12.The Unexpected
The commencement of many surprises, Friday 13th and as a rule, not the most propitious day to begin new plans, just before ten, a courier called to the flat to make a special delivery. Uncanny – was he psychic? One minute later, the phone rang. On my case, Salk enquired if I had received Nadir's letter.
“Yeah, just now” I told him.
Aiming to visit the flat to record me dialling MI6 on Monday, Peter told me that he meant to book into the Churchill on Sunday. Settling it, he promised to call me at nine and an hour later, he would film me as I phoned Grundy. Ending the call, I opened Nadir's letter. Dated 10th February, the message ran ‘Dear Mr and Mrs Frank, My apologies for not writing sooner, my offices are taking longer to equip than I had anticipated. I’ll write to you again shortly confirming positions within my company for you both. I expect to have you on board by the time my new offices become available, around the middle of March. Yours truly, Asil Nadir.’
Unable to raise Naylor, I saved him for later and instead, catching up with my domestics, I set up the board in the kitchen and began wading through a pile of ironing. At about one in the afternoon, still busy, an unexpected sharp rap on the window startled me. Face-to-face with Naylor and feeling jittery, he had caught me off my guard. Quickly gathering my wits, I flew to the door and invited him into the kitchen. Scowling, he refused my offer and snapped
“You had a courier delivery this morning, mind letting me see it?
Dashing to fetch the letter for him, shortly, returning to the door, as I handed him Nadir’s latest, careful, no prints and keeping his gloves on, he snatched it off me. As he began to digest its contents, a plain dark T-shirt under his black puffer jacket, as I studied him, clutching a pair of stylish shades, sunny today, unlike his morose expression, it didn’t suit him, cropped hair completed his new hard man image. As he returned the letter to me, enigmatic, Naylor decreed
“The implication is obvious,” a short pause, then he warned me, “Don’t contact Vauxhall Cross, you’re being watched – very closely for your own protection.”
“What do you mean – for my own protection?”
Ignoring me, as Naylor scurried down the garden path, I watched him disappear into the jungle beyond. A peculiar performance, it seriously worried me. A few moments later, just back from the shops and about to discuss the event with Jim, the MI6 mobile burst into life and Naylor told me
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The commencement of many surprises, Friday 13th and as a rule, not the most propitious day to begin new plans, just before ten, a courier called to the flat to make a special delivery. Uncanny – was he psychic? One minute later, the phone rang. On my case, Salk enquired if I had received Nadir's letter.
“Yeah, just now” I told him.
Aiming to visit the flat to record me dialling MI6 on Monday, Peter told me that he meant to book into the Churchill on Sunday. Settling it, he promised to call me at nine and an hour later, he would film me as I phoned Grundy. Ending the call, I opened Nadir's letter. Dated 10th February, the message ran ‘Dear Mr and Mrs Frank, My apologies for not writing sooner, my offices are taking longer to equip than I had anticipated. I’ll write to you again shortly confirming positions within my company for you both. I expect to have you on board by the time my new offices become available, around the middle of March. Yours truly, Asil Nadir.’
Unable to raise Naylor, I saved him for later and instead, catching up with my domestics, I set up the board in the kitchen and began wading through a pile of ironing. At about one in the afternoon, still busy, an unexpected sharp rap on the window startled me. Face-to-face with Naylor and feeling jittery, he had caught me off my guard. Quickly gathering my wits, I flew to the door and invited him into the kitchen. Scowling, he refused my offer and snapped
“You had a courier delivery this morning, mind letting me see it?
Dashing to fetch the letter for him, shortly, returning to the door, as I handed him Nadir’s latest, careful, no prints and keeping his gloves on, he snatched it off me. As he began to digest its contents, a plain dark T-shirt under his black puffer jacket, as I studied him, clutching a pair of stylish shades, sunny today, unlike his morose expression, it didn’t suit him, cropped hair completed his new hard man image. As he returned the letter to me, enigmatic, Naylor decreed
“The implication is obvious,” a short pause, then he warned me, “Don’t contact Vauxhall Cross, you’re being watched – very closely for your own protection.”
“What do you mean – for my own protection?”
Ignoring me, as Naylor scurried down the garden path, I watched him disappear into the jungle beyond. A peculiar performance, it seriously worried me. A few moments later, just back from the shops and about to discuss the event with Jim, the MI6 mobile burst into life and Naylor told me
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“Listen carefully, I want you to relive my act and describe it in every detail to Salkeld.”
A new twist, I called Peter and told him about my brush with MI6. Informing Salk that Naylor had read Nadir’s letter, I said that there was no alternative.
“How did he know you’d received it?” he exploded.
“I’ve just told you, the flat’s under surveillance!” Sometimes, you need to yell to drive it home. “He warned me that I’m being watched, very closely, he said it’s for my own protection.”
“How could he know the letter was for you?” quizzed Peter, very upset.
“Jim answered the front door and signed for it” I responded, feeling annoyed.
“You live in a flat, it could’ve been for a neighbour” he stormed, incredulous.
“What’s your problem, Peter, he wanted to see what the courier had delivered, he was nasty, not at all like his usual self. Don’t you see? MI6 don’t trust me!”
“Very strange” rejoined Salk.
Naylor had dropped me right in it. Peter was right to feel suspicious. Advising him that MI6 had frightened me and to be honest, after serving two fabricated gaol terms, I meant it. However, Peter persisted that he still didn’t see why I had had to tell Naylor that the letter was for me. He still maintained that I could have said it was for a neighbour, while I argued that MI5 watchers must have witnessed my neighbours’ leave for work, earlier that morning. I explained to him that their post remained on a table in the hallway pending their return home and until then, I had easy access to it. Robbing him of further debate, it meant that I had no choice, except to show Naylor the letter.
“I won't be calling to the flat on Monday” declared Peter, peeved, he added, “I need to talk with the others.”
Two days more and Elizabeth phoned me. Proclaiming that it was simply ages since we had last met, the banker insisted on a get together at her Mum’s flat in Essex. She veiled the summit as a cosy chat to discuss new ideas and revealed
“The boys will be there, I think that we need to agree upon where we go next. I believe we’ve lost direction.”
