‘I’ve got a couple of hundred on me which you can have right now. The rest will arrive tomorrow.’
‘Give it to me, and give me the keys of your car, H’ard. I’ll drive it over to Paradise in about an hour. I’ve got to see some of my people. Don’t open those fucking boxes till I get there.’
Jim tore off in my rented Volkswagen. The old Ford he’d left me was difficult to start. The gauge registered less than an eggcupful of petrol. The body of the car almost touched the ground. I drove to a nearby petrol station and was comforted to discover that most other vehicles on Irish roads also look suspicious. No one gave me a second glance on my journey to Paradise. Marty and I unloaded the car and, abiding by Jim’s instructions, left the trunks unopened. Soon the aroma of the packaged hashish filled Paradise Cottage. Jim wasn’t long. The three of us unpacked the trunks. There were two hundred pounds of the finest hand-pressed Afghani hashish. We smoked joint after joint. Marty and I giggled nervously as Jim tore around the room screaming, ‘I’ve done it. I’ve done it. The Kid’s done it.’
Marty and Jim collapsed into a deep sleep. I drove the hired Volkswagen a few miles to the nearest phone box and telephoned Graham with the good news. He was pleasantly surprised and told me that Patrick Lane would drive over right away with the balance of the money owed McCann and drive back with the hashish. Leaving the phone box, I noticed that the boot of the car was very low. I opened it. Inside were stacks of London telephone directories and boxes of plastic-covered chemicals. A little confused, I drove it back to Paradise. Jim was waiting outside the cottage door.
‘You didn’t go over any bumps, did you? That car’s full of fucking explosives.’
‘Well, take them out of there, Jim. Stick them in your wreck.’
‘What’s wrong with you? You only deal in fiction. Nordle is fiction. Fucking explosives and arms are non-fiction. That’s reality, man. I deal in non-fiction. Not this fucking hippie shit.’
He threw away his half-smoked joint into the Irish night, transferred his odd cargo of telephone directories and explosives from my car to his, and drove off.
Twenty-four hours later, Patrick Lane checked into the Shannon Shamrock. I was waiting in the lobby. I took the keys of his rented Ford Capri and drove it to Paradise while he had a sleep. Marty looked agitated and said, ‘Niblo’s just been here. He took away about twenty pounds of the hash. He said he’d be back very soon. He wants his money. And some dirty movies. He’s a bit funny, Howard.’
We stashed the rest of the dope into the car, in the front door panels, the rear panels, and under the back seat. It fitted in easily enough, but the stench was overpowering. Jim arrived.
‘Where’s my fucking money?’
‘You just took it, Jim. Twenty pounds of nordle is worth about £2,000. You’ve been paid.’
‘You can have all of that hippie shit back right now.’
He went to his car, pulled out a bag, and gave it to me.
‘That’s only about ten pounds, Jim. Where is the rest?’
‘That’s all I fucking took.’
Then I realised I had forgotten to get the money off Patrick. I tried to explain to Jim, but he was most unreceptive.
‘I’m getting it myself right now. This had better not be another of your fucking games. Wait here till I get back.’
Several hours later, Jim and Patrick arrived at the cottage. They were drunk and extremely angry with each other. Patrick had refused to pay Jim without my authorisation. Jim had threatened Patrick with Gus and other assets of the Belfast Brigade. Patrick, for the first time realising that there was a possibility of IRA involvement in the scam, had exploded. His grandfather, Patrick Murphy, a Catholic policeman in Belfast, had been murdered by the IRA. Jim said he must have deserved it. They were a hair’s breadth away from coming to blows. Patrick gave me the money. I gave it to Jim.
‘H’ard, I’m holding you personally responsible to make sure this man never comes to Ireland again. He’s got an amnesty to drive back tonight, but that’s it. I’ll be in touch. I’ll be in touch with you, brother.’
Patrick was still fuming but insisted on leaving immediately for the ferry. Within a day, Jarvis and the two Charlies had sold all the hash and had collected over £20,000. A number of people had to be paid. Given all the expenses, particularly Jim’s, no one had made a fortune. But Jim, undoubtedly, could deliver the goods. It was we who were experiencing problems sending them. We’d have to get our act a bit more together to take advantage of this extraordinary opportunity.
On January 1st, 1972, Graham made a New Year’s Resolution. He was going to get things together and personally oversee matters in Karachi in readiness for the next load to Shannon. The intention was to do a ton, a big increase. This time there’d be no mistakes.
Marty Langford had two old art college friends who owned a car repair and sales business in Winchester. With their assistance, we examined various cars to see how much hashish could be safely stashed in each. The two-door Ford Capri was perfect. It could hold at least 200 pounds just in the rear panels and under the back seat. We bought a few. There never seemed to be any eyebrows raised when cars were paid for in cash.
There was tremendous wrangling about how the next deal would divide up. McCann was getting wise to how much money could be made in this business. Finally, it was settled that he would be paid £30 for every pound of hashish he imported.
Durrani and Raoul’s costs in Karachi amounted to £35 a pound. We would pay £10 a pound to anyone prepared to drive a stashed Ford Capri on and off the Irish Channel ferry. There would be some other small expenses. Hashish was selling in London for about £120 a pound. On a ton load, Graham and I should make £50,000 each. McCann would make more, but that was a pain we had to suffer.
Pretending to be arranging a farm-equipment salesmen’s conference, McCann rented a remote farmhouse near Newmarket-on-Fergus, about twenty miles from Limerick. Shannon airport could be seen from some of the bedroom windows. I bought a stack of pornographic films and loaded them into one of the doctored Ford Capris. I drove from London to Swansea, on to the British & Irish ferryboat to Cork, and from Cork via Limerick to the Shannon Shamrock, where a room in the name of Stephen McCarthy had been booked. I was at the check-in desk about midday when a loud Belfast accent screamed in my ear, ‘Don’t fucking bother. We can stay at the farm. We’ll go in your car. Gus has just taken mine to Dublin. We’re going to burn down the British Embassy.’
We got into the car.
‘So, how’s about you? Did the academics on Brighton seafront like the nordle the Kid brought in?’
‘They’d never heard of you.’
‘You didn’t fucking tell them I brought it in, did you? You fucking Welsh arsehole.’
‘I’m kidding, Jim.’
‘I got no time for games, H’ard. You know that. There’s a fucking war on. Last Sunday, youse fucking Brits killed thirteen innocent Irishmen in cold blood. You think you got problems, man. I’ll give you some fucking problems. And that fucking John Lennon is dead meat.’
‘What’s he done, Jim?’
‘He promised to give a free concert in Derry, and I set it all up. Now, after last Sunday, he says he won’t fucking do it. He’s just going to write a fucking song about it. We got enough fucking songs, for fuck’s sake. It makes me look bad, man. All the kids on Derry’s streets were looking forward to it. I’m sending our Brendan to John Lennon’s house in St George’s Hill, Weybridge, to burn the fucker down. No one messes with the Kid. When’s Soppy Bollocks sending the nordle? What’s the fucking hold-up? What the fuck does he think this is? Amateur night? I got things to do, man.