Attention Australian criminals, you need to learn from this bloke

The scoop was surprisingly easy to get because the international drug dealer thought I was someone else. That was his mistake.

But I pressed the wrong button on the tape recorder, which meant the witty, worldly and wicked remarks of Howard Marks disappeared into thin air. That was my mistake.

I was working at The Sunday Times in London for a short stint. I thought I would be a valuable addition to Fleet Street. They thought I was an overly ambitious interloper with an annoying accent – the waiter who fluked a seat at the dining table.

When I asked to go to their weekly conference headed by the editor, Andrew Neil, the reaction was as if I had tried to look up the Queen’s skirt. Absolutely no was the answer. I then went to the editor’s secretary who asked Neil. No problem, he said. He was charming.

He put me on a chair next to him. His section editors who sat before the great man looked at me as if I were a Zulu at Rorke’s Drift.

Howard Marks, gentleman smuggler.Credit: Syndication International

I had arrived with more than a blank notebook, more than an ace up my sleeve. It was a scoop in a bag. I had smuggled into the country a massive file of secret documents generated by UK, US and Australian law enforcement authorities into an international drug cartel known as The Enterprise.

The Enterprise ran for years and had connections in 14 countries with 113 known associates. It had been brought down by a rogue, bongo-playing British aristocrat, Lord Anthony Moynihan, who had become an informer for the US Drug Enforcement Administration.

The head of The Enterprise was former M16 spy Howard Marks, Oxford graduate and the son of a Welsh sea captain.

Marks made millions as a cannabis smuggler moving tons in the most imaginative ways.

He bought a 30-metre fishing boat, the Axel-D, for $665,000 as his flagship to move up to 30 tonnes of cannabis around the world. A police tracking device had been planted on the ship when it was off the Australian coast.

He used US military propeller planes to bring in hashish from Pakistan, and formed a fake rock band as a cover using giant outdoor speakers to import cannabis. The four-man group was called “Laughing Grass.”

He had 43 aliases, driving licences under the names of Elvis Presley and Waylon Jennings and a passport under the name Donald Nice.

Marks had 89 phone lines and 25 worldwide companies controlling boutiques, bars, recording studios and travel agencies to launder the millions made from drug deals.

Howard Marks’ drug brand.

Howard was a likeable rogue, more ageing hippy than an angry gangster. Even the cops who investigated The Enterprise liked him. “He is an engaging character,” one DEA agent told me.

I have written stories on gangsters called Mr Death, Rentakill, Mad Dog and Badness. Marks was known as Mr Nice.

A DEA agent was kind enough to send me Marks’ cannabis brand that was the equivalent of the Royal Seal, guaranteeing the quality was the best in the world.

Between 1975 and 1978 Marks and his associates imported 25,000 kilos of hashish and marijuana into New York in 24 separate deals for a profit of $48 million.

He had connections to the IRA, the Mafia, the Yakuza, the Australian underworld, Nepalese monks, the Thai army, the Palestine Liberation Organisation and international spy agencies, including the CIA and MI6.

I marched into the office of a Sunday Times Insight section editor with what I knew was a world scoop – a real life James Bond story.

I was staggered with his lukewarm response, with him saying many of their readers were dope smokers and wouldn’t be interested.

I decided to do the story myself and send it to my paper, the Sun News Pictorial. Marks had already been arrested in a joint US, British and Spanish operation and was in a Florida jail.

For some reason, I tried my luck and rang the North Dade Detention Centre in Florida and asked for Marks. I was shocked at the answer – yes. The next voice was a cultured Welsh one, with the timbre of someone who smoked dope for decades, with just a touch of the Oxford posh. It was Howard.

He was remarkably open admitting he was a massive dope dealer but said the agents inflated many of the figures. “The DEA remains convinced I have $200 million buried somewhere in the Swiss Alps, which is, of course, nonsense. They may think I’m very clever, but the DEA have been known to hopelessly exaggerate things.”

He explained his business, one that Australian crooks – who tend to shoot each other over the most trivial matters – should adopt.

