Mr Nice_ An Autobiography Part 23

The money in London from the sales of the Thai gra.s.s was beckoning me. I might as well head right on back. Malik gave me a small grey suitcase full of information about paper production in Pakistan and a first-cla.s.s Pan American Airlines ticket to London. On the plane, I sat next to Elizabeth Taylor. We talked about Wales. She got off at Frankfurt.

My suitcase did not show up on the carousel at Heathrow. Pan Am personnel apologised and said they would deliver it to my address as soon as they found it. Although ignorant of Bowe and Stephenson's surveillance at Karachi, I now knew I was under investigation. The questioning on departure coupled with the missing suitcase on arrival could mean nothing else. First-cla.s.s pa.s.sengers' suitcases do not disappear on direct flights. There was nothing embarra.s.sing in the suitcase, just paper-mill bulls.h.i.+t, but still, the enemy was definitely on to me. I'd have to be careful.

If a scam works, it is rational to do a repeat. Mickey Williams, Phil, and I repeated the Bangkok to Amsterdam air-freight scam and carried on doing so until Mickey's contact in Amsterdam figured he didn't need us any more. He'd either made enough or was getting dope air-freighted to him cheaper from someone else. Serious money poured into my European coffers. During the repeats, I flew a couple of times to Bangkok and Hong Kong to take care of air waybills and money transactions. Hobbs had found a few more husbands. April and Selena had found a few more wives. Pocket money flowed into my Hong Kong coffers.

The sea-freight load from Bangkok to Long Beach made it. Hefty wire transfers arrived at my account in Credit Suisse, Hong Kong. Some of Ernie's Californian couriers brought cash to give to me in Switzerland and Hong Kong. I opened up a bank account and safe-deposit box in Geneva. Unfortunately, the sea-freight scam could not be repeated. One of the guys in Long Beach had got busted doing another load.

Once a week I telephoned the US Emba.s.sy in Islamabad. Finally, the Emba.s.sy official said that the consignment should be delivered to Karachi docks to the offices of Forbes, Forbes & Campbell, the freight agents for the American President Line, on Sunday, June 10th.

I arrived in Karachi on June 6th. I would have to drive the Mazda truck about two miles from Malik's city warehouse to the docks. Malik would lead the way in his car but not stop at Forbes, Forbes & Campbell. He'd go straight back to the warehouse. Bill wouldn't approve of Malik's knowing about the American President Line, but I certainly had no reason to distrust Malik. After the truck was unloaded, I would park it somewhere near the docks. I did the journey a few times in Malik's car.

Driving in Karachi is not easy. Most of the streets look like livened-up junkyards. Cars resemble large-scale Meccano models but function much worse. Trucks are decorated with bizarre multi-coloured portraits and landscapes. Camels commonly head mile-long traffic jams. Hand carts, mechanised rickshaw-type vehicles, scooters, motorbikes, and pushbikes weave insanely through the jams. Pedestrians babble and throng around the almost stationary vehicles. Beggars without legs push themselves from car to car on low trolleys. The only highway code is to get to the front as quickly as possible by whatever means are available. Accidents are sorted out on the spot by either a fight or a cash payment. A Westerner once got lynched for running over a Pakistani schoolgirl. I'd be glad when this bit was over.

I called the US Emba.s.sy on the morning of June 10th to ensure there was no change to the plan. There was. Delivery had to be postponed until June 22nd.

My temporary pa.s.sport had to be handed in to the Pa.s.sport Office in London by June 15th and exchanged for a new one. I had to leave Karachi almost immediately to have any chance of being back in time.

I was back in London within twenty-four hours. The Pa.s.sport Office had decided that I was now worthy of being issued a full ten-year pa.s.sport. It would take three weeks. Jarvis agreed to go to Pakistan and be Mr Dennis in my stead. He was back a week later and explained that when he took the Mazda truck to the American President Line, he was told that they knew nothing about it. No booking had been made. Jarvis felt he had no choice but to leave the Mazda and crates outside the office and leave the keys with the freight agent, telling him the US Emba.s.sy would soon be in touch. Jarvis, as Mr Dennis, then phoned the US Emba.s.sy explaining the position. They promised to get on to it. Malik had seen Jarvis just before he left for London and agreed he had done the right thing.

I reported to Ernie through LAPD. He groaned.

The brand-new Mazda truck, with its precious cargo of has.h.i.+sh masquerading as illicit spying equipment, sat outside the offices of Forbes, Forbes & Campbell for three whole months. According to Malik, it became a well-known landmark in Karachi, the strange-shaped crates attracting the curiosity of visitors to the port. Then suddenly, without warning, the truck and boxes disappeared. Ernie called. The load was on its way to Alameda. We should be drinking champagne within a few weeks.