I could only agree. Elizabeth pledged to call me next day to confirm our date. Calling Naylor, I revealed that Jim and me had to journey to Stansted Airport on Thursday. I told him that the train was expected to arrive in the station at twelve minutes after noon, when Elizabeth pledged that she would be there to meet us. Relishing the prospect, Naylor advised me
A new twist, I called Peter and told him about my brush with MI6. Informing Salk that Naylor had read Nadir’s letter, I said that there was no alternative.
“How did he know you’d received it?” he exploded.
“I’ve just told you, the flat’s under surveillance!” Sometimes, you need to yell to drive it home. “He warned me that I’m being watched, very closely, he said it’s for my own protection.”
“How could he know the letter was for you?” quizzed Peter, very upset.
“Jim answered the front door and signed for it” I responded, feeling annoyed.
“You live in a flat, it could’ve been for a neighbour” he stormed, incredulous.
“What’s your problem, Peter, he wanted to see what the courier had delivered, he was nasty, not at all like his usual self. Don’t you see? MI6 don’t trust me!”
“Very strange” rejoined Salk.
Naylor had dropped me right in it. Peter was right to feel suspicious. Advising him that MI6 had frightened me and to be honest, after serving two fabricated gaol terms, I meant it. However, Peter persisted that he still didn’t see why I had had to tell Naylor that the letter was for me. He still maintained that I could have said it was for a neighbour, while I argued that MI5 watchers must have witnessed my neighbours’ leave for work, earlier that morning. I explained to him that their post remained on a table in the hallway pending their return home and until then, I had easy access to it. Robbing him of further debate, it meant that I had no choice, except to show Naylor the letter.
“I won't be calling to the flat on Monday” declared Peter, peeved, he added, “I need to talk with the others.”
Two days more and Elizabeth phoned me. Proclaiming that it was simply ages since we had last met, the banker insisted on a get together at her Mum’s flat in Essex. She veiled the summit as a cosy chat to discuss new ideas and revealed
“The boys will be there, I think that we need to agree upon where we go next. I believe we’ve lost direction.”
I could only agree. Elizabeth pledged to call me next day to confirm our date. Calling Naylor, I revealed that Jim and me had to journey to Stansted Airport on Thursday. I told him that the train was expected to arrive in the station at twelve minutes after noon, when Elizabeth pledged that she would be there to meet us. Relishing the prospect, Naylor advised me
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“They’re opening a new box of tricks” he added, “I've already opened mine.”
Issuing more orders, Naylor told me that when we returned to Dover, I was to phone the Cook Reporters and inform them that our flat had been burgled in our absence. Nothing gone, just a visit from MI6, though naturally, it worried us.
On Thursday, 19th February, Jim accompanied me as we took a train to Essex. Waiting for us in her silver Volvo at Stansted, Elizabeth drove us to her Mum's granny flat tucked away in verdant Great Dunmow.
Inside the flat, ‘the boys’ had been busy. Overdoing it a bit, positively fawning, as David showed us into the lounge, centre stage, mounted on a big tripod and looking like some huge great scary spider, Salk had set up his camera. It pointed directly to a sofa, where as he invited us to take a seat, he must be joking, jovial and wearing a rare smile, Peter cried
“Don’t mind that! Eh, I hope it’s not in your way, I'd like to film you having a little chat with Elizabeth later.”
Clearly intended to intimidate me, the camera’s unblinking eye sat in my face. Masking my disdain, as Elizabeth entered the room, very jolly, she said hello and losing no time, fetched her lovely crystal and several bottles of her finest vintage. Our glasses brimming and drink up she urged us, there’s plenty more. A crude trick, I recognised it at once. Sometimes effective, it still possessed potential and apart from others, hard-drinking Russians still swear by it. Call me snobbish, I prefer to rely on more sophisticated methods to extract intelligence.
The aspect that really annoyed me, intending to exploit past foibles, the Cook Reporters meant to set our tongues wagging, yet they should have known better. Today temperate, deep down, seething, my anger kept me clear-headed. As more time passed, persuaded by my relaxed manner and thinking me a little drunk, like Naylor, a few days earlier, my performance only an act, it convinced Peter. Also in common with my handler, as Salk endeavoured to catch me unprepared, all at once, retreating behind his camera, he stormed
“I’m questioning you about your recent encounter with MI6.”
You have to hand it to him, innovative and Peter employed his camera like a lie detector. Inspired, though hardly virginal at this game, I had trained for it at the Academy. Primed for him, as he grilled me about Naylor’s recent visit to my flat, perhaps a tad hammy, not at all silly, his theatrical performance had given me an embedded memory of the event. As Peter made a show of focusing his camera on my face, my anecdote flawless, going too well for my critics and endeavouring to spoil it, Elizabeth distracted my attention calling out
Issuing more orders, Naylor told me that when we returned to Dover, I was to phone the Cook Reporters and inform them that our flat had been burgled in our absence. Nothing gone, just a visit from MI6, though naturally, it worried us.
On Thursday, 19th February, Jim accompanied me as we took a train to Essex. Waiting for us in her silver Volvo at Stansted, Elizabeth drove us to her Mum's granny flat tucked away in verdant Great Dunmow.
Inside the flat, ‘the boys’ had been busy. Overdoing it a bit, positively fawning, as David showed us into the lounge, centre stage, mounted on a big tripod and looking like some huge great scary spider, Salk had set up his camera. It pointed directly to a sofa, where as he invited us to take a seat, he must be joking, jovial and wearing a rare smile, Peter cried
“Don’t mind that! Eh, I hope it’s not in your way, I'd like to film you having a little chat with Elizabeth later.”
Clearly intended to intimidate me, the camera’s unblinking eye sat in my face. Masking my disdain, as Elizabeth entered the room, very jolly, she said hello and losing no time, fetched her lovely crystal and several bottles of her finest vintage. Our glasses brimming and drink up she urged us, there’s plenty more. A crude trick, I recognised it at once. Sometimes effective, it still possessed potential and apart from others, hard-drinking Russians still swear by it. Call me snobbish, I prefer to rely on more sophisticated methods to extract intelligence.
The aspect that really annoyed me, intending to exploit past foibles, the Cook Reporters meant to set our tongues wagging, yet they should have known better. Today temperate, deep down, seething, my anger kept me clear-headed. As more time passed, persuaded by my relaxed manner and thinking me a little drunk, like Naylor, a few days earlier, my performance only an act, it convinced Peter. Also in common with my handler, as Salk endeavoured to catch me unprepared, all at once, retreating behind his camera, he stormed
“I’m questioning you about your recent encounter with MI6.”
