canada.
I called Phil in Bangkok and asked if he would go to Canada. The money that John Denbigh was holding would partly pay him off. I made arrangements to fly from Palma to Barcelona and return in a few days. I told Malik to come to Palma. I rang Sunde at the Düsseldorf Hilton. He agreed to fly out to Palma, provided I paid for his ticket.
On the flight to Barcelona, I mischievously thought about introducing McCann to Moynihan. An English Lord having dinner with an IRA terrorist could be quite entertaining.
‘So what’s a fucking English Lord doing with this Welsh cunt?’ said McCann as he shook Moynihan’s hand.
‘Well, I could well ask you the same question. Prudence forbids,’ said Moynihan.
‘I’m no fucking Lord,’ Jim quickly retorted.
‘Well, what I meant was, what are you doing with Howard?’
‘Howard fucking works for me. Do you fucking work for him, Lord? Because if you do, you fucking work for me.’
Jim laughed at his own wit.
‘Not wishing to offend – no, I wouldn’t describe myself as an employee of Howard’s. But we do enjoy both a business relationship and friendship. We both went to Oxford. We have a number of mutual interests. We both like good food and good wine. Wouldn’t you say so, Howard?’
Before I could answer, Jim interrupted.
‘You realise we’re at war, Lord Moynihan.’
‘Do call me Tony. Who’s at war?’
‘You and fucking me.’
‘I fail to follow.’
‘England and Ireland.’
‘My dear Jim …’ Moynihan began.
‘I’m not your fucking dear. Don’t start that fucking Oxford academic talk with me.’
‘Jim, Moynihan is probably one of the most Irish names in the world. I regard myself as Irish. One of my middle names is Patrick. Senator Moynihan is a cousin of mine.’
‘But you’re a Prod,’ objected McCann.
‘War is about power, not religion. I am probably more Irish than you, Jim.’
‘You won’t find me sitting in the fucking House of Lords, that’s for sure.’
‘You won’t find me there now. I was a far greater thorn in their side than you’ve been. And please bear in mind, I have lived in Roman Catholic countries for most of my adult li
fe. That is not coincidence. I am a vigorous supporter of complete independence for the whole of Ireland.’
‘Are you? How many British Army soldiers have you shot? How many Army posts have you blown up?’
And so the conversation continued, each trying to convince the other he was a diehard Irish Republican with the highest of patriotic ideals.
Moynihan told me that he had been entrusted with some of President Marcos’s missing millions. It seemed that Carl was right. Could I help him out with my money-laundering connections? I said yes. Moynihan gave me the false Philippine passport. He had another to deliver to someone else in Palma. He was going to ask me to take it, but now his plans had changed, and he and Lady Editha would be visiting Palma themselves. They asked if I had anywhere they could stay. I said they could stay in the Palma Nova flat. I was in the process of purchasing it from Rafael Llofriu. The flat was still in his name, but I had the keys.
McCann’s purpose in summoning me was merely to get hold of Roger Reaves. Roger had given Jim the £50,000 he required. Jim was ready to deliver. I felt a bit disgruntled about the two of them just carrying on as if I didn’t exist, but I certainly didn’t want to get in the way. I told Jim that Roger, his wife, and children were now living in Mallorca. Jim decided he’d better come to Palma after all.
I got to Palma first. Malik rang from Heathrow airport. Iberia were refusing to let him board the flight because he did not have a Spanish visa.
I called Rafael. I explained that a rich investor friend of mine from Pakistan was having problems visiting me. Rafael said to leave it to him. Within twenty minutes, Rafael rang back and said that Malik was on his way. It had been fixed. Rafael was proving to be most helpful.
I went to Palma airport to Rafael’s office in the police station. The office had two entrances: one from the public area of the airport and one from the arrivals hall. Rafael said he would meet Malik off the plane and bring him straight to the police station to avoid confrontation with Immigration or Customs. I waited in his office. Minutes later a very frightened Salim Malik was being briskly escorted by Chief Inspector Rafael Llofriu. Malik thought he was being busted. His relief on seeing me was palpable.