The pace slowed right down for a while. Judy and I walked around our new, but far from habitable, house in Spain.

In the fifteenth century, a little Mallorquian settlement named Es Vinyet was famous for its density of vines. A plague destroyed them, and Es Vinyet disappeared for a few hundred years until it was renamed and repopulated by a few farmers at the beginning of the last century. Its new name was La Vileta. Because of the impossibility of building any closer to Palma's city walls, La Vileta attracted Mallorquians who were seeking jobs in the city. It changed from a rural area to a dormitory for Palma's carpenters and stonemasons. These craftsmen utilised their considerable skills in customising their own homes and communal buildings. La Vileta's architecture is far from uniform, and it has many peculiar buildings. Judy and I had bought one of them, a three-floored, 150-year-old house with stone walls a few feet thick and five enormous palm trees struggling to share a small garden. La Vileta has plenty of bars, and these, like most bars in Spain, serve perfectly adequate food. There is, however, only one actual restaurant in La Vileta. It is called, appropriately enough, Restaurante La Vileta and is owned and successfully run by Bob Edwardes, a Welshman hailing from just outside my birthplace in Kenfig Hill. Naturally, we became very good friends.

Life was very relaxed and Spanish as Judy and I attempted to restore the house to its former glory, taking a lot of time off to explore the island.

More than three weeks pa.s.sed by. I regularly called LAPD. Flash kept saying Ernie had no message for me. Then one day he put me through to Ernie's hotel room.

'You ain't gonna f.u.c.king believe this.'

'I think I might have to, Ernie. What is it?'

'Did Bill ever mention to you a guy called Fred?'

'Yes, he did.'

'Well, Fred is dead, and so's our load.'

Fred Hilliard had died of a heart attack while the wooden crates of dope were heading to Alameda on the American President Line. Only Fred had been capable of clearing the load, which was now about to be discovered and cause one almighty scandal. The United States Navy was not meant to be smuggling top-quality hash through its s.h.i.+pyards. Questions would be asked. Governments might topple. Bill had fled on hearing the news of Fred's death. He was in some Brazilian jungle. Ernie had sent guys out to look for him. If Bill could not be found, Ernie was going to put Tom and Carl on the case. He was running out of reliable government agents. When this was over, he was going to have a long vacation.

Again, Malik was incredibly understanding. He suggested we give the mother-business a rest and concentrate on paper-mills and other legitimate businesses in Pakistan.

Malik's advice was on my mind when Judy and I attended the wedding of her brother George to a.s.sumpta O'Brien. The wedding took place in Belfast and was attended by crowds of people all sounding like Jim McCann. I wondered how he was doing. It had been a while since I'd heard any news of him.

George and a.s.sumpta had spent the last few years teaching English for the British Council in Beirut. 1984 had been an eventful year in the Lebanon. The US Marines had finally given up and left the country to its own devices. The ensuing battle for control of Beirut was b.l.o.o.d.y and complicated. Buildings exploded and people were kidnapped and murdered. Befuddled newspaper readers in the West tried to distinguish s.h.i.+'ite, PLO, Druze, and Maronite from each other, as those who could afford to left Beirut in droves. George and a.s.sumpta had been sad to leave. They loved the Middle East and loved teaching English. They were at a loose end. If I paid for them to set up a school in Pakistan, would they do it? Of course they would.

And so began the International Language Centre, Karachi (ILCK). Within weeks, an impressive start had been made. The old American consulate in Karachi was available for rent. We turned it into a school. Hobbs was given a break from his marriage-counselling activities in Hong Kong and flown to Karachi to be the school caretaker. English teachers were interviewed in London, and a few were given the honour of a post in Karachi.

Real English taught by real British teachers went down well in Pakistan. Success beckoned. Malik was very pleased. I made him a director of ILCK. He made me a director of Mehar Paper Mills, a business he owned in Lah.o.r.e.

j.a.pan and all things j.a.panese had fascinated me since my childhood. I had played its national game, Go, for decades; I loved raw fish; and I was constantly buying j.a.panese electronic and optical products for my amus.e.m.e.nt. I found stories of samurai intriguing and was particularly impressed with the philosophy of doing away with oneself when one had reached one's prime. I wasn't suicidal: I had pa.s.sed my prime, so it didn't apply to me. But the idea of a constantly improving life with none of the worries of old age had a curious appeal. Constantly visiting Hong Kong, a few hours from j.a.pan, and never seeming to have the time to catch a flight to Tokyo was frustrating me.

'You fancy coming to Tokyo, love?'

Judy smiled.

'You know I'd love to. The kids will adore it. There's a Disneyland there.'