You have to hand it to him, innovative and Peter employed his camera like a lie detector. Inspired, though hardly virginal at this game, I had trained for it at the Academy. Primed for him, as he grilled me about Naylor’s recent visit to my flat, perhaps a tad hammy, not at all silly, his theatrical performance had given me an embedded memory of the event. As Peter made a show of focusing his camera on my face, my anecdote flawless, going too well for my critics and endeavouring to spoil it, Elizabeth distracted my attention calling out
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“Anyone for more wine?”
Elizabeth’s rush of rudeness appeared a lot like a preset ploy, as she recharged our glasses, aimed at messing up my recall, I think the label read Vino Collapso. Paying due care and attention, I ended my story satisfactorily. Thwarted and as he finished filming me, reappearing from behind his camera, distinctly disgruntled, Peter bawled
“I still want to film you making the call to Grundy from your flat – I don't want to hear any objections!”
“I’ve already told you,” I reminded him evenly, “All direct contact with MI6 has ceased.”
“You have to make the call, Olivia,” maintained David, a lame motive, not the best he could come up with he claimed “Its for continuity.”
“You’ll need to give me a very good reason to disobey my orders” I challenged him, throwing down the gauntlet.
As my gloves slipped off my lap, David produced a couple of half-decent ideas, although nothing worthy. As he floundered, Elizabeth remembered my little fad and dished out a pork-free quiche to soak up the wine. As he tried some too, it did the trick for David, his best shot by far, he suggested
“What about something to do with an airfield?”
“That’s it!” I cried, putting him out of his misery, “I’ll tell Six, AN wants the name of the airfield where they want his plane to land. It’ll get ’em going, they’ll think he’s on his way back to England.”
“Brilliant!” yelled David, not taking much to excite him.
Cue film stunt, gathering up my gloves off the nice carpet I put them in my bag and at once producing from it a small batch of photos, dominating the play, as I passed them around, recognising the building, Peter enquired
“Isn’t that Granada TV studios in Manchester?”
“That’s right,” confirmed Jim, “We lived just around the corner.”
“Is that Duke?”
The image that David clutched showed Dad kneeling by my old canine friend. Peter stared at a little photo of Mum. Taken in a kiosk, far from her best portrait, but the only one I possessed. David found a picture of Jim. I had captured it when we visited Amsterdam. Then, as he found a glossy snap of us in a romantic pose, it depicted us enjoying a bateau-mouche cruise on the Seine. Puzzled, he told me
“I don't get you, Olivia, you’re very happy to help us out in some areas, yet so reluctant to assist in others.”
Elizabeth’s rush of rudeness appeared a lot like a preset ploy, as she recharged our glasses, aimed at messing up my recall, I think the label read Vino Collapso. Paying due care and attention, I ended my story satisfactorily. Thwarted and as he finished filming me, reappearing from behind his camera, distinctly disgruntled, Peter bawled
“I still want to film you making the call to Grundy from your flat – I don't want to hear any objections!”
“I’ve already told you,” I reminded him evenly, “All direct contact with MI6 has ceased.”
“You have to make the call, Olivia,” maintained David, a lame motive, not the best he could come up with he claimed “Its for continuity.”
“You’ll need to give me a very good reason to disobey my orders” I challenged him, throwing down the gauntlet.
As my gloves slipped off my lap, David produced a couple of half-decent ideas, although nothing worthy. As he floundered, Elizabeth remembered my little fad and dished out a pork-free quiche to soak up the wine. As he tried some too, it did the trick for David, his best shot by far, he suggested
“What about something to do with an airfield?”
“That’s it!” I cried, putting him out of his misery, “I’ll tell Six, AN wants the name of the airfield where they want his plane to land. It’ll get ’em going, they’ll think he’s on his way back to England.”
“Brilliant!” yelled David, not taking much to excite him.
Cue film stunt, gathering up my gloves off the nice carpet I put them in my bag and at once producing from it a small batch of photos, dominating the play, as I passed them around, recognising the building, Peter enquired
“Isn’t that Granada TV studios in Manchester?”
“That’s right,” confirmed Jim, “We lived just around the corner.”
“Is that Duke?”
The image that David clutched showed Dad kneeling by my old canine friend. Peter stared at a little photo of Mum. Taken in a kiosk, far from her best portrait, but the only one I possessed. David found a picture of Jim. I had captured it when we visited Amsterdam. Then, as he found a glossy snap of us in a romantic pose, it depicted us enjoying a bateau-mouche cruise on the Seine. Puzzled, he told me
“I don't get you, Olivia, you’re very happy to help us out in some areas, yet so reluctant to assist in others.”
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David didn’t understand that MI6 pulled my strings. Naylor’s idea to produce the photos, it had worked a treat. Elizabeth claimed that she didn’t wish to worry me, but clutching a batch of press clippings, as she showed me some of her own snaps. I had seen many of them before in prison. Making her point, one image portrayed Elizabeth when she was aged about 30. Though innocent, the paper had used it to try and make her look guilty. The exercise was meant to show me, how far back and deep the press dig. Alas, I reckon that my gender and my stint in Israel must land me in it. So what I have had more than sticks and stones chucked at me and survived to tell the tale. Nothing more to declare, nothing to stop them, I still expected that MI6 might make up tall stories about me. As Peter handed me back my stuff, now the close of play and Elizabeth declared
“It's getting rather late. I’ll drive you to the station.”
When we arrived in Dover, sticking to Naylor’s remit, hoping not to tempt fate, I called David and sensing that it had failed to impress him, I alleged that during our little sojourn in Essex, an MI6 burglar had searched the flat. Next day, after updating Naylor, he had another mission for me. He wanted me to get back onto the Cook Reporters and tell them that I felt very vulnerable and believed that they didn’t care. All right for some, when I got around to it, David was on holiday in the Caribbean. It meant that I had to lock horns with Peter. Not a pretty thought, these days, we boxed all the time. As I chickened out, Jim phoned him for me and as I eavesdropped on their brief chat, Salk summed it up
“I hear what you're saying Jim, but if we don't make the call to Grundy we’ve no programme. Its out of my hands,” he asserted “I'm going to Turkey, I'll speak with AN about the phone call. I’ll ask him if it’s absolutely necessary, but you must accept that his answer is final.”
