Mr Nice: an autobiography by Howard Marks Page A

under the back seat and in the door panels. At the Swiss–German border, the car had been searched and the hashish found. Graham was in Lorrach prison.
    I took a cab to Lorrach and walked around the streets until I found a lawyer. He went to see Graham in prison and agreed to defend him. Graham had no messages.
    When I arrived back at London airport, I telephoned Mandy and gave her the Lorrach lawyer’s particulars.
    ‘Is he all right, Howard?’ Mandy asked.
    ‘The lawyer said he looked fine.’
    ‘Did he have any messages for me? Anything he wants me to do?’
    ‘He didn’t have any messages for anyone, Mandy.’
    ‘Howard, would you mind going over to see a friend of Graham’s and telling him what happened on your trip? He’s a good guy, but he’s a bit concerned about what’s happened and wants to hear everything from the horse’s mouth.’
    ‘I don’t mind, Mandy. Where do I go?’
    ‘Mayfair, 17, Curzon Street. His name’s Durrani.’
    Mohammed Durrani was the grandson of the brother of the former King of Afghanistan. Educated in Delhi, he served eleven years on the Hong Kong Police Force and had several shady businesses throughout the East. One of them was supplying Pakistani hashish to Europe. Durrani let me in to his Mayfair flat. He had a hawk-like face, Savile Row suit, beautifully manicured fingernails, and wore strong after-shave. He poured me a Johnnie Walker Black Label whisky and offered me a Benson & Hedges from his gold, monogrammed cigarette case. He lit my cigarette with a Dupont lighter, introduced me to Sam Hiraoui, his Lebanese partner, and said, ‘Thank you, Howard, for agreeing to come. We have simple question. Has Graham talked?’
    ‘He said he didn’t have any messages for anyone,’ I answered.
    ‘We mean to the German police.’
    ‘I don’t know.’
    ‘The reason we ask, Howard, is that we have merchandise in pipeline which might be compromised by our friend’sarrest. You are best friend, Mandy says. Do you think he would let police know anything about our operations?’
    ‘Not deliberately, obviously, if that’s what you mean.’
    ‘That is what we mean.’
    ‘In that case, no. He hasn’t talked. But here’s all the newspaper reports, lawyers’ papers, etc. Maybe these will help you.’
    ‘You have been very efficient, Howard, very efficient,’ said Durrani. ‘We are much in debt to you. It is possible,
inshallah
, that we may have merchandise to sell in England when Graham is in German prison. Are you interested?’
    ‘I don’t have any money, but I am honoured you ask me.’
    ‘We would give you 100% credit,’ said the Lebanese Sam. ‘Simply sell it, keep your commission, and give us the agreed amount of money.’
    ‘I’m not really that kind of dealer, Sam. Graham would give me a pound or two to sell every couple of weeks. That’s it. I’ve never done any real business of any kind.’
    ‘Surely you must be knowing people who are buying merchandise?’ Durrani asked.
    ‘No, I don’t.’
    ‘But you were at the Oxford University with Graham, no?’
    ‘Yes, we were at Oxford together, but it’s not much of a business school.’
    ‘It is world’s best, Howard. Graham sells his merchandise to people from the Oxford University.’
    ‘That’s very probable. Can’t you get hold of any of them to sell your stuff?’
    ‘We know only David Pollard, and he is now crazy man.’
    I knew David Pollard. He was an exact contemporary of mine at some Oxford college other than Balliol. He too read Physics and was by no means crazy, though he was a little eccentric and had recently suffered tragic circumstances. In fact he was brilliant and invented all sorts of things from kidney dialysis machines to LSD manufacturing accessories, as well as pioneering the first British joint-sized rollingpapers, Esmeralda. His girlfriend, Barbara Mayo, had gone hitch-hiking on the M6 motorway, and had been raped and murdered. The police never found the killer, but David was