Howard “Mr Nice” Marks.Credit: Steve Pike

When he was ripped off in deals, he would cut ties and move on never seeking revenge. “It was just part of the business. I abhor violence. You try not to take it all too seriously and keep a sense of humour. It was an amazing, exciting life.

“We made very good money. I didn’t seem to be any good at any other type of business other than dope dealing.”

Rogue Peer Lord Moynihan, who ratted out Marks.

For a laid-back guy, you had to admire his work ethic as he would have between three and 10 international drug deals on the go at any one time.

Even when Moynihan ratted on him, Marks took the betrayal with good humour. He said he ignored a warning from a major Australian criminal that the rogue lord would become a police informer. Marks blamed himself for ignoring the obvious, saying if he saw Moynihan he would demand “he buys the next round”.

Marks was close to three of Australia’s biggest crooks, Jack “The Fibber” Warren, Keith Albert “Silver” Collingburn and Laurence Edward “Joe the Boxer” McLean.

“I like Joe (McLean) very much. I admired his wit and sense of adventure,” Marks said.

“Yes, I knew Jack Warren. An older guy, a very amusing fellow, obviously a criminal.” He recounted a night in Manila with Warren, some nuns, homeless people and dwarf entertainers where they ended up in a five-star restaurant. The nuns hoed into the food, the dwarfs drank heroically, and the homeless bagged up all the seafood to take back to the streets.

Years earlier he had beaten serious charges in Britain over a tug full of Mexican cannabis, telling the jury he was infiltrating the drug syndicate to stop them using the funds to arm the IRA.

“I don’t think for one minute they (the jury) believed the defences presented to them. They just didn’t want us nice guys to spend countless years in jail for transporting beneficial herbs from one part of the world to another.”

This time around, Marks planned to use a cover story involving the sinister Australian merchant bank Nugan Hand, the CIA and MI6.

Far from being a drug smuggler he was a double agent, about to expose the CIA’s connection to a corrupt Australian bank.

“I was convinced this Australian defence could work,” he said. “It wasn’t even as bizarre as the successful Mexican secret agent defence. But did American juries have a sense of humour?”

The trouble was some of his closest connections agreed to testify against him in return for plea deals. He was facing 40 years, and so he agreed to plead guilty in exchange for a reduced sentence. He would serve seven years.

‘John, there is a bloke here who would kill for the phone. And I mean that literally.’

Howard Marks, in a Florida prison

Eventually, Howard said he needed to terminate the conversation. “John, there is a bloke here who would kill for the phone. And I mean that literally.”

Not that much later I was called back into the same boss’ office. Seems he hadn’t been frank with me about the lack of interest in Marks. In fact, they were planning a book on him.

Journalist Lindsay Murdoch in 1977.Credit: The Age

Turns out Howard thought I was part of the research team.

After Marks’ did his time, we kept in touch. Me because he was such an interesting storyteller and he because he wanted publicity for the many books he wrote.

He settled in Majorca not far from Australian businessman turned fugitive Christopher Skase. Marks died in 2016.

As my stint at The Sunday Times was ending I was in dire need of some entertaining company and there is no more entertaining company than former police reporter and accomplished foreign correspondent Lindsay Murdoch.

Lindsay was based in Singapore where I intended to stop on my way home.

I rang him suggesting we get on the beers over a feed of chilli crab. (He was actually busy on assignment.)

The reporters in the small Insight office were silent. I would later suspect they were not aware of the excellent work of Lindsay, but were very aware of another Murdoch clan, Rupert, Lachlan and James – the owners of their newspaper.

Would their lack of collegiate spirit now turn around and bite them like a red-bellied black snake? Would their careers disappear like a plate of chilli crab?

I asked the managing editor’s secretary if there was a chance I could tour their weekly magazine’s headquarters, which was offsite. Surprisingly, the answer came back, an enthusiastic yes, and even more surprisingly I was told there would be a car waiting for me.

Outside the Wapping brick wall was a Rolls-Royce with a uniformed chauffeur. It was for me.

Sometimes being mistaken for someone else has its advantages.

John Silvester lifts the lid on Australia’s criminal underworld. Subscribers can sign up to receive his Naked City newsletter every Thursday.