Apparently unable to fault me, as I had hoped, it looked like the Cook Reporters had turned their spotlight on Grundy. Naylor called me next day on 21st February and sounding anxious, he insisted that nothing else worked, he simply couldn’t let me phone the building. We would have to use Kerry’s private mobile number.
“Its no secret where he lives” I concurred “They’d get his number anyhow.”
At last, Naylor acknowledged that he couldn’t just leave Kerry out on a limb and directing me to get the detective to the flat where I was to prime him; I had to tell him that television cameras had caught him on film in a reconstruction of events. Before he scarpered, I had to promise Kerry riches beyond his wildest dreams if he would agree to stretch his Grundy act a wee bit further. As Naylor’s instructions grew ever sillier, I had to come clean and tell Kerry that he had been posing as an MI6 spy. Naylor
“It's getting rather late. I’ll drive you to the station.”
When we arrived in Dover, sticking to Naylor’s remit, hoping not to tempt fate, I called David and sensing that it had failed to impress him, I alleged that during our little sojourn in Essex, an MI6 burglar had searched the flat. Next day, after updating Naylor, he had another mission for me. He wanted me to get back onto the Cook Reporters and tell them that I felt very vulnerable and believed that they didn’t care. All right for some, when I got around to it, David was on holiday in the Caribbean. It meant that I had to lock horns with Peter. Not a pretty thought, these days, we boxed all the time. As I chickened out, Jim phoned him for me and as I eavesdropped on their brief chat, Salk summed it up
“I hear what you're saying Jim, but if we don't make the call to Grundy we’ve no programme. Its out of my hands,” he asserted “I'm going to Turkey, I'll speak with AN about the phone call. I’ll ask him if it’s absolutely necessary, but you must accept that his answer is final.”
Apparently unable to fault me, as I had hoped, it looked like the Cook Reporters had turned their spotlight on Grundy. Naylor called me next day on 21st February and sounding anxious, he insisted that nothing else worked, he simply couldn’t let me phone the building. We would have to use Kerry’s private mobile number.
“Its no secret where he lives” I concurred “They’d get his number anyhow.”
At last, Naylor acknowledged that he couldn’t just leave Kerry out on a limb and directing me to get the detective to the flat where I was to prime him; I had to tell him that television cameras had caught him on film in a reconstruction of events. Before he scarpered, I had to promise Kerry riches beyond his wildest dreams if he would agree to stretch his Grundy act a wee bit further. As Naylor’s instructions grew ever sillier, I had to come clean and tell Kerry that he had been posing as an MI6 spy. Naylor
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ordered me to give the impostor a legend to study. Kerry was to claim that he worked as a sleuth only for cover. Brown gave him his orders, our stories intended to coincide, it meant that I had to provide him with a description of Pelham and say that he had moved upstairs in January. Brown’s assistant gave all the orders now and that meant I had to paint him a pen-picture of Naylor too. As it became ever more fanciful, the plot surely had to fail. When I asked him how MI6 employed Grundy, Naylor told me to say that he ran errands and never worked inside the building, he was constantly out on surveillance jobs. Keeping my scepticism to myself, I enquired
“How could I reach him at the building when I dialled the number for Six?”
“His calls were diverted to his mobile phone.”
As Naylor drew the scenario, he asserted that when the show got to the screen the media must converge on Kerry like jackals. Trapped in their midst, he had to deny all knowledge of Grundy. Playing out his role, only natural, Kerry panics and solicits Nadir to bail him out in return for admitting that he really was an MI6 spy. As I jotted it down, Naylor wanted me to provide Kerry with a confession. He had to sign and post it to Elizabeth when the Cook Reporters outed him. Missing his vocation, Naylor had written the silliest Python sketch.
On Monday, 23rd February, perhaps bemused by Naylor’s brief and catching us out, we didn’t think that she had anything to do with the plot. The woman on the phone claimed that she worked at our local bank and requested us to pay it a visit. Plausible, she alleged that not our flat where they were supposed to go, our new cards had gone directly to the bank. Jim fixed an appointment for us to call in and sign for them next day. When he phoned Kerry, Jim urged the detective to adopt disguise, we wanted him to meet us in the flat that same evening.
Taking the same path through our jungle, once more resembling a thug, Kerry arrived just after seven. As we settled in the lounge, about to begin the briefing, David’s mobile rang. As I took the call in the bedroom, Salk began
“Are you alright? Are you sure there’s nothing wrong, Olivia?”
“Should there be, Peter?” I asked him, feeling uneasy.
“I’m just checking” he replied, nonchalant.
“What made you think something’s wrong, Peter?”
“Is there something wrong, you don’t sound yourself, Olivia.”
“Everything’s fine” I told him, feeling well shaken.
“I’m flying to Turkey this week. I’ll call you again on Wednesday.”
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“How could I reach him at the building when I dialled the number for Six?”
“His calls were diverted to his mobile phone.”
As Naylor drew the scenario, he asserted that when the show got to the screen the media must converge on Kerry like jackals. Trapped in their midst, he had to deny all knowledge of Grundy. Playing out his role, only natural, Kerry panics and solicits Nadir to bail him out in return for admitting that he really was an MI6 spy. As I jotted it down, Naylor wanted me to provide Kerry with a confession. He had to sign and post it to Elizabeth when the Cook Reporters outed him. Missing his vocation, Naylor had written the silliest Python sketch.
On Monday, 23rd February, perhaps bemused by Naylor’s brief and catching us out, we didn’t think that she had anything to do with the plot. The woman on the phone claimed that she worked at our local bank and requested us to pay it a visit. Plausible, she alleged that not our flat where they were supposed to go, our new cards had gone directly to the bank. Jim fixed an appointment for us to call in and sign for them next day. When he phoned Kerry, Jim urged the detective to adopt disguise, we wanted him to meet us in the flat that same evening.
Taking the same path through our jungle, once more resembling a thug, Kerry arrived just after seven. As we settled in the lounge, about to begin the briefing, David’s mobile rang. As I took the call in the bedroom, Salk began
“Are you alright? Are you sure there’s nothing wrong, Olivia?”
“Should there be, Peter?” I asked him, feeling uneasy.
“I’m just checking” he replied, nonchalant.
