11.The Sting
On 16th January, early morning and as we approached the Dedeman reception desk, Jim asked the manager if he could have a computer printout of our bill. On account to AsNa Holdings, it totalled 236 million lire, in truth about £700. When Gürdal arrived with the Mercedes, he sped us to Atatürk Airport. In the car park, as he retrieved our case, I showed him a small card and begged a favour.
“Gürdal, please would you take care of this for us?”
Just a little note, it started, ‘Dear Mr Nadir, Thank you for making it possible for us to visit Istanbul. Please accept our gratitude for your incredible hospitality. In Israel, the man who fails to believe in miracles is no realist. Olivia and Jim.’
We hoped that the card’s bottom line might encourage Nadir to keep faith in us. It would certainly take a miracle for us to win this match. After my time with the Mossad, I knew that if you need it badly enough, then nothing is impossible. As we shook hands upon it, Gürdal promised us that he would give Nadir our token.
“It’s been a privilege to know you” we assured him and watched in silence until the Mercedes disappeared from view, feeling a little sad, we entered the airport.
Sharing a laugh with the female boarding officials, as they clocked my passport photograph, it made me cringe. Another Boeing 737 and once settled in our seats, we began to unwind. A Turkish newspaper, printed in English, as I read the bold headline, it carried an article about shocking conditions at Selimiye gaol. It made me wonder if it could be worse than British prisons. Interrupting my thoughts
“Will Mr and Mrs Frank come to the front of the plane!”
An urgent announcement, it conjured up bleak scenes from Midnight Express. Fearful, as we visualised cops dragging us off the plane, whispering in his ear, bravely, I told Jim
“I’ll go.”
“No, I’ll do it!” he protested.
Plucking up the courage, as I left my seat and ventured to the front of the plane, anxious, but refusing to let Jim take the blame, hesitant and one steward admitted that we faced a dilemma. Gathering my nerve, as I peered outside, on the tarmac, expecting to witness much worse, a couple of bored baggage handlers dwelt by an outsize trolley. As they spotted me, one chap pointed to a pair of suitcases. Barely audible above the screaming jet engines, I called out to them that the black one was mine. Feeling bloody foolish, once back in my seat, tentative, Jim asked me if I was okay. A timid nod put him out of our misery, I told him
On 16th January, early morning and as we approached the Dedeman reception desk, Jim asked the manager if he could have a computer printout of our bill. On account to AsNa Holdings, it totalled 236 million lire, in truth about £700. When Gürdal arrived with the Mercedes, he sped us to Atatürk Airport. In the car park, as he retrieved our case, I showed him a small card and begged a favour.
“Gürdal, please would you take care of this for us?”
Just a little note, it started, ‘Dear Mr Nadir, Thank you for making it possible for us to visit Istanbul. Please accept our gratitude for your incredible hospitality. In Israel, the man who fails to believe in miracles is no realist. Olivia and Jim.’
We hoped that the card’s bottom line might encourage Nadir to keep faith in us. It would certainly take a miracle for us to win this match. After my time with the Mossad, I knew that if you need it badly enough, then nothing is impossible. As we shook hands upon it, Gürdal promised us that he would give Nadir our token.
“It’s been a privilege to know you” we assured him and watched in silence until the Mercedes disappeared from view, feeling a little sad, we entered the airport.
Sharing a laugh with the female boarding officials, as they clocked my passport photograph, it made me cringe. Another Boeing 737 and once settled in our seats, we began to unwind. A Turkish newspaper, printed in English, as I read the bold headline, it carried an article about shocking conditions at Selimiye gaol. It made me wonder if it could be worse than British prisons. Interrupting my thoughts
“Will Mr and Mrs Frank come to the front of the plane!”
An urgent announcement, it conjured up bleak scenes from Midnight Express. Fearful, as we visualised cops dragging us off the plane, whispering in his ear, bravely, I told Jim
“I’ll go.”
“No, I’ll do it!” he protested.
Plucking up the courage, as I left my seat and ventured to the front of the plane, anxious, but refusing to let Jim take the blame, hesitant and one steward admitted that we faced a dilemma. Gathering my nerve, as I peered outside, on the tarmac, expecting to witness much worse, a couple of bored baggage handlers dwelt by an outsize trolley. As they spotted me, one chap pointed to a pair of suitcases. Barely audible above the screaming jet engines, I called out to them that the black one was mine. Feeling bloody foolish, once back in my seat, tentative, Jim asked me if I was okay. A timid nod put him out of our misery, I told him
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“Relax Jim, I think we’re going mad…”
Sending us dizzy, as the plane circled once more in dense cloud over London, finally, touching down at Heathrow. Unlike Atatűrk, as we tramped the length of endless cheerless corridors, endeavouring to escape the maze, as she blocked our way, a stout uniformed customs officer waylaid us. Flashing our passports at her, as she waved us through, I don’t know why, instinct urged me look back! As I did so, the look on her face said it all. Wearing a perplexed expression, as she stared directly at us. A curious episode, it unsettled me.
Anxious to draw no more attention, as we paused by the carousel, keeping my body language intact, as I concealed my unease and said nothing to Jim. For the first time, my passport in order, yet in the past, always armed with false papers I had passed through customs without problem every time. Luck never entered into it, this was Naylor’s doing. Next moment, as Jim gripped our case, we headed for the ‘nothing to declare’ channel where a large uniform stopped us and demanded
“Where’ve you just come from?”
“Istanbul,” I replied.
He wanted to examine our baggage. The experience reminded me of prison. As we trailed behind him into the corridor, Jim dropped our case directly on top of a stainless steel table. As he aroused my curiosity, instead of opening up the case, the uniform placed his hands on top of it and staring directly at me, he quizzed
“What was the nature of your business in Istanbul?”
“We attended a job interview,” I replied, impatient.
“Did you get the job?”
“Yeah, we’ve to stay in England until our apartment’s ready.”
Satisfied, he returned our case and leaving London behind us, we took the next coach to Dover. Once back in the flat, David’s mobile rang. Salk warned me
“Allan Harraden will call to your flat in the morning at eight, he’s going to wire up the cameras.”
As we ended the brief call, the mobile rang again, this time, David, he yelled
“Have you heard the terrible news? Peter’s been arrested!”
“What? I’ve only just this second been talking with him.”
Silly man – he meant Peter Dimond. Special Branch had detained Nadir’s pilot in Wales, as he had attempted to return to his hideout in Ireland. David declared that he was worried and disclosed that he would have to look at hauling Jim and me out of England in a hurry. Unexpectedly, he bawled
Sending us dizzy, as the plane circled once more in dense cloud over London, finally, touching down at Heathrow. Unlike Atatűrk, as we tramped the length of endless cheerless corridors, endeavouring to escape the maze, as she blocked our way, a stout uniformed customs officer waylaid us. Flashing our passports at her, as she waved us through, I don’t know why, instinct urged me look back! As I did so, the look on her face said it all. Wearing a perplexed expression, as she stared directly at us. A curious episode, it unsettled me.
Anxious to draw no more attention, as we paused by the carousel, keeping my body language intact, as I concealed my unease and said nothing to Jim. For the first time, my passport in order, yet in the past, always armed with false papers I had passed through customs without problem every time. Luck never entered into it, this was Naylor’s doing. Next moment, as Jim gripped our case, we headed for the ‘nothing to declare’ channel where a large uniform stopped us and demanded
“Where’ve you just come from?”
“Istanbul,” I replied.
He wanted to examine our baggage. The experience reminded me of prison. As we trailed behind him into the corridor, Jim dropped our case directly on top of a stainless steel table. As he aroused my curiosity, instead of opening up the case, the uniform placed his hands on top of it and staring directly at me, he quizzed
“What was the nature of your business in Istanbul?”
“We attended a job interview,” I replied, impatient.
“Did you get the job?”
“Yeah, we’ve to stay in England until our apartment’s ready.”
Satisfied, he returned our case and leaving London behind us, we took the next coach to Dover. Once back in the flat, David’s mobile rang. Salk warned me
“Allan Harraden will call to your flat in the morning at eight, he’s going to wire up the cameras.”
As we ended the brief call, the mobile rang again, this time, David, he yelled
“Have you heard the terrible news? Peter’s been arrested!”
“What? I’ve only just this second been talking with him.”
Silly man – he meant Peter Dimond. Special Branch had detained Nadir’s pilot in Wales, as he had attempted to return to his hideout in Ireland. David declared that he was worried and disclosed that he would have to look at hauling Jim and me out of England in a hurry. Unexpectedly, he bawled
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“Olivia!” a lengthy pause meant to worry me “Is it true that you told, Elizabeth, you were at Entebbe.”
“Maybe” I said, allowing myself a smirk, all innocent, I quizzed “ – why?
“It’s impossible, you’re not old enough. You can’t be more than 30.”
“Thanks, David I’m 42” I told him.
“You can’t be!”
“Check my passport” I retorted, secretly pleased by his disbelief.
“I need to see your birth certificate, you have to show it to me.”
“I don’t show it to anyone, David, it’s not right – its garbage!”
“What do you mean?” he probed, puzzled.
Its now official, I am a woman, like any female, I’m entitled to a proper birth certificate with my sex recorded as ‘girl’ upon it. Not back then. Not until 2002, when finally, the European Court of Human Rights trampled all over the bigots and ordered Britain to end my discrimination. His a compliment really, David had forgotten and I had to remind him
“Think about it, David, my body has changed, but not the false details on that stupid paper. I’ll have them changed too very shortly.”
All at once, breaking out into a cold sweat and needing to vomit and in a hurry, ending the call, before leaving Istanbul, Peter had asked me to feign illness upon my return to England in order to delay my report to MI6. He said it would afford Allan time to wire up the flat. No need for pretence now. Blaming buggy hôtel water on the first night, I had contracted Turkey tummy.
Next morning, Allan Harraden knocked on the front door. He had a pal named John with him. As Jim let them in, excusing my absence, he told them that I was ill in bed. Allan wished me quick recovery. Optimistic, he pledged
“With John’s help, it’ll only take me a couple of days to set up the cameras.”
As they weighed up the job, the surveillance men fast got to work in the lounge. Their hidden cameras needed to be in position before I could fix Grundy’s next visit. Three hours on and having a moan, Allan had uncovered a few snags. Like my illness, he explained to Jim that his task might take a few days more to sort. Later that day, Salk phoned. Feeling sorry for myself, I groaned
“I don’t feel very well.”
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“Maybe” I said, allowing myself a smirk, all innocent, I quizzed “ – why?
“It’s impossible, you’re not old enough. You can’t be more than 30.”
“Thanks, David I’m 42” I told him.
“You can’t be!”
“Check my passport” I retorted, secretly pleased by his disbelief.
“I need to see your birth certificate, you have to show it to me.”
“I don’t show it to anyone, David, it’s not right – its garbage!”
“What do you mean?” he probed, puzzled.