There are several night-life areas in Tokyo. One of them is called Roppongi. It's a city of discotheques. At 6 p.m., hordes of immaculately dressed middle-aged businessmen pour from their offices, check their briefcases into the discotheque's cloakroom, and rave on the dance floor, studying their gesticulations in the mirrors on the wall. Judy and I were making a tour of the clubs. We came across a twelve-foot high-rise with a discotheque on each floor. Each discotheque had a different theme. Reggae, Country and Western, Doo-wop, and other themes were advertised. On the fifth floor was a club called the Cavern. There was a picture of John and Yoko. We paid our admission fees.

The rooms had been done up to look like those of the original Cavern in Liverpool, a club I had actually visited over twenty years ago. On the stage four j.a.panese were dressed in Beatle suits. They looked identical to the Beatles. Each either had the appropriate high-tech skin mask or had undergone plastic surgery to achieve the total resemblance. They played exclusively Beatle songs, word-perfect and note-perfect. They were were the Beatles. It was uncanny. the Beatles. It was uncanny.

When we got back to our hotel, the Keo Plaza, there was a message to call Stanley Rosenthal. High Time High Time had been published. Reviews were awful. The Inland Revenue had read it and freaked out. They could not be seen to be treating me as someone who wasn't a dope smuggler if I was publicly confessing to actually being one. They had withdrawn their offer of settlement and wanted to see me as soon as possible. I flew back to London. Stanley and I went to the Inland Revenue. The English p.r.i.c.k Spencer had been taken off the case. We saw Price, the polite Welshman. I explained that much of what I'd told Leigh was mere empty bragging with no basis in fact. These lies and exaggerations had been included in the book just to enhance its commercial potential. I had been aware of possible repercussions, I said, which was why I had recorded my interviews with David Leigh. Mr Price, I offered, was welcome to listen to the actual ca.s.sette recordings, if David Leigh and Heinemann had no objections. Mr Price did not call the bluff and reiterated the original offer of paying 40,000 by the end of the year. The Chelsea flat was mortgaged, and he was paid. had been published. Reviews were awful. The Inland Revenue had read it and freaked out. They could not be seen to be treating me as someone who wasn't a dope smuggler if I was publicly confessing to actually being one. They had withdrawn their offer of settlement and wanted to see me as soon as possible. I flew back to London. Stanley and I went to the Inland Revenue. The English p.r.i.c.k Spencer had been taken off the case. We saw Price, the polite Welshman. I explained that much of what I'd told Leigh was mere empty bragging with no basis in fact. These lies and exaggerations had been included in the book just to enhance its commercial potential. I had been aware of possible repercussions, I said, which was why I had recorded my interviews with David Leigh. Mr Price, I offered, was welcome to listen to the actual ca.s.sette recordings, if David Leigh and Heinemann had no objections. Mr Price did not call the bluff and reiterated the original offer of paying 40,000 by the end of the year. The Chelsea flat was mortgaged, and he was paid.

Although I enjoyed being a smuggler most of all, I was enjoying being a travel agent's sales representative far more than being a wine importer, second-hand paper-mill salesman, bulk water transporter, or manager of a secretarial service. My hotel accommodation was often luxuriously upgraded, and airline personnel were more than polite to me.

A careful scrutiny of my businesses revealed that they were actually losing money rather than making it. As a result of my money-laundering, the businesses' accounts looked good, and they had from time to time provided some sort of cover; but I longed for a front that would actually make money rather than merely deplete my marijuana profits. The only legitimate profits I made these days were the commissions Balendo gave me for the airline tickets he sold to the odd customer I put his way.

The chaotic regulations governing prices of scheduled flight tickets and the systematic breaching of those regulations enabled London travel agents to make their money in a variety of ways. A regular scheduled airline was required to sell its tickets at fixed minimum prices to a regular travel agent, i.e., one registered with IATA, the International Airline Transport a.s.sociation, who would add a fixed percentage, about 10%, to the minimum price.

An airline would much prefer to sell tickets at below minimum prices rather than fly a plane-load of empty seats. Consequently, illicit deals were set up between non-IATA-registered travel agents and the airlines, allowing cheap tickets to hit the streets and enabling travel agents to make a 2530% mark-up, depending on their relations.h.i.+ps with the airlines.

An airline would often extend considerable credit to a productive travel agent, perhaps up to three months. The travel agent would tend to get its money from the customer long before it had to pay the airline. Accordingly, capital became available for short-term investment, yielding ancillary profits to the travel agent.

Hong Kong International Travel Centre, through the painstaking hard work of Balendo and Orca, had established first-cla.s.s relations.h.i.+ps with several Far East airlines. Good mark-ups were being made on ticket sales. The turnover, however, was nothing special, primarily because of the back-street location of its offices. The business was unable to really take advantage of the credit available to them from the airlines.