“What made you think something’s wrong, Peter?”
“Is there something wrong, you don’t sound yourself, Olivia.”
“Everything’s fine” I told him, feeling well shaken.
“I’m flying to Turkey this week. I’ll call you again on Wednesday.”
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As we ended our brief chat, could be paranoia, I felt certain the Cook Reporters must have posted a spy to watch our flat. Maybe Peter really was psychic, twice now, how come he phoned as soon as anyone visited the flat. Feeling certain that our cover was blown, but putting on a happy face, I returned to the lounge and owning up, I told Kerry that a member of the team had just called me.
“He's a cameraman he’s got you on film. We’re making a TV show.”
Kerry’s face read you bastards. Shocked, he had to stay and hear us out. Not as bad as he thought. Opening up and we explained that when we flew to Istanbul, living it up and staying in a plush hotel, we even had our own car and driver. His face lit up like a fruit machine when Jim alleged
“We were setting up your future Peter, ours is sorted. Asil Nadir’s big-hearted, he’ll love you for helping him.”
“What do I have to do?” asked Kerry, undecided.
We began by admitting that he was right all along about the SIS, not a French detective agency after all and so far so good, but when we told him that he would have to play an MI6 spy full time, that’s when his gills turned green.
“I don’t know about this” looking ill, Kerry surmised, “Eh, isn’t it an offence to impersonate an MI6 officer?”
“Don’t be daft Peter” stretching it a tad, I argued “Its only acting.”
“This is different from the other stuff we've done” he insisted.
“You don’t have to do it” Jim advised him “But you'll lose your chance to join the jet set.”
“I’d be mad not to!” blurted the sleuth.
Moving on, Kerry felt certain that he had sighted no surveillance lurking near his house, but funny that we should ask, it reminded him about a phone call that he had had from a charming bloke. Posh, educated, pushy, he had claimed that he was from London Weekend TV. It had to be David. He had attempted to persuade Kerry to appear on the telly to give a talk about his work as a private detective. As we applauded his subtlety, Kerry informed David that his legal department would never allow it. I warned him to anticipate more bogus offers and stressed that real MI6 spies would never agree to them and building his part now that he had vowed to reprise it, a lovely touch, we suggested that it made him into a real spy too. As expected, the notion boosted his ego and as we pressed on, promising him that all he had to do was simply follow his brief and though it meant facing a little more publicity, only doing their job, the paparazzi would quickly melt
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“He's a cameraman he’s got you on film. We’re making a TV show.”
Kerry’s face read you bastards. Shocked, he had to stay and hear us out. Not as bad as he thought. Opening up and we explained that when we flew to Istanbul, living it up and staying in a plush hotel, we even had our own car and driver. His face lit up like a fruit machine when Jim alleged
“We were setting up your future Peter, ours is sorted. Asil Nadir’s big-hearted, he’ll love you for helping him.”
“What do I have to do?” asked Kerry, undecided.
We began by admitting that he was right all along about the SIS, not a French detective agency after all and so far so good, but when we told him that he would have to play an MI6 spy full time, that’s when his gills turned green.
“I don’t know about this” looking ill, Kerry surmised, “Eh, isn’t it an offence to impersonate an MI6 officer?”
“Don’t be daft Peter” stretching it a tad, I argued “Its only acting.”
“This is different from the other stuff we've done” he insisted.
“You don’t have to do it” Jim advised him “But you'll lose your chance to join the jet set.”
“I’d be mad not to!” blurted the sleuth.
Moving on, Kerry felt certain that he had sighted no surveillance lurking near his house, but funny that we should ask, it reminded him about a phone call that he had had from a charming bloke. Posh, educated, pushy, he had claimed that he was from London Weekend TV. It had to be David. He had attempted to persuade Kerry to appear on the telly to give a talk about his work as a private detective. As we applauded his subtlety, Kerry informed David that his legal department would never allow it. I warned him to anticipate more bogus offers and stressed that real MI6 spies would never agree to them and building his part now that he had vowed to reprise it, a lovely touch, we suggested that it made him into a real spy too. As expected, the notion boosted his ego and as we pressed on, promising him that all he had to do was simply follow his brief and though it meant facing a little more publicity, only doing their job, the paparazzi would quickly melt
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away and chase another story. It sowed the seed, unable to reverse his decision now, blatantly doubtful, Kerry quizzed
“Umm how much, how much interest will they show in me, will I be under siege, eh, will there be reporters camping on my lawn?”
Glibly dismissing his fearful ideas, we suggested that he might even find it fun and he should ignore them. Appearing ever more troubled, as he found difficulty digesting the scary scenario, I handed him a draft of his confession and directed Kerry to make his own copy. Providing him with the address of her mother’s flat, I instructed him to post it to Elizabeth when the paparazzi pounced. It pained our conscience, but for the sake of the big picture, we guaranteed that it was his ticket to a new life.
“I’d like to write lyrics,” admitted Kerry, wistfully. More seriously, he added, “I’ve to think about Sandra, where would we live?”
”Mr Nadir will fix you up in sunny Cyprus,” I guaranteed. “And when the story has passed its sell-by date, you can live wherever you want.”
“I don’t know whether to tell Sandra or not. I’m not sure what to do. I don't want to worry her. She's already depressed about our income drying up.”
“How much does Sandra know?” Jim asked him.
“I had to tell her something, she'd like to meet you. I'd feel much happier if she knew everything. I'll talk her round,” he promised.
As Kerry took his copy of the brief, showing him to the kitchen, Jim opened the back door. As he stepped outside, turning around to face us and about to offer his thanks, losing his balance and stumbling off the doorstep, grinning, Kerry joked
“Let's hope I don't have a big fall!”
Next morning, Tuesday 24th February, on the phone having more fun reporting to Naylor, I informed him that Kerry still had to discuss his latest mission with Sandra. Shocked, he bawled
“Who the hell is that?”
“Kerry's partner, he's told her very little and he's not sure what to do. He might, might not tell her about what comes next.”
“This is bloody serious,” yelled Naylor, “Call him tonight, get a decision!”
That afternoon as Jim and me strolled through Pencester Gardens, nippy today, it reminded us of our tryst by the bench. As we headed for the bank, meaning to collect our new cards, reminding me of our meetings in Salford, out of the blue, Naylor enquired
“Can you direct me to the White Cliffs Experience?”