Its now official, I am a woman, like any female, I’m entitled to a proper birth certificate with my sex recorded as ‘girl’ upon it. Not back then. Not until 2002, when finally, the European Court of Human Rights trampled all over the bigots and ordered Britain to end my discrimination. His a compliment really, David had forgotten and I had to remind him
“Think about it, David, my body has changed, but not the false details on that stupid paper. I’ll have them changed too very shortly.”
All at once, breaking out into a cold sweat and needing to vomit and in a hurry, ending the call, before leaving Istanbul, Peter had asked me to feign illness upon my return to England in order to delay my report to MI6. He said it would afford Allan time to wire up the flat. No need for pretence now. Blaming buggy hôtel water on the first night, I had contracted Turkey tummy.
Next morning, Allan Harraden knocked on the front door. He had a pal named John with him. As Jim let them in, excusing my absence, he told them that I was ill in bed. Allan wished me quick recovery. Optimistic, he pledged
“With John’s help, it’ll only take me a couple of days to set up the cameras.”
As they weighed up the job, the surveillance men fast got to work in the lounge. Their hidden cameras needed to be in position before I could fix Grundy’s next visit. Three hours on and having a moan, Allan had uncovered a few snags. Like my illness, he explained to Jim that his task might take a few days more to sort. Later that day, Salk phoned. Feeling sorry for myself, I groaned
“I don’t feel very well.”
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Laughing, oh yeah, Peter thought it very funny. Making it worse, never trusting me, the clown only thought it a wind up. Always suspicious, he quizzed
“What? You mean – you mean you really are ill…”
“It’s not funny,” I promised him, cheering up, finding it comic myself now.
Four days more and feeling much better, I met Allan and his mate John. They had fitted two tiny cameras in the lounge. About finished, as they proudly showed them off to me, Allan had fixed one spy eye to an ironing board leaning against a far wall. A floral scarf draped over the board hid the camera. Great minds think alike. I had used it as a prop to kid David. Allan claimed that the vacuum cleaner bag made an ideal place to hide the second camera. An upright job, we left the Hoover next to the chair that Grundy was to use on his next visit. As he drew our notice to the sideboard, Allan slid back one of its doors, inside the cabinet, a mind-boggling array of coloured wires linked all the cameras to a green circuit board. One wire trailed off to a small monitor, a tiny screen, 10cm across. As he gave us a demonstration, Allan invited me to push a little red button wired to the circuit. As we stared into the monitor, a clear colour image emerged on the screen showing us all huddled together. A perfectionist, still not satisfied, Allan told us that he could do with another camera.
“It’s the angle,” he fretted, explaining, ”If your visitor leans too far forward or too far away from the cameras, we’re in danger of losing his image.”
As he helped Allan solve the snag, Jim volunteered to wear a necktie-camera.
Next evening, Allan returned to the flat. As I watched, Jim took off his shirt and fastening a wide nylon belt around his midriff, Allan clipped a camcorder directly to it before Jim replaced his shirt. Taking the tie from Allan, silver and covered with busy black polka dots, they camouflaged a tiny spy peeping through the silk. Wearing it like any other, as Jim slipped the tie around his neck and adjusted the knot, a flimsy fibre-optic cable ran underneath his shirt and back to the camera. A second wire ran from it to his trouser pocket. A handy little switch at one end of the wire enabled Jim to employ the camcorder. Allan told him
“Keep the switch in your pocket” satisfied, he cried, “Lets do it!”
When a colour picture showed up on the monitor, fulfilled, Allan agreed to stay for coffee. As he relaxed on the sofa, his accent a lot like Rolf Harris, the camera king admitted that he was born in Australia.
“We’d never have guessed!” I joked, laughing.
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“What? You mean – you mean you really are ill…”
“It’s not funny,” I promised him, cheering up, finding it comic myself now.
Four days more and feeling much better, I met Allan and his mate John. They had fitted two tiny cameras in the lounge. About finished, as they proudly showed them off to me, Allan had fixed one spy eye to an ironing board leaning against a far wall. A floral scarf draped over the board hid the camera. Great minds think alike. I had used it as a prop to kid David. Allan claimed that the vacuum cleaner bag made an ideal place to hide the second camera. An upright job, we left the Hoover next to the chair that Grundy was to use on his next visit. As he drew our notice to the sideboard, Allan slid back one of its doors, inside the cabinet, a mind-boggling array of coloured wires linked all the cameras to a green circuit board. One wire trailed off to a small monitor, a tiny screen, 10cm across. As he gave us a demonstration, Allan invited me to push a little red button wired to the circuit. As we stared into the monitor, a clear colour image emerged on the screen showing us all huddled together. A perfectionist, still not satisfied, Allan told us that he could do with another camera.
“It’s the angle,” he fretted, explaining, ”If your visitor leans too far forward or too far away from the cameras, we’re in danger of losing his image.”
As he helped Allan solve the snag, Jim volunteered to wear a necktie-camera.
Next evening, Allan returned to the flat. As I watched, Jim took off his shirt and fastening a wide nylon belt around his midriff, Allan clipped a camcorder directly to it before Jim replaced his shirt. Taking the tie from Allan, silver and covered with busy black polka dots, they camouflaged a tiny spy peeping through the silk. Wearing it like any other, as Jim slipped the tie around his neck and adjusted the knot, a flimsy fibre-optic cable ran underneath his shirt and back to the camera. A second wire ran from it to his trouser pocket. A handy little switch at one end of the wire enabled Jim to employ the camcorder. Allan told him
“Keep the switch in your pocket” satisfied, he cried, “Lets do it!”
When a colour picture showed up on the monitor, fulfilled, Allan agreed to stay for coffee. As he relaxed on the sofa, his accent a lot like Rolf Harris, the camera king admitted that he was born in Australia.
“We’d never have guessed!” I joked, laughing.
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As we discussed his fascinating craft, his talents in great demand, Allan didn’t just do The Cook Report and Panorama, his name on the telly among the credits all the time. Very busy, he did virtually all the hidden camera shows his speciality big exposés. Allan revealed that he had just helped uncover another huge scam with World in Action.
“Your gear must be pricey,” remarked Jim “How did you get it?”
“I reckon it’s worth ten grand, you can’t buy it in the shops, it’s made to order. I know this bloke, maybe two, real experts. Oh well, nice meeting you guys” rising from his chair, Allan pledged, “I sure hope this thing comes off...”
Next day, 21st January and feigning guilt for not phoning him sooner, I got onto Naylor. Explaining my bug, he knew all about them so I told him
“I’m fine now, but there’s been some major developments.”
I had prepared a report for him and reading it aloud told Naylor all that I wanted him to know about my trip to Turkey. When I declared to him that David wanted more material, not the first time, Naylor blasphemed
“Christ, I thought the bastard said he’d got enough – what does he want now.”
Meaning to dispel any doubts that he might entertain about us, I outlined to him that David had ambushed me and disclosed that the flat was replete with hidden cameras. I explained that the Cook Reporters demanded to film another date with Grundy and unless I agreed to help them, his assignment was dead.
Expecting Naylor to erupt, surprising me, as he kept his cool and promised me that he could handle it, I mentioned the SAS team that David had hired to stalk Grundy. Naylor queried how did I know that.
“David Alford told me, the banker confirmed it,” I promised him.
“So they want to know where Grundy lives,” he replied.
Naylor claimed that he had been waiting for the sting all along. Revealing that he had visited Ramsgate to inspect Kerry’s manor. He agreed that it looked fine and we both knew that the impostor’s genuine occupation gave Grundy credible cover. It decided the issue, a simple plan, our man would call to the flat to collect a copy of Nadir’s latest letter from me and making it look like he really worked for them, Grundy would deliver it to the MI6 HQ, before he travelled back home. Leaving me with the problem of convincing Kerry to reprise his rôle as an MI6 spy without him knowing it, untroubled, Naylor told me
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“Your gear must be pricey,” remarked Jim “How did you get it?”
“I reckon it’s worth ten grand, you can’t buy it in the shops, it’s made to order. I know this bloke, maybe two, real experts. Oh well, nice meeting you guys” rising from his chair, Allan pledged, “I sure hope this thing comes off...”
Next day, 21st January and feigning guilt for not phoning him sooner, I got onto Naylor. Explaining my bug, he knew all about them so I told him
“I’m fine now, but there’s been some major developments.”
I had prepared a report for him and reading it aloud told Naylor all that I wanted him to know about my trip to Turkey. When I declared to him that David wanted more material, not the first time, Naylor blasphemed
“Christ, I thought the bastard said he’d got enough – what does he want now.”
Meaning to dispel any doubts that he might entertain about us, I outlined to him that David had ambushed me and disclosed that the flat was replete with hidden cameras. I explained that the Cook Reporters demanded to film another date with Grundy and unless I agreed to help them, his assignment was dead.
Expecting Naylor to erupt, surprising me, as he kept his cool and promised me that he could handle it, I mentioned the SAS team that David had hired to stalk Grundy. Naylor queried how did I know that.
“David Alford told me, the banker confirmed it,” I promised him.
“So they want to know where Grundy lives,” he replied.
Naylor claimed that he had been waiting for the sting all along. Revealing that he had visited Ramsgate to inspect Kerry’s manor. He agreed that it looked fine and we both knew that the impostor’s genuine occupation gave Grundy credible cover. It decided the issue, a simple plan, our man would call to the flat to collect a copy of Nadir’s latest letter from me and making it look like he really worked for them, Grundy would deliver it to the MI6 HQ, before he travelled back home. Leaving me with the problem of convincing Kerry to reprise his rôle as an MI6 spy without him knowing it, untroubled, Naylor told me
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“I don’t think that Alford will dig too deep. He’ll be too frightened of losing his great story to close in on Grundy. This is the best thing he’s handled, Alford’s our insurance!”
It still left one silly loose end. If Asil Nadir returned to Britain, his name listed among the Metropolitan Police Fraud Squad Most Wanted and he faced certain arrest. Yet, the mad Assignment Brief that Naylor had provided earlier suggested that a pretend Mossad team would protect him. It meant that Nadir should by now have reacted to the unreal offer. Sensible, he had ignored it. As Naylor admitted that it still bothered him, I explained
“I tried to draw him on it. Nadir said and I quote I’ll make recommendations. He’s not happy with your brief, I told you, he called it ridiculous.”
“When Alford presents it before the masses in his television show” stormed Naylor, suddenly irate, “Its Nadir who will appear ridiculous!”
Before we ended the call, thanks a bundle, Naylor admitted that he was behind the customs check at Heathrow. Not intended to upset us, so he said. He claimed that it was staged for Nadir’s benefit in case he put a tail on us.
Keeping him in the dark and Jim asked Kerry to visit the flat in the evening. Anxious that David’s team might spy on us, and meaning to minimise the risk, we warned Kerry to wear disguise.
