Читать книгу The Bandit of Kabul - Jerry Beisler - Страница 13

Chapter Six

“In Italy, for thirty years under the Borgias, they had warfare, terror, murder and bloodshed but they produced Michelangelo, Leonardo DaVinci and the Renaissance. In Switzerland they had brotherly love and they had 500 years of democracy and peace; and what did that produce? The coo-coo clock!”

HARRY LIME, “THE THIRD MAN” BY GRAHAM GREENE

Dutch Bob tried to recruit anyone of worth he met in the Kathmandu Valley to assist him in his Hash-to-Amsterdam deals.

“I come from a small country that must hold back the sea to exist. We have been forced to go far from our loving homes and deal in spices to survive,” was his sales pitch. “Tea, saffron, cinnamon, hashish or coffee … any and all spices,” he added, like a snake oil salesman, mumbling and choking on “hashish” every time he pitched it.

“Amsterdam and Holland will lead the citizens of the planet from old laws and prisons to freedom and legalization. Help us!” Dutch Bob pleaded, adding “Nepalese diplomats have had a long, successful hash smuggling history. Nepal, like my beloved Holland, is a small, desperate country, thus entrepreneurial.”

Dutch Bob eventually convinced me that it was necessary for me to help him with hashish deliveries to his homeland via diplomatic courier. Although I was opposed to the idea of dealing with diplomats because of the potential betrayal from that kind of intrigue, I went along. I needed money. He insisted that if the hash clubs in Amsterdam were not supplied with the product, they would not be able to stay in business. And from the first two clubs, there were now nearly ten … strength in numbers was the idea.

Rebecca stayed with our friends and I headed off to Amsterdam in my white linen suit; my image of choice as an international business man. I had noticed that a white suit drew respect from immigration officers, customs agents and airline personnel.

My role in this deal was to ship the trunk and pick up the money. Dutch Bob monitored the actual transporting of the soft Nepalese ‘tolas’ as the fingers of hash were known. The sheer high quality of this non-export, specialty hash – so very, very rare, was part of the reason I acquiesced.

Bob had instructed me to go to the National Olympic Stadium when I arrived in Amsterdam and take a sauna on Tuesday afternoon, the day that the stadium was free and open to the public. Someone would give me a red tie to wear and then the money. I made my way there and found, however, that the facilities had been taken over by the Dutch police who maintained control of “open day” by giving the evil-eye and the cold-shoulder treatment to any and all. I enjoyed the sauna, took the cold plunge and ignored the vacant stares of the police. No one contacted me, no red tie – nothing but an unsettling experience.

I went back to the hotel and telegraphed Bob that I had a wonderful bath and nothing more. He telegraphed back to me that I should return on Thursday. There would be a pass at the door. The pass was waiting for me and I went into the locker room and undressed. My first thought was that the man approaching me was a locker room attendant. He tossed me a gym bag and said “On your way, druggie, don’t use this place! What are you doing here, are you some kind of American hippie?” Then he left. Inside the bag was a red tie.

I got dressed, put on the red tie and headed out of the Olympic Stadium. As soon as I got outside the door, I noticed that the same fake locker room attendant was waiting. He said, “May I offer you a ride back into town?” When I got into the back seat of the car, there sat the Nepalese diplomat. We rode into Amsterdam and other than “very nice tie,” little was said. I was given an ornate box that was filled with Dutch guilders, “for local expenses.” I telegraphed Bob that the first part of the arrangement had been completed and he directed me, by return wire, to a travel agent where there would be a plane ticket waiting for me that led to my share of the profits.

The destination on the plane ticket was Saigon, Vietnam. One would imagine that Saigon, in the middle of the Vietnam War, would not be the first choice for a business meeting, but in fact, anybody could come and go, at their own risk. Except for the tension one felt in human interactions, most of the sprawling city showed no signs of war.

I met Dutch Bob and two other Hollanders at The Continental, an old French-colonial hotel. I was somewhat stunned at the way my share of the profits was remitted. Proudly the Hollanders showed me that they had managed to obtain some “ice cold” Heineken beers and proceeded to pay me in gold which, they said, was “better than money.”

At the time of this transaction, the Vietnamese had been at war for about 30 years, first against the colonial French occupation and now the United States. This period of conflux had long established an economy based on gold. Not only were the pieces of gold precise in weight, but they were molded into a curved shape so that they would fit the contours of the human body and slide into thin leather belts for transport.

Bob elicited a toast and agreement from his Dutch buddies and me that “we are well on our way to saving world travelers, pilgrims and freedom lovers from tyranny!”

Then he weighed the profits.

I flew out of Saigon with gold strapped all over my body. When I got to Hong Kong, I quickly detached myself from the situation and sold the gold for about 80 cents on the dollar. I missed my sweetheart and always worried about her waiting in a wild corner of the world. Giving up a few points of profit was stacked against each priceless hour in her arms back in Kathmandu.