“Umm how much, how much interest will they show in me, will I be under siege, eh, will there be reporters camping on my lawn?”
Glibly dismissing his fearful ideas, we suggested that he might even find it fun and he should ignore them. Appearing ever more troubled, as he found difficulty digesting the scary scenario, I handed him a draft of his confession and directed Kerry to make his own copy. Providing him with the address of her mother’s flat, I instructed him to post it to Elizabeth when the paparazzi pounced. It pained our conscience, but for the sake of the big picture, we guaranteed that it was his ticket to a new life.
“I’d like to write lyrics,” admitted Kerry, wistfully. More seriously, he added, “I’ve to think about Sandra, where would we live?”
”Mr Nadir will fix you up in sunny Cyprus,” I guaranteed. “And when the story has passed its sell-by date, you can live wherever you want.”
“I don’t know whether to tell Sandra or not. I’m not sure what to do. I don't want to worry her. She's already depressed about our income drying up.”
“How much does Sandra know?” Jim asked him.
“I had to tell her something, she'd like to meet you. I'd feel much happier if she knew everything. I'll talk her round,” he promised.
As Kerry took his copy of the brief, showing him to the kitchen, Jim opened the back door. As he stepped outside, turning around to face us and about to offer his thanks, losing his balance and stumbling off the doorstep, grinning, Kerry joked
“Let's hope I don't have a big fall!”
Next morning, Tuesday 24th February, on the phone having more fun reporting to Naylor, I informed him that Kerry still had to discuss his latest mission with Sandra. Shocked, he bawled
“Who the hell is that?”
“Kerry's partner, he's told her very little and he's not sure what to do. He might, might not tell her about what comes next.”
“This is bloody serious,” yelled Naylor, “Call him tonight, get a decision!”
That afternoon as Jim and me strolled through Pencester Gardens, nippy today, it reminded us of our tryst by the bench. As we headed for the bank, meaning to collect our new cards, reminding me of our meetings in Salford, out of the blue, Naylor enquired
“Can you direct me to the White Cliffs Experience?”
- 284 -
Once staged in Dover Museum, the wartime themed event failed to attract too many tourists and long closed now, my attention focused on him. Dressed in his black reefer again and posing as another tourist, plenty of them passed through the town. Inviting Naylor to join us, as we turned him around and falling into step together, he confided that he had another package for us. Like the old days, he produced two envelopes from his pocket, as he did so, Naylor advised us that the white one contained our latest instructions, the brown envelope held more money. Nearly finished our stroll and not sure what he was talking about, he warned us that there had been changes. Making no sense, he added
“I’m stepping up security, I’m in charge now.”
As Naylor left us behind, he made for the town square, once past the fountain, he vanished from view. Jim trailed me into the bank. We deposited the cash and returned to the flat in a hurry. I slit open the white envelope first and inside it, we found two sheets of plain paper. The first document embraced an extensive list of printed instructions. Headed by the usual warnings, it ran ‘For Your Eyes Only – Final Brief.
1.You must cease all contact with the Serious Fraud Office and any department of police, including Special Branch.
2. If you receive telephone communication from the SFO/police, you will not speak with them. Explain they have a wrong number, terminate the call. Report the conversation in writing to our usual address in the prescribed manner, using the Registered Delivery postal service.
3. Should you receive postal communication from the SFO/police, you will not answer it. You will send it to our usual address in the prescribed manner, using the Registered Delivery postal service.
4. In the event of essential need to contact MR GRUNDY, prior to your departure from Britain, you may speak with him on his direct line (it provided Kerry’s private mobile number). IMPORTANT for additional security purposes, contact him from your landline only, introduce yourself as MRS PARROT or your call will not be recognised.
5. Outside Britain, your contact remains MR GRUNDY. You may contact him from any telephone between the hours 20:00-21:00 Monday to Friday using the procedure explained above. IMPORTANT contact MR GRUNDY to disclose flight details only and not for any other purpose.
6. When disclosing flight details state clearly the DATE, ETA, AIRFIELD. When you receive the message understood, terminate the call. Alternatively, it is safe to leave messages on the answer phone.
“I’m stepping up security, I’m in charge now.”
As Naylor left us behind, he made for the town square, once past the fountain, he vanished from view. Jim trailed me into the bank. We deposited the cash and returned to the flat in a hurry. I slit open the white envelope first and inside it, we found two sheets of plain paper. The first document embraced an extensive list of printed instructions. Headed by the usual warnings, it ran ‘For Your Eyes Only – Final Brief.
1.You must cease all contact with the Serious Fraud Office and any department of police, including Special Branch.
2. If you receive telephone communication from the SFO/police, you will not speak with them. Explain they have a wrong number, terminate the call. Report the conversation in writing to our usual address in the prescribed manner, using the Registered Delivery postal service.
3. Should you receive postal communication from the SFO/police, you will not answer it. You will send it to our usual address in the prescribed manner, using the Registered Delivery postal service.
4. In the event of essential need to contact MR GRUNDY, prior to your departure from Britain, you may speak with him on his direct line (it provided Kerry’s private mobile number). IMPORTANT for additional security purposes, contact him from your landline only, introduce yourself as MRS PARROT or your call will not be recognised.
5. Outside Britain, your contact remains MR GRUNDY. You may contact him from any telephone between the hours 20:00-21:00 Monday to Friday using the procedure explained above. IMPORTANT contact MR GRUNDY to disclose flight details only and not for any other purpose.
6. When disclosing flight details state clearly the DATE, ETA, AIRFIELD. When you receive the message understood, terminate the call. Alternatively, it is safe to leave messages on the answer phone.
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7. MR PARROT may wish to be present when you make your call. To assure him that the telephone number that you are calling belongs to the Mossad you have a cover letter.
8. The contents of the brown manila envelope are for your own personal use.
9. Upon successful conclusion of the assignment you will be provided with:
a. Details of a reserve bank account holding the sum of £200,000
b. Letter verifying that your criminal records have been expunged.
c. New identities, including passports and birth certificates.
d. A legally binding document, which you must sign promising not to disclose any details of the assignment. END.’