Just before seven, the impostor parked his car near Dover police station in Park Street. Hurrying past the building, he slipped down another blind alley. As Kerry struggled in pitch black to pick his way through a jungle of overgrown weeds, rescuing the hapless sleuth, Jim called out to him. Emerging from dense foliage and resembling a forlorn Japanese soldier, as he tumbled into our garden, Jim shepherded Kerry into the kitchen. At once, noticing his torn jeans, concerned, I enquired
“Are you alright, Peter? Did you fall?”
“I’m okay, its part of my disguise” he assured me, as he pulled off his woollen bobble hat.
“You look like a thug!” I exclaimed, laughing.
“A great disguise,” concurred Jim, adding, “You don’t look like Mr Grundy.”
We had always held our briefings in the camera room, silly I know, but Allan’s spy stuff had made me feel jittery. Before Kerry arrived, changing the venue, Jim had lugged a couple of old armchairs into the kitchen. Sitting comfortably, as we faced each other, warning Kerry that we must exercise great care, I told him that our flat was most likely being watched by the made-up French detective agency through which we had told him in a
It still left one silly loose end. If Asil Nadir returned to Britain, his name listed among the Metropolitan Police Fraud Squad Most Wanted and he faced certain arrest. Yet, the mad Assignment Brief that Naylor had provided earlier suggested that a pretend Mossad team would protect him. It meant that Nadir should by now have reacted to the unreal offer. Sensible, he had ignored it. As Naylor admitted that it still bothered him, I explained
“I tried to draw him on it. Nadir said and I quote I’ll make recommendations. He’s not happy with your brief, I told you, he called it ridiculous.”
“When Alford presents it before the masses in his television show” stormed Naylor, suddenly irate, “Its Nadir who will appear ridiculous!”
Before we ended the call, thanks a bundle, Naylor admitted that he was behind the customs check at Heathrow. Not intended to upset us, so he said. He claimed that it was staged for Nadir’s benefit in case he put a tail on us.
Keeping him in the dark and Jim asked Kerry to visit the flat in the evening. Anxious that David’s team might spy on us, and meaning to minimise the risk, we warned Kerry to wear disguise.
Just before seven, the impostor parked his car near Dover police station in Park Street. Hurrying past the building, he slipped down another blind alley. As Kerry struggled in pitch black to pick his way through a jungle of overgrown weeds, rescuing the hapless sleuth, Jim called out to him. Emerging from dense foliage and resembling a forlorn Japanese soldier, as he tumbled into our garden, Jim shepherded Kerry into the kitchen. At once, noticing his torn jeans, concerned, I enquired
“Are you alright, Peter? Did you fall?”
“I’m okay, its part of my disguise” he assured me, as he pulled off his woollen bobble hat.
“You look like a thug!” I exclaimed, laughing.
“A great disguise,” concurred Jim, adding, “You don’t look like Mr Grundy.”
We had always held our briefings in the camera room, silly I know, but Allan’s spy stuff had made me feel jittery. Before Kerry arrived, changing the venue, Jim had lugged a couple of old armchairs into the kitchen. Sitting comfortably, as we faced each other, warning Kerry that we must exercise great care, I told him that our flat was most likely being watched by the made-up French detective agency through which we had told him in a
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previous chapter, that we had acquired our jobs with Nadir. Urging Kerry that otherwise, we had no real worries and our plot was still on course, I claimed
“They have to check us out, they won’t just accept all we tell them.”
As we set him up once more, I explained to Kerry that we needed to rehearse another fake date. Jim explained to him that on this occasion, the French wanted the dialogue taped. Eager to oblige, Kerry enquired
“What do you want me to do?”
His latest mission in two parts, I told Kerry that on Monday morning, he would need to dress up once more in his Grundy suit and catch a train to Dover. Nothing difficult, he had to call to the flat for a letter. When he arrived, he would grumble with Jim about the weather, while I fetched the said letter. He would take it off us, read it and put it in his pocket. Nearly finished the first part, I concluded
“That’s when you stand up, shake hands and go – got it?”
“Nothing to it” he nodded.
“Excellent! Second part, you catch a train to London, get off at Waterloo. You walk, I said walk to Lambeth Bridge.”
Keeping it simple, I drilled Kerry to follow the Albert Embankment and when he reached number 85, he had to stroll into the building and drop his letter in the mailbox. Leaving the building at once, I directed him to return to Waterloo on foot and catch a train home. Wearing his biggest smirk, Kerry quizzed
“What’s this building where I post the letter, don’t MI6 have their headquarters down there – has this got anything to do with them?”
”Don’t be daft!” I told him, feigning exasperation to conceal my fears “It’s the GCB. It’s a Government Communications Bureau, they sort letters and stuff.”
Convincing Kerry, as he flourished it in his hand, Jim showed him an envelope, which we had addressed, not to the SIS, but to the GCB. Urging him to open it, as he did so, Kerry read a copy of Nadir’s latest letter. Persuasive, I claimed
“See – it’s got nothing to do with MI6, we’re hiding nothing from you.”
“You’re a professional man, Peter” enthused Jim, ”We could never hope to kid you, you’re a detective – you’d see through us.”
Pacified and Jim asked Kerry how well he knew his way around the capital. As he fondled his chin, a mite hesitant, Kerry told us
“I’m okay around the statues, but not so sure about the streets.”
“They have to check us out, they won’t just accept all we tell them.”
As we set him up once more, I explained to Kerry that we needed to rehearse another fake date. Jim explained to him that on this occasion, the French wanted the dialogue taped. Eager to oblige, Kerry enquired
“What do you want me to do?”
His latest mission in two parts, I told Kerry that on Monday morning, he would need to dress up once more in his Grundy suit and catch a train to Dover. Nothing difficult, he had to call to the flat for a letter. When he arrived, he would grumble with Jim about the weather, while I fetched the said letter. He would take it off us, read it and put it in his pocket. Nearly finished the first part, I concluded
“That’s when you stand up, shake hands and go – got it?”
“Nothing to it” he nodded.
“Excellent! Second part, you catch a train to London, get off at Waterloo. You walk, I said walk to Lambeth Bridge.”
Keeping it simple, I drilled Kerry to follow the Albert Embankment and when he reached number 85, he had to stroll into the building and drop his letter in the mailbox. Leaving the building at once, I directed him to return to Waterloo on foot and catch a train home. Wearing his biggest smirk, Kerry quizzed
“What’s this building where I post the letter, don’t MI6 have their headquarters down there – has this got anything to do with them?”
”Don’t be daft!” I told him, feigning exasperation to conceal my fears “It’s the GCB. It’s a Government Communications Bureau, they sort letters and stuff.”
Convincing Kerry, as he flourished it in his hand, Jim showed him an envelope, which we had addressed, not to the SIS, but to the GCB. Urging him to open it, as he did so, Kerry read a copy of Nadir’s latest letter. Persuasive, I claimed
“See – it’s got nothing to do with MI6, we’re hiding nothing from you.”
“You’re a professional man, Peter” enthused Jim, ”We could never hope to kid you, you’re a detective – you’d see through us.”
Pacified and Jim asked Kerry how well he knew his way around the capital. As he fondled his chin, a mite hesitant, Kerry told us
“I’m okay around the statues, but not so sure about the streets.”
- 261 -
We thought as much and prepared for such contingency, Jim had photocopied a couple of pages from a London street atlas. As he showed the map to Kerry, it dictated the route that he had to traverse between Vauxhall Cross and Waterloo. Sounding more confident now, Kerry pledged
“It’s not far from Westminster Bridge, I know my way around there, lets see, I go down Lambeth Palace Road, follow the river…easy, but can I have the map?”
“That’s your copy, take it,” I told him “Here take this too.”
Pedantic has advantages when you’re a spy. I handed him a timetable, trains in the southeast boasted an unsurpassed record for lateness. I told Kerry that if he missed his train, too bad, it didn’t matter what time he reached his destination just as long as he turned up at the flat on Monday at ten. Near done and Jim told him
“When you get home, call us on your mobile. We need you to read a script over the phone so we can tape how we fixed the date.”
As I handed him the script, we couldn’t let Kerry leave yet. Running through it again, until sure that he knew his stuff, as we ended the briefing, Jim warned him
“We’ll know if you fail!”
“Why? Will I be followed in London – will I be filmed?”
“Just act the part,” we urged him “Don’t think about being filmed.”
Jim urged Kerry to conduct himself like a top man. Grundy should stride into the building like he owned it. Giving him a few more quid, I urged him to count it
“I trust you,” rejoined the detective.
His response tweaked my conscience. Admittedly, sentimental, Jim and me had enjoyed our relationship with Mr Kerry. Aware this was almost his final curtain, his performances had done us proud. At eleven that evening, as our landline rang, our man began
“This is Grundy.”
Not wrong, David once observed that Grundy sounded much like a desk clerk. The phone script longer than usual, stuffing all the minutiae into it, any blips now and we could do it again, on the day live, I needed no more fluffed lines, not with Allan’s tiny spies about. Grundy would say little during his visit and thinking in front, Naylor had urged me to add an odd word or two for Nadir’s benefit. When I asked Grundy what he wanted, Kerry responded
“Your report’s been received Mrs Frank, Uh, I believe you have a document for us?”
“It’s not far from Westminster Bridge, I know my way around there, lets see, I go down Lambeth Palace Road, follow the river…easy, but can I have the map?”
“That’s your copy, take it,” I told him “Here take this too.”
Pedantic has advantages when you’re a spy. I handed him a timetable, trains in the southeast boasted an unsurpassed record for lateness. I told Kerry that if he missed his train, too bad, it didn’t matter what time he reached his destination just as long as he turned up at the flat on Monday at ten. Near done and Jim told him
“When you get home, call us on your mobile. We need you to read a script over the phone so we can tape how we fixed the date.”
As I handed him the script, we couldn’t let Kerry leave yet. Running through it again, until sure that he knew his stuff, as we ended the briefing, Jim warned him
“We’ll know if you fail!”
“Why? Will I be followed in London – will I be filmed?”
“Just act the part,” we urged him “Don’t think about being filmed.”
Jim urged Kerry to conduct himself like a top man. Grundy should stride into the building like he owned it. Giving him a few more quid, I urged him to count it
“I trust you,” rejoined the detective.
His response tweaked my conscience. Admittedly, sentimental, Jim and me had enjoyed our relationship with Mr Kerry. Aware this was almost his final curtain, his performances had done us proud. At eleven that evening, as our landline rang, our man began
“This is Grundy.”
Not wrong, David once observed that Grundy sounded much like a desk clerk. The phone script longer than usual, stuffing all the minutiae into it, any blips now and we could do it again, on the day live, I needed no more fluffed lines, not with Allan’s tiny spies about. Grundy would say little during his visit and thinking in front, Naylor had urged me to add an odd word or two for Nadir’s benefit. When I asked Grundy what he wanted, Kerry responded
“Your report’s been received Mrs Frank, Uh, I believe you have a document for us?”
- 262 -
“That’s right, I’m unable to post it to you” I told him.
“I’ll call to your flat for it, Monday morning, about ten on the 26th.”
“That’s fine,” I confirmed. The Python sketch not dead, he told me.
