‘Will you sell arms with me?’

Among the many eccentric cast of characters that make it to Farrukh Dhondy’s new memoir is serial killer Charles Sobhraj, who once tried to convince the British Indian writer to be part of a dangerous business cover-up in London

Charles turned up again in London one early morning and called me from the lodgings above a pub off the motorway leading into London from the South Coast. Some days or weeks earlier, [Charles’s wife] Chantal [Compagnon] had asked me if I would write a film script about Charles and that she would tell the story, as far as she knew it, and I could ask Charles about his supposed escape from Tihar Jail. When Charles said he wanted to talk to me, I assumed it was confession or, at least, anecdote time, especially as he said, “Jus’ come quickly, Farrukh. It will be helpful to you.”

In all the time I knew him, my friends, family and I joked about the possibility of him turning on me and perhaps murdering me to steal my wallet and credit cards. But it was always a joke. It never once crossed my mind that he would attempt another murder, but I never invited him to my house and was very vigilant when we went to a restaurant to make sure that he wasn’t poisoning my food or drink.

Farrukh Dhondy. Pic courtesy/Nicky J Sims

That early morning, wondering what the emergency was about, I drove over to the inn off the highway. Charles came down to the reception in the hotel section of the pub and asked me to step out into the inn’s carpark with him. He got on his mobile phone and called his companions, two men in black leather jackets, and all four of us made our way to the carpark, where they had left their large truck. Charles didn’t say what this was about. I didn’t ask.

One of the men, who Charles said was Belgian and didn’t speak any English, opened the loading door of the truck.

“Look,” Charles said.

The truck was full of furniture—ornate chests of drawers, mirrors, sets of chairs, perhaps a wardrobe and small tables.

“Antiques from Belgium and France,” he said.

“So?”

“We want to set up a business in London, selling them. London buys lots of antiques.”

I was intrigued. Why had he called me to show me his antiques?

“The thing is, Farrukh, we are all foreigners here and need a British citizen to get a lease on a shop, and for that, you have to have a British bank account and address and everything.”

“You’ll need a shop in Portobello Road or Camden Town— places like that,” I said.

“It could be anywhere, near you, wherever is cheap for property. You just do this for us, and we give you proper money. Yeah?”

“And you’ll run the business?” I asked.

“Just your name and passport and everything, and the money will go through your bank. Then you won’t have to do anything.”

I nodded. This wasn’t as straightforward as it seemed. Charles took me aside as the two others climbed into the truck and began readjusting the furniture.

“We can give you even £100,000 for the whole year,” he said. 

“For hiring a shop in my name?”

Charles looked serious and indicated I should go back to the hotel with him. He led me up the stairs to his room and said, “I have to tell you. Look.”

He brought out from his leather suitcase a couple of what looked like catalogues and handed them to me. They were Russian. I opened one, flipping through the pages rapidly. There were photographs of tanks, armoured vehicles, anti-aircraft guns, automatic field guns, a section on small arms and what were probably specifications of each of them as the columns were dotted with numbers. “London is the best place to do the business,” he said.
“These armaments? How will they get here?”
“Nothing comes or goes from here, just the paperwork. The stuff goes straight from the places to whoever is buying.” 

The penny dropped. It was being sold by the governments or someone high-up in the military of the ex-Soviet countries, which still had, after the Soviet Union broke up, dumps of Russian arms. Belarus, Kazakhstan or the others would, through the antique dealers in London, supply the ticked-off shopping list to any and all—Al-Qaeda, Taliban, Jaish-e-Mohammed, Boko Haram, the Ku Klux Klan or whoever paid.“I can’t do this,” I said.

“What’s the problem?” Charles asked. The penny didn’t just drop—it was slammed like a bullet into my head. After all, I had read and knew about him, but his question handed me the missing piece of the jigsaw. Charles Sobhraj couldn’t, not wouldn’t, understand why one would have qualms about being part of an operation selling arms or perhaps killing people. What was my problem? He had explained what the business was about and told me I would be paid an unbelievable sum for doing very little, so why would I not do it? Was he really some character out of Albert Camus or Dostoevsky? Some amoral being who had not relinquished morality but had never encountered or absorbed it?

My reply was, of course, disingenuous. “I’ve already got a mortgage, and without a steady income, no one would allow me to take a lease on a property.”

“We can employ you and give you a salary, so you can show an income,” he said.

“My age,” I said. “You have no idea of the restrictions of British banks. I won’t be able to do what you want.” 

His face fell. He had assured his partners in the enterprise that he had just the man in London to set the whole thing up. I drove home, asking myself whether I had in some sense betrayed my own conscience. I was confident that Charles wouldn’t find anyone else to set up their front for them.

Excerpted with permission from Fragments Against My Ruin: A Life by Farrukh Dhondy, published by Contxt, Westland 

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