LITMIR.BIZ

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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 air 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.

      ‘Have you got no idea about security? False names and codes. I fucking told you that a hundred fucking times, and you put my fucking name on it. What you fucking think this is? Amateur night?’

      ‘Jim, Khan is like Mister in the Middle East. And it’s Juma, not Jim. Juma means something like Friday in their language.’

      Explanations to Jim fell on stony ground.

      ‘Jim McCann might fucking mean Man Friday in Kabul, but in Ireland Jim McCann means it’s fucking me, the Kid. I’ll still get the nordle, but because of your fucking cock-ups, it’ll cost me an extra £500. I need it right now.’

      Early the next morning, I flew back to Shannon. This time Jim was waiting at the airport. He was fired up. He took the £500 and ran, screaming at the top of his voice, ‘Wait for me in Paradise or the Shannon Shamrock. Check in as McCarthy.’

      I hired a car and drove to Paradise. Marty was standing outside looking very relieved.

      ‘Thank God it’s you, Howard. I thought it was those Pakistanis again.’

      ‘Pakistanis? What Pakistanis?’

      ‘Two days ago, I heard a car pulling up. I thought it was you or Niblo from the IRA. The car stopped outside the gate, and two Pakistanis got out. You’d told me something about some Pakistani dope coming, and I remembered you telling me something about a pretend dead body or something coming from Pakistan, so I thought they were something to do with that, like. I thought they would either give me some dope or a coffin or something. In fact, they were selling shirts. Yeah, shirts! Then I figured you sent them as a joke. Then I thought Niblo had sent them to freak me out. Then I thought they were undercover Pakistani cops. I bought a couple of shirts off them. There they are. Not bad really for what I paid for them.’

      The coincidences were beginning to get out of hand.

      ‘You’ve had any other visitors?’

      ‘No, that’s it. Everything has been as quiet as a mouse, except for the rats. Rats freak me out.’

      We had a cup of tea and some egg, peas, and chips. Marty always made the best. I’d brought over a little hash, and we had a smoke. I drove back to the Shannon Shamrock and checked in as Stephen McCarthy. My mother had seriously thought of christening me Stephen, and my ancestor Patrick Marks used the surname McCarthy. I hadn’t yet graduated to using only false names that have absolutely no connection to one’s past. These were early days.

      I had dozed off for a few minutes when the phone rang. It was Jim.

      ‘Come down right away, H’ard. Since when do antique carpets fucking rattle when you move them around?’

      In the lobby, Jim was all smiles. I followed him to the hotel car park. In the middle was an unlocked, beaten-up Ford with a sack-covered cabin trunk on the back seat and a similar one in the boot, which, because of the size of the cabin trunk, had been left wide open. It stank of hashish.

      ‘You see, H’ard, the Kid’s done it. The Kid delivers with the grace of a Mozart concerto. I want my two grand, and another five hundred for extra expenses. And next time I don’t want my fucking name on the paperwork, and I don’t want fucking carpets that rattle, and I want some pornographic movies. But between me and you, Howard, it was a fucking good job the carpets did rattle. It convinced them they were bringing in guns. They knew they weren’t fucking carpets. You understand me, do you? Here’s the keys. Take

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