Dated 24th February 1998, we discovered that the second document turned out to be the letter cited in clause 7. Another fake meant to derive from the Israelis and pacify Nadir. It was addressed to us both and once again, signed Zvi Kaplan. I called Salk and breathless, told him that in the park just now, Brown's assistant had presented us with a package. Disbelieving and he demanded how the meeting was arranged. I told him about the phone call that we had received from a woman claiming to be from our bank, Peter quizzed
“Did you record it?”
“I’ve since taped over it, well how was I to know that she was arranging for us to meet an MI6 officer?” I asked him.
“How come she knew your old branch was in Gillingham?” probed Salk.
“MI6 know I used to live there. Have you forgotten they searched the flat?”
“Hmm, very well, send me copies of what you’ve got. I'm in Turkey, in fact I'm in Mr Nadir's office, he’d like a word with you” ended Peter.
Taken by surprise and I didn’t know if I was up for the unexpected encounter. The tycoon swiftly to the point, Nadir began
“This call, Olivia, this call to MI6 to the man Grundy” a pause and he added “I want you to make it for me.”
“Okay I’ll do it!” I agreed at once.
“You will!” taken aback, then Nadir quickly responded “Good, good it’s settled then!” Changing the subject, he told me “Its nice here in Istanbul, its warm, tell me how is England.”
“Its pleasant here too, cold, but sunny” I reported.
8. The contents of the brown manila envelope are for your own personal use.
9. Upon successful conclusion of the assignment you will be provided with:
a. Details of a reserve bank account holding the sum of £200,000
b. Letter verifying that your criminal records have been expunged.
c. New identities, including passports and birth certificates.
d. A legally binding document, which you must sign promising not to disclose any details of the assignment. END.’
Dated 24th February 1998, we discovered that the second document turned out to be the letter cited in clause 7. Another fake meant to derive from the Israelis and pacify Nadir. It was addressed to us both and once again, signed Zvi Kaplan. I called Salk and breathless, told him that in the park just now, Brown's assistant had presented us with a package. Disbelieving and he demanded how the meeting was arranged. I told him about the phone call that we had received from a woman claiming to be from our bank, Peter quizzed
“Did you record it?”
“I’ve since taped over it, well how was I to know that she was arranging for us to meet an MI6 officer?” I asked him.
“How come she knew your old branch was in Gillingham?” probed Salk.
“MI6 know I used to live there. Have you forgotten they searched the flat?”
“Hmm, very well, send me copies of what you’ve got. I'm in Turkey, in fact I'm in Mr Nadir's office, he’d like a word with you” ended Peter.
Taken by surprise and I didn’t know if I was up for the unexpected encounter. The tycoon swiftly to the point, Nadir began
“This call, Olivia, this call to MI6 to the man Grundy” a pause and he added “I want you to make it for me.”
“Okay I’ll do it!” I agreed at once.
“You will!” taken aback, then Nadir quickly responded “Good, good it’s settled then!” Changing the subject, he told me “Its nice here in Istanbul, its warm, tell me how is England.”
“Its pleasant here too, cold, but sunny” I reported.
- 286 -
“Do this for me, Olivia” he entreated, he was at it too “And I’ll make sure that you and Jim live very comfortably – do you understand?”
“I do indeed,” taking a deep breath I owned up “Grundy’s number has changed, it's not the usual MI6 number. It’s a mobile phone number.”
“When you’ve made the call,” pledged Nadir “I’ll send you tickets to Istanbul.”
Puzzled and believing that he had failed to grasp my meaning, I tried again
“Grundy’s number has changed. Do you understand, according to my latest MI6 brief, I mustn’t call Grundy at MI6 HQ, I have to use his mobile number.”
“I understand, Olivia, just make the call for me when Peter returns to England.”
“One thing more” I advised him “I think you’ll be pleased to know that MI6 have doubled the price on your head, your bounty now stands at £200,000.”
“Oh that is good news!” joked Nadir, “I’m overjoyed it makes me very happy!”
Not just good terms, we ended the call laughing. Beyond me, Nadir had taken my news about Grundy’s change of number with such equanimity. Why should I care? I tried to report to Naylor, catching him in his car and a jiffy later, he called me back. I told him about my chat with Nadir. A pregnant pause, then he probed
“You’re sure he knows that the number’s changed.”
“He doesn't seem to mind, he was in a good mood – we shared a laugh.”
“Wonderful, eh, what did he say about the other changes?”
“I didn't mention them, he didn't ask, Peter Salkeld asked me to run through them. It’s too much to read over the phone, I'm sending him copies.”
“I'm very pleased,” he declared “I've got to go, call me tonight when you get more feedback.”
Returning from the box, Jim reported that Kerry had discussed his mission with Sandra; she had urged him to do it. Relaying the news to Naylor, I warned him
“Kerry’s under enquiry, his Mum and Dad have had a funny call.”
Some snoop had asked them about their son and his background. Not to worry, I assured Naylor that Kerry’s parents had said nothing that might compromise him. Not easily deterred, this time claiming that he was from Meridian TV, David had tried
“I do indeed,” taking a deep breath I owned up “Grundy’s number has changed, it's not the usual MI6 number. It’s a mobile phone number.”
“When you’ve made the call,” pledged Nadir “I’ll send you tickets to Istanbul.”
Puzzled and believing that he had failed to grasp my meaning, I tried again
“Grundy’s number has changed. Do you understand, according to my latest MI6 brief, I mustn’t call Grundy at MI6 HQ, I have to use his mobile number.”
“I understand, Olivia, just make the call for me when Peter returns to England.”
“One thing more” I advised him “I think you’ll be pleased to know that MI6 have doubled the price on your head, your bounty now stands at £200,000.”
“Oh that is good news!” joked Nadir, “I’m overjoyed it makes me very happy!”
Not just good terms, we ended the call laughing. Beyond me, Nadir had taken my news about Grundy’s change of number with such equanimity. Why should I care? I tried to report to Naylor, catching him in his car and a jiffy later, he called me back. I told him about my chat with Nadir. A pregnant pause, then he probed
“You’re sure he knows that the number’s changed.”
“He doesn't seem to mind, he was in a good mood – we shared a laugh.”
“Wonderful, eh, what did he say about the other changes?”
“I didn't mention them, he didn't ask, Peter Salkeld asked me to run through them. It’s too much to read over the phone, I'm sending him copies.”
“I'm very pleased,” he declared “I've got to go, call me tonight when you get more feedback.”
