just sacked the no-good fucker. Him and Radcliffe had better watch out for their lives. And that fucking John Lennon. You ought to get rid of Soppy Bollocks, too.’
‘Who is Soppy Bollocks?’
‘That fucking Brit that was with you last week.’
‘Jim, we need Graham. I don’t know anyone else who can send stuff from Pakistan and Afghanistan.’
‘Well, fucking find someone, you hear me. You and me can go to Kabul. Did you bring those pornographic movies you promised?’
I had forgotten.
‘I didn’t want to bring them on the plane, Jim. I’ll get them brought over on the ferry very soon. This plan of yours seems brilliant. When do you want to start?’
‘Fucking now. I’m ready. I got it all together.’
‘How much shall we send?’
‘I’ll let you know, H’ard.’
‘What address shall we send the stuff to?’
‘I’ll let you know, H’ard.’
‘What goods shall we pretend to be shipping?’
‘I’ll let you know, H’ard.’
Jim clearly didn’t have it all together, but it did sound most promising. I wanted to see Shannon for myself. We rented a car and drove via Limerick to Shannon airport. The countryside was spectacular, a large and beautiful estuary surrounded by gentle rolling hills. In the middle of this idyllic setting lay a large industrial estate and airport. Jim was driving. He parked right outside the passenger airport terminal in an obvious no-parking area.
‘You can’t be parking there,’ said a quietly spoken Irish airport official.
‘It’s a fucking emergency. I’m picking up my boss’s luggage,’ said Jim in his loudest and most aggressive Belfast accent.
‘That’ll be grand. I’ll keep an eye on it for you.’
Jim then took me on a guided tour of the airport, including the Aer Lingus cargo terminal. Various employees nodded to him. He escorted me as if he owned the place. Then he got an Aer Lingus van driver to take us to the industrial estate. There appeared to be no check on anyone or anything. Jim asked a supervisor to tell me how the freeport worked.
‘This is like its own country,’ explained the supervisor. ‘No goods are allowed to leave this estate unless, of course, they’ve been specifically cleared to do so.’
‘What if someone tried to take them out?’ asked Jim, playing a bit close to the bone.
‘They can’t without one of these,’ said the supervisor, displaying an ‘Out of Charge’ note.
‘See what I mean, H’ard,’ said Jim as we were dropped off back at the terminal, where the obliging official was still keeping an eye on our car. ‘This place is wide fucking open.’
It was.
‘You’ll have to give me some more money, H’ard, to rent an office in Limerick and a small workshop in Shannon Trading Estate. How will you take the hash to London and Brighton? You want our Brendan to take it over for you? He needs to work and make some money, that’s for fucking sure.’
‘I’ll get friends to drive it over the ferry to Wales, Jim. We have a lot of experience driving across the European borders.’
‘Do you just put the gear in the boot and pray?’
‘No. We hide it in the door panels and under and behind the back seat. You’d be surprised how much you can get in. I’ll need a place, a cottage or something, or a garage, where I can stash the car before putting it on the ferry.’
‘I’ll get you one. Just give me the money to do it.’
‘Jim, if I give you another £500, will that cover down payments on the office, workshop, and a place for me to stash?’
‘It might just be enough, H’ard.’
We checked into the Shannon Shamrock, a kind of motel popular with airline pilots. The lobby smelt of peat and Guinness. I used my real name. Jim used the name James Fitzgerald. We had a drink. The pilots were narrating horrifying tales of near misses and bad landings.
‘You must never use your real name again, H’ard. It’s too dangerous. It’s fucking dumb.’
The next morning there was a direct flight from Shannon to Heathrow. I took it. An ‘Out of Charge’ note was in my pocket. I went straight to Graham’s. Charlie Radcliffe was there. One of Dutch Nik’s firm had brought over a hundred kilos of Lebanese from Sam Hiraoui. It had to be sold. That would give me and Charlie another £1,500, Graham £5,000, the Dutch £2,000, and Lebanese Sam, whose diplomats brought it to Holland, £20,000. If Shannon worked, we stood to make so much more.
‘Howard, we’ll have to do a dummy first. I can’t risk my Middle East connections just on McCann’s say-so.’
‘I don’t think Jim will go for that, Graham. He’s anxious to do the real thing.’
‘He’s got no choice.’
Charlie Radcliffe said he’d have no trouble making copies of the ‘Out of Charge’ note.
After Charlie Radcliffe, Charlie Weatherley, Jarvis, and I sold the Lebanese, which merely entailed giving it to James Goldsack and waiting for the money, I drove to Brighton. Although no longer living there, I’d kept on the flat and had given McCann its address and phone number. There was a telegram waiting for me. It was from Limerick. Jim had sent it about an hour after I’d left him. It stated: ‘Send sporting goods to Ashling Distribution Services, Shannon airport. I need more money. Fitzgerald.’
I had no direct way of getting hold of Jim by telephone. There was just a mail drop in Ballinskelligs. I phoned Graham, who suggested we just went ahead and sent a dummy consignment once the ‘Out of Charge’ notes were printed but not to tell Jim it was a dummy until the last possible moment. I didn’t like it. But it made sense. Graham got Patrick Lane to put a stack of London telephone directories in a box and air-freight it to Shannon. I telegrammed the eleven-digit air waybill number to Jim’s Ballinskelligs address and express-mailed some perfectly forged ‘Out of Charge’ notes. Jim telephoned many hours later.
‘Those fuckers in Kabul have ripped you all off. Fucking telephone directories. Don’t ever fucking bother me again, you Welsh arsehole. I’m going to Kabul myself. Fucking telephone directories. They could have at least sent some dirty magazines for the boys. Tell Soppy Bollocks his days are numbered. You hear me. Fucking telephone directories.’
‘Jim, we had to do a dummy first, and there was no way of letting you know. I couldn’t say in a telegram that this was a dummy, could I? You must give me a better way of getting hold of you.’
‘I want another £500 tomorrow, without fail. Soppy had better be on the next fucking flight to Kabul, and he’d better send something other