Balendo and Orca had often mentioned that once they had acc.u.mulated enough capital, their intentions were to open up a big office more centrally located and corner the Far East travel market by providing airline tickets cheaper than anyone else could. The positive cash flow generated would then be invested on the Hong Kong stock market, where Balendo's Hong Kong family had the right connections.

I offered to invest 100,000 if I could be appointed a co-director of the company. I wanted to take an active part in the running of the business, but I promised not to get in the way.

The offer was not refused. I closed down the businesses operating from 18, Carlisle Street, Soho. I moved out. Hong Kong International rented a ma.s.sive shop-front and office in Denman Street, just off Piccadilly Circus. I moved in. Whenever I happened to be in London, which was getting less and less often as Palma was taking its hold, I would spend most of the working day there.

Hong Kong International occasionally bought airline tickets from CAAC, the Chinese national airline. Balendo was convinced that a personal visit to Beijing would secure a better deal. He asked if I would come along.

In the spring of 1985, Westerners in China were still thin on the ground, even in Beijing. Other than open her doors, China had done little to accommodate visitors from other lands. Beijing was a really weird place. It swarmed with bicycles. There were no birds in the air or dogs in the streets. There were no taxis for hire. Foreigners were segregated from Chinese at every conceivable opportunity. They had to use different shops and spend special Monopoly money called Foreign Exchange Certificates that were not available to the Chinese. Not surprisingly, black-market currency exchange flourished.

As guests of CAAC, Balendo and I visited the Forbidden City and Tianamen Square. As guests of the China Railway Service, we were taken to the Ming tombs and clambered over the Great Wall into Outer Mongolia.

Several meetings in incomprehensible tongues took place at the offices of CAAC. I understood very little, but Balendo emerged from the final meeting with a broad smile. CAAC agreed to sell us tickets at rock-bottom prices. They had also agreed to give us the exclusive authority in Britain to issue and charge for Chinese visas and to be the first foreign agency allowed to sell outside of China tickets for purely domestic flights within China. Balendo was evasive about how he'd achieved this. Was this some heavy Chinese gangster stuff? I hoped so. But it was far more likely that some money, presumably part of my 100,000, either had been or was about to be paid.

On the way back from Beijing, I stopped off at Bangkok. Phil presented me with a new business proposition. He wanted us to open up a ma.s.sage parlour. This was hardly an innovation in Bangkok. The city was flooded with them: on street corners, in hotels, and next to public car parks. Some specialised in blow-job orgies. Others actually provided a ma.s.sage. The most popular ones administered body ma.s.sages, in which the client is placed on a lilo, smothered with hot oil or soapy water, and scrubbed clean with a p.u.s.s.y instead of a scouring pad. Further interaction was optional. First-cla.s.s hotels provided only straight, or almost straight, ma.s.sages. They were losing a lot of money by failing to offer body ma.s.sages.

The largest hotel/shopping complex in Asia is that housing the Hyatt Central Plaza, midway between Bangkok city centre and Don Muang International Airport. The Hyatt is a five-star luxury hotel, the first one encountered between the airport and Bangkok. Its clientele comprised mainly airline pilots relaxing between flights and businessmen on short stays. There was little reason for a hotel guest to make the sometimes inordinately long journey to the city centre. The hotel had first-cla.s.s restaurants and sports facilities. Endless brand-new shopping malls, all mirrors, escalators, and water fountains, were adjacent. One could get whatever one wanted. Except body ma.s.sages. The Hyatt had agreed to let Phil open up a body-ma.s.sage parlour in its bas.e.m.e.nt. To keep up appearances it would also provide straight ma.s.sages, haircutting, and manicures. About thirty body-ma.s.sage professionals were to be employed full-time. Customers could charge all services to their hotel bill. The hotel would then pay Phil. The word 'body ma.s.sage' would never appear on the customer's hotel bill, of course. And it would be 'blow-dry' rather than 'blow-job'. Some wives and expense-footing company bosses might eventually raise their eyebrows at the frequency of grooming and toenail-cutting charges, but much would pa.s.s through unnoticed. The customer would even be able to bring his ma.s.seuse to his bedroom. The Hyatt would be the first luxury hotel in Bangkok to have a brothel on its premises and hookers on room service. Phil wanted me to come in with him fifty-fifty.

I never really had any desire to be a glorified pimp, but I couldn't resist it. Telling people I was a travel agent was useful and safe. Telling them I owned a Bangkok ma.s.sage parlour was a lot more fun. I could offer a free body-ma.s.sage members.h.i.+p card to anyone I needed to impress.

'I'm in. How did you swing it, Phil?'

'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?'