Mr Nice. Говард Маркс

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СКАЧАТЬ 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?’ СКАЧАТЬ