“I’m instructed to tell you that any changes Parrot requests,” he did go on, but it made Grundy sound like a bigwig, “Will be acceptable to us insofar that the basic concept remains undisturbed.”
“I see, so you mean provided Parrot intends to return to the UK at some point in the near future, I can agree to any changes.”
“Exactly, just go along with it,” suggested the impostor.
Ending the call and at once, rewinding the tape, when Jim played it back, we found it fine. All done and as I reported to Naylor, he probed
“Are you sure he’ll do it?”
“I know him” I rejoined, “He’s intrigued, he wants to impress us.”
“You’re sure that he doesn’t know this is the SIS or about being filmed in your flat?”
“He thinks he might be filmed in London, he can handle that” I assured him.
Next morning, reminding me to fix the dinner date that we had planned when we were still in Istanbul, we received a call from Elizabeth. I assured her that we had certainly not forgotten. The banker hinted that she would like us to visit an Italian restaurant. I pledged to ask Jim to book a table for us at the Topo Gigio.
Later that day, I called David meaning to tell him about Grundy’s latest date. Excusing himself, he claimed that I had caught him at an awkward moment, the journalist whispered
“I’ll get Peter to call you on Sunday, we’re tied up now.”
“You’re not planning to get too close to Grundy are you, David?”
“We won’t go near him,” he claimed, still whispering.
“Hmm, what’s this stuff Elizabeth’s been feeding me? I didn’t think you were serious” I lied, “When you told me in Turkey, she says that you’re going to have Grundy tailed.”
“Elizabeth’s a romancer” scoffed David “You know that!”
He had me there and making use of my pause, he quickly changed the subject. I knew what he meant. Reflective, David divulged
“Elizabeth reminds me of the Queen Mother.”
- 263 -
“I’ll call to your flat for it, Monday morning, about ten on the 26th.”
“That’s fine,” I confirmed. The Python sketch not dead, he told me.
“I’m instructed to tell you that any changes Parrot requests,” he did go on, but it made Grundy sound like a bigwig, “Will be acceptable to us insofar that the basic concept remains undisturbed.”
“I see, so you mean provided Parrot intends to return to the UK at some point in the near future, I can agree to any changes.”
“Exactly, just go along with it,” suggested the impostor.
Ending the call and at once, rewinding the tape, when Jim played it back, we found it fine. All done and as I reported to Naylor, he probed
“Are you sure he’ll do it?”
“I know him” I rejoined, “He’s intrigued, he wants to impress us.”
“You’re sure that he doesn’t know this is the SIS or about being filmed in your flat?”
“He thinks he might be filmed in London, he can handle that” I assured him.
Next morning, reminding me to fix the dinner date that we had planned when we were still in Istanbul, we received a call from Elizabeth. I assured her that we had certainly not forgotten. The banker hinted that she would like us to visit an Italian restaurant. I pledged to ask Jim to book a table for us at the Topo Gigio.
Later that day, I called David meaning to tell him about Grundy’s latest date. Excusing himself, he claimed that I had caught him at an awkward moment, the journalist whispered
“I’ll get Peter to call you on Sunday, we’re tied up now.”
“You’re not planning to get too close to Grundy are you, David?”
“We won’t go near him,” he claimed, still whispering.
“Hmm, what’s this stuff Elizabeth’s been feeding me? I didn’t think you were serious” I lied, “When you told me in Turkey, she says that you’re going to have Grundy tailed.”
“Elizabeth’s a romancer” scoffed David “You know that!”
He had me there and making use of my pause, he quickly changed the subject. I knew what he meant. Reflective, David divulged
“Elizabeth reminds me of the Queen Mother.”
- 263 -
On Saturday morning, 24th January, we had forgotten about Wardle. Not a lot to say, though enough. Taking precautions this time and printing his note on SFO paper, retaining the original, he had sent us a photocopy. Too late, his first two-page missive printed on official stationery, it remained in our custody. This letter replied to the report, which I had sent to him from Istanbul. Addressed to us both, exceedingly pithy, it read
‘Thank you for your letter, and for the information therein.
Yours sincerely, RJ Wardle, Assistant Director.’
Elizabeth had examined only copies of the fake Israeli Embassy papers. When she phoned me to arrange our date, the banker had asked us to let her have the originals when we met for dinner so that she could pass them onto Nadir for his inspection. Only meant to be forgeries, I felt the exercise was pretty pointless.
I phoned Naylor and told him about Wardle’s modest missive. Reminding him of my impending dinner date and sneaky, suggesting that we allow Elizabeth to read Wardle’s more recent letter, the SFO note stated nothing that we didn’t want the banker to know. Decisive, it must show David that we really did talk about Nadir in Wardle’s office. After we had held our summit at Elm House, the Cook Reporter had blithely claimed that without a tape, he couldn’t verify it. Confident and encouraging Naylor, like I was on his side, I cried
”Lets use it and prove him wrong!”
“Do it,” decreed Naylor “Get me more from Forsyth about Alford’s plans vis-à-vis tailing Grundy. We need to know if he’s planning any nasty surprises.”
“I’ve asked him about that,” I unveiled, “He denies all knowledge of any SAS squad, he assured me that no one will go near Grundy.”
“Do you believe that?” quizzed Naylor.
“As much as I believe Grundy’s for real,” I confessed, laughing.
“Enjoy dinner” he responded, we knew he meant it.
Calling upon us at seven that evening, Elizabeth parked her Volvo in the space outside our flat. Once inside the lounge, impatient to check out the fake papers, as I handed them to her, underwhelmed, Elizabeth put our thoughts into words.
“Hmm, I think that the Israeli crest has been pasted onto the paper, what do you think – are they photocopies?”
It wouldn’t do to labour the point, as Jim put her off her stroke, he asked her if she would like to listen to our latest Grundy tape. Eager, Elizabeth cried
“Oh yes please! I’ve never heard his voice.”
‘Thank you for your letter, and for the information therein.
Yours sincerely, RJ Wardle, Assistant Director.’
Elizabeth had examined only copies of the fake Israeli Embassy papers. When she phoned me to arrange our date, the banker had asked us to let her have the originals when we met for dinner so that she could pass them onto Nadir for his inspection. Only meant to be forgeries, I felt the exercise was pretty pointless.
I phoned Naylor and told him about Wardle’s modest missive. Reminding him of my impending dinner date and sneaky, suggesting that we allow Elizabeth to read Wardle’s more recent letter, the SFO note stated nothing that we didn’t want the banker to know. Decisive, it must show David that we really did talk about Nadir in Wardle’s office. After we had held our summit at Elm House, the Cook Reporter had blithely claimed that without a tape, he couldn’t verify it. Confident and encouraging Naylor, like I was on his side, I cried
”Lets use it and prove him wrong!”
“Do it,” decreed Naylor “Get me more from Forsyth about Alford’s plans vis-à-vis tailing Grundy. We need to know if he’s planning any nasty surprises.”
“I’ve asked him about that,” I unveiled, “He denies all knowledge of any SAS squad, he assured me that no one will go near Grundy.”
“Do you believe that?” quizzed Naylor.
“As much as I believe Grundy’s for real,” I confessed, laughing.
“Enjoy dinner” he responded, we knew he meant it.
Calling upon us at seven that evening, Elizabeth parked her Volvo in the space outside our flat. Once inside the lounge, impatient to check out the fake papers, as I handed them to her, underwhelmed, Elizabeth put our thoughts into words.
“Hmm, I think that the Israeli crest has been pasted onto the paper, what do you think – are they photocopies?”
It wouldn’t do to labour the point, as Jim put her off her stroke, he asked her if she would like to listen to our latest Grundy tape. Eager, Elizabeth cried
“Oh yes please! I’ve never heard his voice.”
- 264 -
Clearly enthralled by our recording, Elizabeth promptly asked Jim play it again. Afterwards, catching her unawares and handing her the letter from the then future SFO chief, smiling, I told Elizabeth
“This is from your dear old friend – it’s from Bobby Wardle.”
Snatching his note from me, as she read, Elizabeth gasped. Her face thunderous and making me want to laugh. Livid by his guile, Scott lives, the banker shrieked
“Well really this is too awful…oh what a tangled web we weave when first we practice to deceive – that is the SFO it should be their motto!”
Too much, as I burst into a fit of giggling, impassive, Jim soothed the banker’s furrowed brow. Now a bit more composed, leaving the flat together and strolling down Biggins Street, we headed for the Topo Gigio. During an excellent meal, aiming to feast on the banker's scraps, I began
“It’s true then, Elizabeth, David’s using five men to tail Grundy.”
“Yes, of course, David told me all about it in Istanbul. They’re using two cars and a motorbike, it’ll cost them an arm and a leg – but cost no longer matters.”
“Oh why’s that, Elizabeth?” I probed, startled, she had never used slang before.
“Asil’s taken over, he gives all the orders now and pays all expenses. Asil takes this very seriously, do you know he had three cars tailing you in Istanbul?”
“We didn’t spot them,” I told her “Eh, was it MIT, the Turkish Secret Service?”
“No, it was the military,” rejoined Elizabeth.
As we chatted, Elizabeth enquired if we had spent the money that MI6 had given to us. Anyone would think that they had given me a small fortune. It was only enough to cover my expenditure and reimbursement for payments to Peter Kerry with a little added sweetener. I told her.
“Peter won’t let us spend it, he told us to put it in a bank and leave it there in case MI6 want it back after we’ve exposed them. He said that they wouldn’t then be able to sue us for breach of contract.”
“Spend the money!” urged the banker. “Peter’s silly, MI6 would never ask for it back. It would incriminate them, they’ll want to deny everything.”
“I would agree, but I have to go along with Peter.”
“I’m a banker, I know about money – spend it! I’ll see to it you’re reimbursed for any expenses that you incur from this point on.”
“This is from your dear old friend – it’s from Bobby Wardle.”
Snatching his note from me, as she read, Elizabeth gasped. Her face thunderous and making me want to laugh. Livid by his guile, Scott lives, the banker shrieked
“Well really this is too awful…oh what a tangled web we weave when first we practice to deceive – that is the SFO it should be their motto!”
Too much, as I burst into a fit of giggling, impassive, Jim soothed the banker’s furrowed brow. Now a bit more composed, leaving the flat together and strolling down Biggins Street, we headed for the Topo Gigio. During an excellent meal, aiming to feast on the banker's scraps, I began
“It’s true then, Elizabeth, David’s using five men to tail Grundy.”
“Yes, of course, David told me all about it in Istanbul. They’re using two cars and a motorbike, it’ll cost them an arm and a leg – but cost no longer matters.”
“Oh why’s that, Elizabeth?” I probed, startled, she had never used slang before.
“Asil’s taken over, he gives all the orders now and pays all expenses. Asil takes this very seriously, do you know he had three cars tailing you in Istanbul?”
“We didn’t spot them,” I told her “Eh, was it MIT, the Turkish Secret Service?”
“No, it was the military,” rejoined Elizabeth.
As we chatted, Elizabeth enquired if we had spent the money that MI6 had given to us. Anyone would think that they had given me a small fortune. It was only enough to cover my expenditure and reimbursement for payments to Peter Kerry with a little added sweetener. I told her.
“Peter won’t let us spend it, he told us to put it in a bank and leave it there in case MI6 want it back after we’ve exposed them. He said that they wouldn’t then be able to sue us for breach of contract.”
“Spend the money!” urged the banker. “Peter’s silly, MI6 would never ask for it back. It would incriminate them, they’ll want to deny everything.”
“I would agree, but I have to go along with Peter.”
“I’m a banker, I know about money – spend it! I’ll see to it you’re reimbursed for any expenses that you incur from this point on.”
- 265 -
As Elizabeth drove home to Essex, triumphant, though sleepy, after my feast, I left Naylor until next morning. Once I had reported my after dinner chat to him, he seemed content and that evening, as Salk phoned me, too nice, he queried
“Ready for the big day?”
“Just make sure all goes well at your end, Peter, I’m not stupid, I know you’ve planned something special. I know that you’re having Grundy tailed back to his home.”
“You’ve lost me,” claimed Salk “I don’t know what you mean.”
”Don’t play innocent, Peter” I pleaded “Its no big secret. Elizabeth’s told me all about the SAS men tailing Grundy.”
“I don’t know what you mean, Olivia,” he maintained, still trying to kid me.
“Very well” I sighed and feeling weary “Lets get some shuteye, we’ve a busy day tomorrow.”
Next morning. Monday, 26th January, as I helped Jim with the tie-camera, his jacket hid the telltale camcorder resting against his hip. At five minutes to ten, Jim pushed the red button and set the hidden cameras rolling. Six minutes later, the doorbell rang. As Kerry greeted me, still a little flat, he began
“Good morning, Mrs Frank.”
“Oh, do come in, Mr Grundy” I enthused “Its this way…”
Giving the impression that his visit was no social call, striding into the lounge, he could act a bit after all. Abrupt, the impostor quizzed
“Do you have the document, Mrs Frank?”
“I’ll get it” and passing it to him, I outlined, “It's from Asil Nadir.”
Once he had read the missive, fast slipping it back into the envelope, Grundy popped it into his pocket. In keeping with his lofty rôle, no thug today, once more the smart spy in the park. Rising from his chair and as we shook hands, Grundy thanked us, then suggested it was time to go. Showing him to the door, as I gave him a wink, keeping to rôle and appearing surprised, otherwise Kerry didn’t react. Passing my inspection, without another word, he left the flat and made for Dover Priory railway station.
Salk had warned us not to touch the hidden cameras once we had set them running. He told us that when we exposed MI6, they must demand to examine the tape for tampering. It forced me to make my next report to Naylor from within a cobwebbed outhouse in the back garden. Intending that nobody should hear me, I whispered
- 266 -
“Ready for the big day?”
“Just make sure all goes well at your end, Peter, I’m not stupid, I know you’ve planned something special. I know that you’re having Grundy tailed back to his home.”
“You’ve lost me,” claimed Salk “I don’t know what you mean.”
”Don’t play innocent, Peter” I pleaded “Its no big secret. Elizabeth’s told me all about the SAS men tailing Grundy.”
“I don’t know what you mean, Olivia,” he maintained, still trying to kid me.
“Very well” I sighed and feeling weary “Lets get some shuteye, we’ve a busy day tomorrow.”
Next morning. Monday, 26th January, as I helped Jim with the tie-camera, his jacket hid the telltale camcorder resting against his hip. At five minutes to ten, Jim pushed the red button and set the hidden cameras rolling. Six minutes later, the doorbell rang. As Kerry greeted me, still a little flat, he began
“Good morning, Mrs Frank.”
“Oh, do come in, Mr Grundy” I enthused “Its this way…”
Giving the impression that his visit was no social call, striding into the lounge, he could act a bit after all. Abrupt, the impostor quizzed
“Do you have the document, Mrs Frank?”
“I’ll get it” and passing it to him, I outlined, “It's from Asil Nadir.”
Once he had read the missive, fast slipping it back into the envelope, Grundy popped it into his pocket. In keeping with his lofty rôle, no thug today, once more the smart spy in the park. Rising from his chair and as we shook hands, Grundy thanked us, then suggested it was time to go. Showing him to the door, as I gave him a wink, keeping to rôle and appearing surprised, otherwise Kerry didn’t react. Passing my inspection, without another word, he left the flat and made for Dover Priory railway station.
Salk had warned us not to touch the hidden cameras once we had set them running. He told us that when we exposed MI6, they must demand to examine the tape for tampering. It forced me to make my next report to Naylor from within a cobwebbed outhouse in the back garden. Intending that nobody should hear me, I whispered
- 266 -
“Grundy’s gone, oh and by the way, Peter Salkeld phoned me last night, he said no team’s tailing our man – he has to be kidding!”
Earlier that same morning, Jim had spotted five men huddled together near the flat. All of them dressed alike, hiding their apparel under long black overcoats. In any other circumstances, it might be coincidence, no such thing in the spy game. The commencement of the sting, Naylor had urged me to keep him informed. Arrogant as ever, he assured me
“Let them tail Grundy” a quirky remark, I didn’t know that he had such faith. He added, ”He's like God – no one can touch him.”
Back in the kitchen and ugh, pulling great long sticky strands of dusty spider web from my hair, I wished it were as painless to untangle myself from Naylor’s elaborate mesh. I called Allan's friend and told him that it was now safe to call and collect the tape.
An hour later, we let John into the flat. At once, switching off the cameras and starting to dismantle the equipment, he disconnected all the wiring attached to the monitor, pulling it from the sideboard and dropping all the bits and pieces into a canvas holdall. As he squatted on the carpet, busily taking the vacuum cleaner to pieces, a nice bloke and curious, Jim enquired
“How did you get into this line of work, John?”
“I was a copper at Scotland Yard for thirty years doing undercover drugs ops, the Met offered me promotion, I refused – it meant leaving the Yard.”
“You don't look old enough” Jim observed.
“I'm 54…villains mistake me for Roger Cook, have you noticed – I look a little bit like him“ suggested John.
He could pass for the presenter’s younger brother. Once he had done, John left the flat. An hour later, Salk phoned me, still upbeat, he cried
“I've seen the tapes, they're great, and we've got good pictures!”
“Do you have any other news, Peter?” I quizzed him.
Still trying to kid us and Salk claimed that he knew no more, meaning we could take it for granted that David had hired a team to tail Kerry. All too apparent, the Cook Reporters still didn’t trust me. Soon, they would have the impostor’s home address. As I repeated my thoughts to Naylor, he confirmed my deductions
“I shouldn't tell you this, be it on your head if you repeat it. When our man posted his letter he had a tail, I refuse to furnish the details, if you repeated them in the wrong quarter you'd blow your cover.”
- 267 -
Earlier that same morning, Jim had spotted five men huddled together near the flat. All of them dressed alike, hiding their apparel under long black overcoats. In any other circumstances, it might be coincidence, no such thing in the spy game. The commencement of the sting, Naylor had urged me to keep him informed. Arrogant as ever, he assured me
“Let them tail Grundy” a quirky remark, I didn’t know that he had such faith. He added, ”He's like God – no one can touch him.”
Back in the kitchen and ugh, pulling great long sticky strands of dusty spider web from my hair, I wished it were as painless to untangle myself from Naylor’s elaborate mesh. I called Allan's friend and told him that it was now safe to call and collect the tape.
An hour later, we let John into the flat. At once, switching off the cameras and starting to dismantle the equipment, he disconnected all the wiring attached to the monitor, pulling it from the sideboard and dropping all the bits and pieces into a canvas holdall. As he squatted on the carpet, busily taking the vacuum cleaner to pieces, a nice bloke and curious, Jim enquired
“How did you get into this line of work, John?”
“I was a copper at Scotland Yard for thirty years doing undercover drugs ops, the Met offered me promotion, I refused – it meant leaving the Yard.”
“You don't look old enough” Jim observed.
“I'm 54…villains mistake me for Roger Cook, have you noticed – I look a little bit like him“ suggested John.
He could pass for the presenter’s younger brother. Once he had done, John left the flat. An hour later, Salk phoned me, still upbeat, he cried
“I've seen the tapes, they're great, and we've got good pictures!”
“Do you have any other news, Peter?” I quizzed him.
Still trying to kid us and Salk claimed that he knew no more, meaning we could take it for granted that David had hired a team to tail Kerry. All too apparent, the Cook Reporters still didn’t trust me. Soon, they would have the impostor’s home address. As I repeated my thoughts to Naylor, he confirmed my deductions
“I shouldn't tell you this, be it on your head if you repeat it. When our man posted his letter he had a tail, I refuse to furnish the details, if you repeated them in the wrong quarter you'd blow your cover.”
- 267 -
On day one, we knew that the Cook Reporters must withhold intelligence from us. One way or another, thus far, still ahead of them, we knew that our precarious position could always change. When David rang, making me shudder he snarled
“That was sneaky!”
“What are you talking about?” I responded, feeling shaken.
“Wardle’s letter! You never said you planned to write to him.”
“Oh” much relieved, I let drop “It was Jim's idea, I promised we’d do our best to secure evidence for you, anything else to tell me, David?”
”The film's being edited this minute, it’s in the studio, we’re giving it the Cecil B de Mille touch” he added, “We've got to talk contracts, Olivia, we’ll split the book and film royalties in your favour.”
Full of hype, David claimed that I could start an exciting career in television and declared that I was great on camera. He pledged that his company would pay me a fat salary, which he called spending money. Certain that I would be thrilled, he demanded my response, bored, I told him
“Yeah, it sounds wonderful, David”
“You don’t want to be beholden to AN” he rejoined, catching my indifference.
For once, in harmony, it didn’t last long. Thinking me angling for a better offer, as he tried to wind me up. Cutting him short, no parasite, I had no intention to live off anyone’s back. Killing the fury welling up inside of me, evenly, I quizzed
“Do you want us to fix any more meetings with Grundy?”
“It’s all over,” insisted David “We're making the programme, you'll be out of the country soon.”
“Is it okay to spend some of the cash Six gave me?” I asked him, explaining, “My week in Istanbul’s made me realise I need a new wardrobe.”
It was difficult to afford much on the dole. Apart from the jacket and trousers I had worn when meeting Nadir, I had bought myself nothing new in ages and still relied on charity shops. Wrong again, not fishing for money, but David insisted
“How much do you want?”
“Are you sure, David?” I felt awful.
“Name a figure,” he suggested.
“I don’t know, enough to buy us a couple of decent new outfits.”
“I'll get a few quid to you next week” he agreed.
“That was sneaky!”
“What are you talking about?” I responded, feeling shaken.
“Wardle’s letter! You never said you planned to write to him.”
“Oh” much relieved, I let drop “It was Jim's idea, I promised we’d do our best to secure evidence for you, anything else to tell me, David?”
”The film's being edited this minute, it’s in the studio, we’re giving it the Cecil B de Mille touch” he added, “We've got to talk contracts, Olivia, we’ll split the book and film royalties in your favour.”
Full of hype, David claimed that I could start an exciting career in television and declared that I was great on camera. He pledged that his company would pay me a fat salary, which he called spending money. Certain that I would be thrilled, he demanded my response, bored, I told him
“Yeah, it sounds wonderful, David”
“You don’t want to be beholden to AN” he rejoined, catching my indifference.
For once, in harmony, it didn’t last long. Thinking me angling for a better offer, as he tried to wind me up. Cutting him short, no parasite, I had no intention to live off anyone’s back. Killing the fury welling up inside of me, evenly, I quizzed
“Do you want us to fix any more meetings with Grundy?”
“It’s all over,” insisted David “We're making the programme, you'll be out of the country soon.”
“Is it okay to spend some of the cash Six gave me?” I asked him, explaining, “My week in Istanbul’s made me realise I need a new wardrobe.”
It was difficult to afford much on the dole. Apart from the jacket and trousers I had worn when meeting Nadir, I had bought myself nothing new in ages and still relied on charity shops. Wrong again, not fishing for money, but David insisted
“How much do you want?”
“Are you sure, David?” I felt awful.
“Name a figure,” he suggested.
“I don’t know, enough to buy us a couple of decent new outfits.”
“I'll get a few quid to you next week” he agreed.
- 268 -
I reported the conversation to Naylor. Unruffled and imploring me not to worry, he claimed that David was playing games and we should wait for him to make the next move. The pace of the plot dragging and impatient to press on, conscious that Neil Smith had failed to answer the letter that I had sent him from Istanbul. It gave me an excuse to phone him on 27th January. Our chat proved a dead end.
“I didn’t reply,” said Smith, “Because I knew Mr Wardle had written to you.”
He must have read the ‘papers, warning me that it was dangerous to mix with Nadir, positively suicidal to work on our own in Istanbul, he stopped just short of telling us to pull out. If only it were that easy. Scared for our sake, Smith meant well. We couldn’t just pull out, least not until MI6 killed the assignment. I knew that Naylor would refuse to concede his game so easily. When I got back to him, he responded.
“It's time we pulled Smith and Wardle out of the frame. I'll give you a new brief when we know what Nadir wants with you.”
The scheming Cook Reporters wasted little time plotting their next move. Two days more and I received a call from Graham Ball. Fixing a date when we might meet in the Churchill Hôtel, he claimed that it was so that we could begin work on the script. Another fib, he sought to grill me. Breaking all the Academy rules again, I had to march into yet another trap, even then, not my last.
During our chat, Graham encouraged me to finish, what he described as my bestseller. He alleged that my book would prepare the ground for the production of a movie based on my life. Bloody hell, he was at it too. I could only marvel at their efforts to get my head in the clouds. Determined to see if I was for real, the point of their game was to put me under a microscope. Naylor might be right after all, afraid of getting too close to the impostor, they were double-checking me.
Nothing more occurred until Monday, 2nd February, when David called me. At it again, trying another wind up, once more teeming with fairy tales, he promised me breathtaking contracts for publishing and film deals. As my thoughts drifted, I let him rabbit on. Breaking his flow, another fib, I told him that his proposals sounded exciting.
“You can live in sunny Cyprus, just think, a house, money, all the cats you want shall I have your contract drawn up.”
“Sure, I promise to look at it when it arrives” I pledged.
As I finished the call, big time sadness perched upon my shoulders. The picture David had painted comparable to the dream, which I had once shared with Avrim. Peace never reigned then and remained elusive now.
“I didn’t reply,” said Smith, “Because I knew Mr Wardle had written to you.”
He must have read the ‘papers, warning me that it was dangerous to mix with Nadir, positively suicidal to work on our own in Istanbul, he stopped just short of telling us to pull out. If only it were that easy. Scared for our sake, Smith meant well. We couldn’t just pull out, least not until MI6 killed the assignment. I knew that Naylor would refuse to concede his game so easily. When I got back to him, he responded.
“It's time we pulled Smith and Wardle out of the frame. I'll give you a new brief when we know what Nadir wants with you.”
The scheming Cook Reporters wasted little time plotting their next move. Two days more and I received a call from Graham Ball. Fixing a date when we might meet in the Churchill Hôtel, he claimed that it was so that we could begin work on the script. Another fib, he sought to grill me. Breaking all the Academy rules again, I had to march into yet another trap, even then, not my last.
During our chat, Graham encouraged me to finish, what he described as my bestseller. He alleged that my book would prepare the ground for the production of a movie based on my life. Bloody hell, he was at it too. I could only marvel at their efforts to get my head in the clouds. Determined to see if I was for real, the point of their game was to put me under a microscope. Naylor might be right after all, afraid of getting too close to the impostor, they were double-checking me.
Nothing more occurred until Monday, 2nd February, when David called me. At it again, trying another wind up, once more teeming with fairy tales, he promised me breathtaking contracts for publishing and film deals. As my thoughts drifted, I let him rabbit on. Breaking his flow, another fib, I told him that his proposals sounded exciting.
“You can live in sunny Cyprus, just think, a house, money, all the cats you want shall I have your contract drawn up.”
“Sure, I promise to look at it when it arrives” I pledged.
As I finished the call, big time sadness perched upon my shoulders. The picture David had painted comparable to the dream, which I had once shared with Avrim. Peace never reigned then and remained elusive now.
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Next morning, at eleven, intending to keep our date with Graham, as Jim joined me, we set off to the Churchill. The journalist had booked a private room and as Jim sat nearby, I faced Graham across the table. He suggested that we start with how I became involved with MI5. Discovering that he had forgotten to fetch his tape machine with him, like Dad, he knew shorthand and laboriously copying all my answers into his notepad, we discussed many more events.
Two hours later and Graham now hungry, he suggested that we break for lunch. Probing the newsman for a bulletin, Jim began by asking him about the latest material that we had fixed for the show.
“Eh, do you mean when they filmed Grundy, outside MI6?” queried Graham.
“That’s the one” I concurred, “Did they get a good shot of him?”
“I'm not supposed to discuss it with you” confessed Graham. Like most men, he loved gossip and told us “I can’t see it‘ll do any harm, off the record, I can tell you they’re happy with the film.”
“What exactly did they record?” persevered Jim.
“It was rather cheeky,” admitted Graham very jolly as he broadcast the news.
Grassing up David, he told us that his SAS squad trailed Grundy all the way up the motorway and when he ventured into the MI6 building, some bloke dressed like a courier in motorbike leathers chased Grundy right into the spycentre lobby. Following instructions, Grundy not in long, once he had posted his letter in the slot, opposite the reception desk, he simply turned around, beating a hasty retreat.
“Where did he go then” I enquired “After leaving MI6?”
Unbending, Graham claimed he could say no more, although he did inform us that Peter and David were in Istanbul. He said that they planned to stay there for a week – doing some work for Nadir. About to quiz me, butting in, Jim asked him if David wanted us to do any more filming. Graham predicted that if we did no more, we would have more than enough material for two programmes. He said they planned a fiery opening scene and revealing that Salk owned acres of land, they intended to stick a caravan in one of his fields, setting it alight, Peter meant to film the blaze. Graham propounded it perfect, not so sure myself, I felt that it cheapened the story. Pulling a face and derisive, I told him that it sounded very in your face. On the defensive, he vowed that we needed to grab public attention and clearly trying to please me, he alleged that in his view, my book would create the biggest impact. He claimed that once it had been published, here we go again, we would make a proper movie based upon it. About to end
Two hours later and Graham now hungry, he suggested that we break for lunch. Probing the newsman for a bulletin, Jim began by asking him about the latest material that we had fixed for the show.
“Eh, do you mean when they filmed Grundy, outside MI6?” queried Graham.
“That’s the one” I concurred, “Did they get a good shot of him?”
“I'm not supposed to discuss it with you” confessed Graham. Like most men, he loved gossip and told us “I can’t see it‘ll do any harm, off the record, I can tell you they’re happy with the film.”
“What exactly did they record?” persevered Jim.
“It was rather cheeky,” admitted Graham very jolly as he broadcast the news.
Grassing up David, he told us that his SAS squad trailed Grundy all the way up the motorway and when he ventured into the MI6 building, some bloke dressed like a courier in motorbike leathers chased Grundy right into the spycentre lobby. Following instructions, Grundy not in long, once he had posted his letter in the slot, opposite the reception desk, he simply turned around, beating a hasty retreat.
“Where did he go then” I enquired “After leaving MI6?”
Unbending, Graham claimed he could say no more, although he did inform us that Peter and David were in Istanbul. He said that they planned to stay there for a week – doing some work for Nadir. About to quiz me, butting in, Jim asked him if David wanted us to do any more filming. Graham predicted that if we did no more, we would have more than enough material for two programmes. He said they planned a fiery opening scene and revealing that Salk owned acres of land, they intended to stick a caravan in one of his fields, setting it alight, Peter meant to film the blaze. Graham propounded it perfect, not so sure myself, I felt that it cheapened the story. Pulling a face and derisive, I told him that it sounded very in your face. On the defensive, he vowed that we needed to grab public attention and clearly trying to please me, he alleged that in his view, my book would create the biggest impact. He claimed that once it had been published, here we go again, we would make a proper movie based upon it. About to end
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the session, we agreed a date for the next one. On a more personal note, Graham enquired if I found his questions painful to answer. On the contrary, it helped me come to terms. It beat bottling it. That night, as he slipped out to the call box, meaning to test Graham’s version of events and calling our man Kerry, Jim asked him about his mission.
“I’m not sure if I was followed on the train” he began, hesitant.
“You didn’t cheat and travel on the motorway?” asked Jim, overtly suspicious.
“No!” swore Kerry “I walked in the building and told security I wanted to leave a letter, they said drop it in the box opposite their desk so I did and walked out.”
“Did anyone enter or leave the building behind you?” quizzed Jim.
“No, wait a minute, yeah, a man did come in behind me, he passed through the glass doors in the lobby” trying to recall him, Kerry reported, “A suit, yeah, no, I think, no, yeah, he wore an ordinary suit.”
“Think, did you see a man dressed in motorcycle leathers, like a courier?”
“I saw no one like that, I’m positive no one tailed me home.”
When Jim arrived back at the flat and discussed events with me, thinking the plot about up, I phoned Naylor at once and told him that David’s SAS team had obviously followed Kerry to Ramsgate and the Cook Reporters must now know his address. Winding him up and I declared that they must chase him, they had to they had no other avenue. I predicted that the detective must open his mouth and unless he did something more and brought in assistance. As I angled for another tangible link to the plot, more evidence that I could use against him later, Naylor stormed
“I can’t bring anyone else in, Alford’s convinced Grundy’s real!” he asserted “I remain convinced Alford won’t jeopardise his story. I don’t think he wanted to tail Grundy – I think Nadir wanted it!”
Stalwartly opposed to using anyone remotely linked to MI6, Naylor still lived in fear of Salk’s camera capturing genuine faces. Clinging to the threads of his plot and he argued that it must have been very expensive to hire an ex-SAS squad and conceal cameras in the flat. He insisted that such outlay was far too costly for David, but not Nadir. In his opinion, it meant that the tycoon must still be keen to appear in the projected television show. Now that Naylor knew all about Peter banking Nadir’s cheques, sure of himself, he predicted that scared of losing their story, the Cook Reporters must maintain their distance from Kerry and lose no more time presenting their film to Nadir. Citing Graham’s indiscretions as well as David’s zeal, he believed that no other place for him to go, it must force Nadir’s hand. He assured me
“I’m not sure if I was followed on the train” he began, hesitant.
“You didn’t cheat and travel on the motorway?” asked Jim, overtly suspicious.
“No!” swore Kerry “I walked in the building and told security I wanted to leave a letter, they said drop it in the box opposite their desk so I did and walked out.”
“Did anyone enter or leave the building behind you?” quizzed Jim.
“No, wait a minute, yeah, a man did come in behind me, he passed through the glass doors in the lobby” trying to recall him, Kerry reported, “A suit, yeah, no, I think, no, yeah, he wore an ordinary suit.”
“Think, did you see a man dressed in motorcycle leathers, like a courier?”
“I saw no one like that, I’m positive no one tailed me home.”
When Jim arrived back at the flat and discussed events with me, thinking the plot about up, I phoned Naylor at once and told him that David’s SAS team had obviously followed Kerry to Ramsgate and the Cook Reporters must now know his address. Winding him up and I declared that they must chase him, they had to they had no other avenue. I predicted that the detective must open his mouth and unless he did something more and brought in assistance. As I angled for another tangible link to the plot, more evidence that I could use against him later, Naylor stormed
“I can’t bring anyone else in, Alford’s convinced Grundy’s real!” he asserted “I remain convinced Alford won’t jeopardise his story. I don’t think he wanted to tail Grundy – I think Nadir wanted it!”
Stalwartly opposed to using anyone remotely linked to MI6, Naylor still lived in fear of Salk’s camera capturing genuine faces. Clinging to the threads of his plot and he argued that it must have been very expensive to hire an ex-SAS squad and conceal cameras in the flat. He insisted that such outlay was far too costly for David, but not Nadir. In his opinion, it meant that the tycoon must still be keen to appear in the projected television show. Now that Naylor knew all about Peter banking Nadir’s cheques, sure of himself, he predicted that scared of losing their story, the Cook Reporters must maintain their distance from Kerry and lose no more time presenting their film to Nadir. Citing Graham’s indiscretions as well as David’s zeal, he believed that no other place for him to go, it must force Nadir’s hand. He assured me
-271 -
that under immense pressure from them, Nadir must permit the Cook Reporters to screen their programme. Much less convinced and stopping Naylor before he revealed that he believed in pixies, I dwelt in the real world and playing my own endgame, I reported to him that David had phoned me again the previous day, wanting to know if he could go ahead with a contract. Naylor cried
“There’s my confirmation!” Bawling, like I grasped it better.
We returned to the Churchill on 10th February, supposed to be a rendezvous with Graham, Salk said hello. He didn’t appear to be in a good mood. Enjoying a challenge, after I had told Graham at our first date that I found our chat a good experience, believing that his friend was too soft with me, I had banked on Peter showing up. They had booked the same room as before. As we sat facing each other around a table, making me feel uncomfortable, Peter presented me with the cash pledged by David. Albeit poor, true about my clothes, it still made me feel like a beggar. Quickly stuffing the notes into my purse and keen to change the subject, I asked Peter if he had filmed Grundy outside MI6.
“He was in and out in two minutes,” he moaned, “After I’d spent the morning waiting for him.”
“Then you followed him home?” I probed.
“We didn’t tail him,” promised Peter, by now he should know better, thinking me gullible, he added, “We guessed he might turn up at the building.”
As I recalled Istanbul and reminded him about David divulging to me that he meant to have Grundy tailed to discover where he lived, pointing out the obvious, I told Salk that his recent visit to the MI6 HQ had presented a golden opportunity to unearth Grundy’s manor. As Peter calmly dismissed my argument, he alleged that David’s SAS team was ‘just an idea’ and claimed that deciding against it, David felt it too risky to bring in outsiders.
“Elizabeth informed me David had hired ex-SAS men, they planned to use two cars and a motorbike” I persisted.
”You know how she’s always getting carried away,” he rejoined.
They had used that gambit too often. Discounting all the porkies that David had put her up to, despite her nature, so far, I had found all Elizabeth told me truthful. Our fencing set the tone of the meeting. As Peter’s mood darkened, he snatched up a sheet of hôtel stationery perched on the table in front of him and scribbling upon it, quickly drew up a list of points that he wished to raise with me, then he stormed
“You won’t like this!” looking me in the eye, he warned me, “I’m visiting your flat to film you phoning MI6 on your landline, either I smuggle myself in to film you, or there’s no programme.”
“There’s my confirmation!” Bawling, like I grasped it better.
We returned to the Churchill on 10th February, supposed to be a rendezvous with Graham, Salk said hello. He didn’t appear to be in a good mood. Enjoying a challenge, after I had told Graham at our first date that I found our chat a good experience, believing that his friend was too soft with me, I had banked on Peter showing up. They had booked the same room as before. As we sat facing each other around a table, making me feel uncomfortable, Peter presented me with the cash pledged by David. Albeit poor, true about my clothes, it still made me feel like a beggar. Quickly stuffing the notes into my purse and keen to change the subject, I asked Peter if he had filmed Grundy outside MI6.
“He was in and out in two minutes,” he moaned, “After I’d spent the morning waiting for him.”
“Then you followed him home?” I probed.
“We didn’t tail him,” promised Peter, by now he should know better, thinking me gullible, he added, “We guessed he might turn up at the building.”
As I recalled Istanbul and reminded him about David divulging to me that he meant to have Grundy tailed to discover where he lived, pointing out the obvious, I told Salk that his recent visit to the MI6 HQ had presented a golden opportunity to unearth Grundy’s manor. As Peter calmly dismissed my argument, he alleged that David’s SAS team was ‘just an idea’ and claimed that deciding against it, David felt it too risky to bring in outsiders.
“Elizabeth informed me David had hired ex-SAS men, they planned to use two cars and a motorbike” I persisted.
”You know how she’s always getting carried away,” he rejoined.
They had used that gambit too often. Discounting all the porkies that David had put her up to, despite her nature, so far, I had found all Elizabeth told me truthful. Our fencing set the tone of the meeting. As Peter’s mood darkened, he snatched up a sheet of hôtel stationery perched on the table in front of him and scribbling upon it, quickly drew up a list of points that he wished to raise with me, then he stormed
“You won’t like this!” looking me in the eye, he warned me, “I’m visiting your flat to film you phoning MI6 on your landline, either I smuggle myself in to film you, or there’s no programme.”
- 272 -
Peter didn’t realise that his sketch suited me just fine. If his idea led to Naylor’s ruin, it freed me from his plot without the spymaster doubting me. Impassive, I asked him how he planned to enter the flat when MI6 had it under surveillance. Claiming that he could always get us out quickly if it all went pear-shaped and suspecting that I was trying to wriggle out of his scheme, he promised me that we simply had to take a chance. Glib like him, I concurred
“Wonderful, Peter, I’ll do what you say.”
“Good it’s settled then!” rejoined Salk.
The end of the plot in sight, but remaining in character, I reminded Peter that MI6 had more than likely trailed us all over Istanbul. I argued that they must easily recognise his beard again. Deep in thought, as he rapped his fingers on the tabletop endeavouring to overcome the snag, finally, Salk asserted that he might still gain entry into the flat by disguising himself as a tradesman. As he made a suggestion, Jim told Peter that, Seeboard, a local utility firm, then owned a depot located directly behind our flat. He proposed that if Peter offered one of their men a few quid, it might buy him a surplus donkey jacket. At once, Salk agreed
“Good idea, Jim! I'll offer one of their blokes £200 – he won’t refuse!”
Back to his old self and a roguish gleam in his eye, Peter bragged that he could relate to us some bizarre tales about him and his disguises. I certainly wouldn’t put anything past him. A regular raconteur and no stranger to dangerous ground, Salk revealed that he had once played an IRA quartermaster in Northern Ireland. As he revealed more about his exciting experiences with his old mate Roger, Salk cited their Canned Lions programme. Tugging at my heartstrings, he knew that I adored animals. He told us that when he joined The Cook Report team on safari in South Africa to draw attention to a shocking scam involving fat cats shooting drugged lions, their remarkable film ended the despicable business. As his tough image slipped, at heart a softie like us, Jim and me felt proud of Salk. Back to the present, I asked him what did he want me to say when I phoned MI6.
”AN will send you a letter, ask Grundy what he wants you to do with it.”
“Can’t we get this link between Six and me some other way Peter, what about if I get hold of Grundy’s home address” I enquired “Will that help?”
“We no longer need Grundy’s address!” he blurted, emphatic.
Unable to conceal his perplexed expression, Salk instantly regretted his remark, for once careless, we all knew that he had
“Wonderful, Peter, I’ll do what you say.”
“Good it’s settled then!” rejoined Salk.
The end of the plot in sight, but remaining in character, I reminded Peter that MI6 had more than likely trailed us all over Istanbul. I argued that they must easily recognise his beard again. Deep in thought, as he rapped his fingers on the tabletop endeavouring to overcome the snag, finally, Salk asserted that he might still gain entry into the flat by disguising himself as a tradesman. As he made a suggestion, Jim told Peter that, Seeboard, a local utility firm, then owned a depot located directly behind our flat. He proposed that if Peter offered one of their men a few quid, it might buy him a surplus donkey jacket. At once, Salk agreed
“Good idea, Jim! I'll offer one of their blokes £200 – he won’t refuse!”
Back to his old self and a roguish gleam in his eye, Peter bragged that he could relate to us some bizarre tales about him and his disguises. I certainly wouldn’t put anything past him. A regular raconteur and no stranger to dangerous ground, Salk revealed that he had once played an IRA quartermaster in Northern Ireland. As he revealed more about his exciting experiences with his old mate Roger, Salk cited their Canned Lions programme. Tugging at my heartstrings, he knew that I adored animals. He told us that when he joined The Cook Report team on safari in South Africa to draw attention to a shocking scam involving fat cats shooting drugged lions, their remarkable film ended the despicable business. As his tough image slipped, at heart a softie like us, Jim and me felt proud of Salk. Back to the present, I asked him what did he want me to say when I phoned MI6.
”AN will send you a letter, ask Grundy what he wants you to do with it.”
“Can’t we get this link between Six and me some other way Peter, what about if I get hold of Grundy’s home address” I enquired “Will that help?”
“We no longer need Grundy’s address!” he blurted, emphatic.
Unable to conceal his perplexed expression, Salk instantly regretted his remark, for once careless, we all knew that he had
- 273 -
said too much. As we broke for lunch, Graham noticed Jim drinking a light beer with his meal. As I shot him an angry glare, the journalist observed
”You know what they’ll say don’t you, the press will say Jim’s an alcoholic. I’m not implying he has a problem now, I can see he hasn’t, I’m only warning you that the hacks will dig for dirt.”
“Jim’s a gift from God” interjected Salk, as he chewed his food, summing us up, he added “You needed each other and met at the right time.”
For once, we had no argument. After lunch, everyone filed back into the room. Trying it on and Peter turned really nasty
“I know you’re loath to talk about your early life, Olivia – but I mean to get to the bottom of things!”
Salk should have had more sense. Striving to remain positive and refusing to dwell upon it, or come to that, any of my pain, I preferred to skip my childhood and focus on the future. Fed up proving myself and insisting that I had nothing to hide. Obstinate, Peter argued that he must see my birth certificate to confirm my identity. As it then stood, the document could never do that, the subsequent long overdue amendment to the law has since proven my case. Its very mention too much then and enough to stir me now, Nadir wasn’t the only fugitive, that dodgy paper had driven me to become one too. Its power over my life had forced my exodus to Israel. Adamant and I told Salk that he could examine my passport, my NHS and NI cards, my driving licence, any number of other documents, but not that so-called birth certificate.
“You could be hiding it for another reason,” alleged Salk, warning me, “I won’t be happy until I’ve seen it.”
“Olivia will show it to you once it’s been put right” intervened Jim, arguing, “For a fiver, I could buy any certificate I wanted and say its mine – what sort of proof is that?”
“I’m still not happy,” grumbled Salk and crude, he added, “When the shit hits the fan, you’ll be out of the country – it leaves me and David to face the music!”
“You still think I’m MI6 don’t you, Peter” I fumed, “You think Jim’s Six too.”
“How do I know you’re not…we’ll move on, have you any old school photos?”
“I never wanted my picture taken as a child,” I told him, recalling an upsetting scene, “Mum and Dad thought it a nice photo, I hated it and ripped it up.”
Lost in another time and giving myself away, a tear tracing my cheek, more sad memories and most had the strength to hurt. I
”You know what they’ll say don’t you, the press will say Jim’s an alcoholic. I’m not implying he has a problem now, I can see he hasn’t, I’m only warning you that the hacks will dig for dirt.”
“Jim’s a gift from God” interjected Salk, as he chewed his food, summing us up, he added “You needed each other and met at the right time.”
For once, we had no argument. After lunch, everyone filed back into the room. Trying it on and Peter turned really nasty
“I know you’re loath to talk about your early life, Olivia – but I mean to get to the bottom of things!”
Salk should have had more sense. Striving to remain positive and refusing to dwell upon it, or come to that, any of my pain, I preferred to skip my childhood and focus on the future. Fed up proving myself and insisting that I had nothing to hide. Obstinate, Peter argued that he must see my birth certificate to confirm my identity. As it then stood, the document could never do that, the subsequent long overdue amendment to the law has since proven my case. Its very mention too much then and enough to stir me now, Nadir wasn’t the only fugitive, that dodgy paper had driven me to become one too. Its power over my life had forced my exodus to Israel. Adamant and I told Salk that he could examine my passport, my NHS and NI cards, my driving licence, any number of other documents, but not that so-called birth certificate.
“You could be hiding it for another reason,” alleged Salk, warning me, “I won’t be happy until I’ve seen it.”
“Olivia will show it to you once it’s been put right” intervened Jim, arguing, “For a fiver, I could buy any certificate I wanted and say its mine – what sort of proof is that?”
“I’m still not happy,” grumbled Salk and crude, he added, “When the shit hits the fan, you’ll be out of the country – it leaves me and David to face the music!”
“You still think I’m MI6 don’t you, Peter” I fumed, “You think Jim’s Six too.”
“How do I know you’re not…we’ll move on, have you any old school photos?”
“I never wanted my picture taken as a child,” I told him, recalling an upsetting scene, “Mum and Dad thought it a nice photo, I hated it and ripped it up.”
Lost in another time and giving myself away, a tear tracing my cheek, more sad memories and most had the strength to hurt. I
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hated my childhood. Never able to escape my past, there was nothing else worth telling him except the truth behind the MI6 plot and he would have to wait for that.
Trying a new tack, Peter wanted my IDF number. His demand took me back to Malcolm. It did me no good then and still not obliged to reveal it now. When I told Peter, staggered he retorted
“Why not? It can do you no harm. I served in the RAF and can still remember my service number.”
Not the same argument. On purpose, Peter kept missing the point. I had never meant to tell anyone about my Israeli work. Compelled to tell him bits of it, if he but knew, Peter’s crude tactic aped MI5 when they blundered in with their threats and ended up torching my home et cetera, et cetera. I didn’t squeal then, holding my temper now and explaining to Peter that my army service directly linked me to the Mossad, like a key, my number opened a Pandora’s box. Unwilling to tell Salk more, I disclosed that it was classified and the IDF wouldn’t help him.
“There must be ways round the problem,” he suggested, winding me up, Peter added, “I’d hate to be an enemy of Asil Nadir.”
“Then I’ve nothing to fear” I retorted, irritated.
“If you’ve told the truth, Mr Nadir will look after you,” he confided.
David had used a similar ploy. For sure missing the life stolen from me by MI5, but no gold digger, simply chasing justice and Salk’s crass remark hurt me. As he stepped in before I stormed out, Jim told him that we possessed no desire to live off Nadir’s money. As the grilling ended, I didn’t care if we never saw them again, but Jim knew that my rage must pass and enquired
“Are we meeting up here again next week?”
“That depends on what happens on Friday,” replied Graham, sourly. He added “When Peter means to visit your flat to film you phoning MI6.”
Leaving the hôtel, I didn’t feel like it, when we got back to the flat, never one to neglect my duty. Believing Naylor must explode when I told him about Peter’s plan, confounding me, remarkably detached, he confessed
“We’ll have to make changes much faster than I’d anticipated.”
I told him about Peter giving me the bung and his claim that David had hired no SAS squad and Salk’s admission that they no longer needed Grundy’s address. I didn’t dare reveal the row about my service number. He would have urged me to give it to them. Naylor asked me how did they break the news about their phone call stunt.
- 275-
Trying a new tack, Peter wanted my IDF number. His demand took me back to Malcolm. It did me no good then and still not obliged to reveal it now. When I told Peter, staggered he retorted
“Why not? It can do you no harm. I served in the RAF and can still remember my service number.”
Not the same argument. On purpose, Peter kept missing the point. I had never meant to tell anyone about my Israeli work. Compelled to tell him bits of it, if he but knew, Peter’s crude tactic aped MI5 when they blundered in with their threats and ended up torching my home et cetera, et cetera. I didn’t squeal then, holding my temper now and explaining to Peter that my army service directly linked me to the Mossad, like a key, my number opened a Pandora’s box. Unwilling to tell Salk more, I disclosed that it was classified and the IDF wouldn’t help him.
“There must be ways round the problem,” he suggested, winding me up, Peter added, “I’d hate to be an enemy of Asil Nadir.”
“Then I’ve nothing to fear” I retorted, irritated.
“If you’ve told the truth, Mr Nadir will look after you,” he confided.
David had used a similar ploy. For sure missing the life stolen from me by MI5, but no gold digger, simply chasing justice and Salk’s crass remark hurt me. As he stepped in before I stormed out, Jim told him that we possessed no desire to live off Nadir’s money. As the grilling ended, I didn’t care if we never saw them again, but Jim knew that my rage must pass and enquired
“Are we meeting up here again next week?”
“That depends on what happens on Friday,” replied Graham, sourly. He added “When Peter means to visit your flat to film you phoning MI6.”
Leaving the hôtel, I didn’t feel like it, when we got back to the flat, never one to neglect my duty. Believing Naylor must explode when I told him about Peter’s plan, confounding me, remarkably detached, he confessed
“We’ll have to make changes much faster than I’d anticipated.”
I told him about Peter giving me the bung and his claim that David had hired no SAS squad and Salk’s admission that they no longer needed Grundy’s address. I didn’t dare reveal the row about my service number. He would have urged me to give it to them. Naylor asked me how did they break the news about their phone call stunt.
- 275-
“Number one on his agenda,” I told him, alleging, “I tried to escape it.”
Pensive, Naylor enquired when did Peter want to film me. I told him Friday.
“Shit…I’m sorry, it gives us only two days I thought we would have more time, where’s Alford, why does he dump all his crap on Salkeld?”
“He's going on holiday, he’s away until 9th March” I responded.
“What does Salkeld want you to tell Grundy?” he probed.
“He wants me to say that Nadir’s writing me another letter, I don’t know what’s in it, I’m just to tell Grundy about it.”
Next day, Salk phoned to tell me that Nadir’s letter was on ice. A brief delay and still on its way, he forecast that it would take another two days to arrive. When I told Naylor that Peter wouldn’t be calling on Friday after all
“Fine,” he responded “Play along with him, appear helpful, I want you to let him think the Grundy call is no problem, you want to do it.”
On Thursday, Peter called me. Cheerful, he revealed that he expected a courier should deliver Nadir’s letter the next day after all. Before we ended the call, I told him
“We’ve had an idea to get you in the flat, the plumber called here recently to fix the boiler, since then he's never been away, you could ask him to drop you off in his van on the day that you want to film me.”
“Give me his number. I’ll offer him a sum he can’t refuse and hide my camera in a bag. MI6 watchers will think I’m carrying tools.”
It left only room for the unexpected.
© COPYRIGHT OLIVIA FRANK ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Pensive, Naylor enquired when did Peter want to film me. I told him Friday.
“Shit…I’m sorry, it gives us only two days I thought we would have more time, where’s Alford, why does he dump all his crap on Salkeld?”
“He's going on holiday, he’s away until 9th March” I responded.
“What does Salkeld want you to tell Grundy?” he probed.
“He wants me to say that Nadir’s writing me another letter, I don’t know what’s in it, I’m just to tell Grundy about it.”
Next day, Salk phoned to tell me that Nadir’s letter was on ice. A brief delay and still on its way, he forecast that it would take another two days to arrive. When I told Naylor that Peter wouldn’t be calling on Friday after all
“Fine,” he responded “Play along with him, appear helpful, I want you to let him think the Grundy call is no problem, you want to do it.”
On Thursday, Peter called me. Cheerful, he revealed that he expected a courier should deliver Nadir’s letter the next day after all. Before we ended the call, I told him
“We’ve had an idea to get you in the flat, the plumber called here recently to fix the boiler, since then he's never been away, you could ask him to drop you off in his van on the day that you want to film me.”
“Give me his number. I’ll offer him a sum he can’t refuse and hide my camera in a bag. MI6 watchers will think I’m carrying tools.”
It left only room for the unexpected.
© COPYRIGHT OLIVIA FRANK ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