Returning from the box, Jim reported that Kerry had discussed his mission with Sandra; she had urged him to do it. Relaying the news to Naylor, I warned him
“Kerry’s under enquiry, his Mum and Dad have had a funny call.”
Some snoop had asked them about their son and his background. Not to worry, I assured Naylor that Kerry’s parents had said nothing that might compromise him. Not easily deterred, this time claiming that he was from Meridian TV, David had tried
- 287 -
Kerry again. Still no joy, our man explained to the Cook Reporter that as a sleuth, he must avoid publicity. When I told Naylor that Salk had phoned me only seconds after Kerry had turned up at the flat for his briefing, dismissive, he put it down to coincidence. MI6 routinely monitored all foreign telephone calls and keeping them up late that night, at eleven, I had another call from Istanbul. I had never known her tipsy. Incomprehensible, as Elizabeth started bickering with Peter, putting a stop to their fight, I asked her if she would put him on.
“How are you, Olivia, I’m having great fun” slurred Salk. “Elizabeth’s trying to tell you that she’s having a chat with Mr Nadir tomorrow to sort your contracts.”
Peter told me that a nice apartment near Nadir’s house in Istanbul was almost ready for us to move in. He advised me to ask Elizabeth how much pay we would get to live on. Salk’s extraordinary bulletin left me speechless. He confided that Jim and me would live in Northern Cyprus and joked
“I'm very pleased about that I'll take my holidays with you.”
“Well really, Peter!” cried Elizabeth “Do you mind, let me talk to Olivia.”
“You don't give her chance to get a word in,” he grumbled.
“Olivia” she began, sounding ostentatious, the banker informed me “I have an audience with Asil tomorrow when I shall discuss your contracts with him.”
“Oh brilliant, Elizabeth – that is good news!” I told her.
“Do you need a letter from Asil, oh dear, I’ve not told you what I’m talking about have I.” Scatty, she enquired, “Do you need a letter about the airfield, don’t you want Asil to sign a letter asking where his plane should land?”
“I don't need a letter,” I responded, “Please don’t trouble Mr Nadir.”
“Ooh doesn’t time fly, its late here, nearly one, I’ll call you tomorrow, oh, Peter wants a word” as Elizabeth handed the phone back to him, Salk told me
“Elizabeth’s been bloody generous d‘you know I must’ve sampled all the wines in Turkey, in fact, I’d better go, ugh I suddenly feel bloody woozy.”
“Thanks for that, Peter, I’ll share it with Jim – goodnight!”
Absurd, if Nadir was willing to offer us contracts, it looked like the television show must still be in the making. As the plot gathered pace, Naylor’s predictions began to fall into place. Next evening, now 25th February, Elizabeth phoned me again. Another upbeat chat, she told me
“How are you, Olivia, I’m having great fun” slurred Salk. “Elizabeth’s trying to tell you that she’s having a chat with Mr Nadir tomorrow to sort your contracts.”
Peter told me that a nice apartment near Nadir’s house in Istanbul was almost ready for us to move in. He advised me to ask Elizabeth how much pay we would get to live on. Salk’s extraordinary bulletin left me speechless. He confided that Jim and me would live in Northern Cyprus and joked
“I'm very pleased about that I'll take my holidays with you.”
“Well really, Peter!” cried Elizabeth “Do you mind, let me talk to Olivia.”
“You don't give her chance to get a word in,” he grumbled.
“Olivia” she began, sounding ostentatious, the banker informed me “I have an audience with Asil tomorrow when I shall discuss your contracts with him.”
“Oh brilliant, Elizabeth – that is good news!” I told her.
“Do you need a letter from Asil, oh dear, I’ve not told you what I’m talking about have I.” Scatty, she enquired, “Do you need a letter about the airfield, don’t you want Asil to sign a letter asking where his plane should land?”
“I don't need a letter,” I responded, “Please don’t trouble Mr Nadir.”
“Ooh doesn’t time fly, its late here, nearly one, I’ll call you tomorrow, oh, Peter wants a word” as Elizabeth handed the phone back to him, Salk told me
“Elizabeth’s been bloody generous d‘you know I must’ve sampled all the wines in Turkey, in fact, I’d better go, ugh I suddenly feel bloody woozy.”
“Thanks for that, Peter, I’ll share it with Jim – goodnight!”
Absurd, if Nadir was willing to offer us contracts, it looked like the television show must still be in the making. As the plot gathered pace, Naylor’s predictions began to fall into place. Next evening, now 25th February, Elizabeth phoned me again. Another upbeat chat, she told me
- 288 -
“I’ve spoken with Asil, I’m having another word with him tomorrow, I'm trying to get more money for you to cover the cost of food. I do hope that Jim’s not offended, we’ve had to be realistic and give him a smaller salary, taking into account your history with the Mossad.”
“That’s fine, Elizabeth, don’t worry, Jim won’t mind.”
“We've paid you just a little less than Volkan,” added the banker “It would be wrong to pay you more than him and it would upset the strict pay structure in Turkey.”
“I want to film you in the flat next week” butted in Peter, “Will that be alright?”
“Yeah, no problem” I told him.
“Have you got the number of that plumber fellow handy, I’ll use him to get into your flat, once we've done this last bit of filming” he confided, “We'll get you out of the country fast – how’s Jim?”
“He’s looking forward to seeing you.”
“It’s bloody freezing in Istanbul and I’ve got a heavy cold” sniffed Salk, “I’ve had some capsules to dry it up, on top of that, I've been drinking whisky all night and I’m floating.”
Two days more and Elizabeth rang us again, declaring that our contracts were ready; she asked me what exactly had MI6 given to me earlier in the week. In response, I told her that I had a list of nine instructions and enquired if she wished me to read them aloud to her. Not worried about her phone bill, excited, Elizabeth cried
“Oh yes! I’d love to hear them.”
“I must cease all contact with the SFO and the police” I began.
“What did Olivia say?” quizzed Peter, eavesdropping on me for a change.
“She said that MI6 have told her not to contact the SFO or the police, they must have fallen out,” comical, Elizabeth surmised “Why do you think they’ve done that Peter.”
“How the hell should I know?” he retorted, “I’m not a bloody oracle!”
“Do carry on, Olivia,” pressed Elizabeth “I’m sorry about that, I’m having a lot of trouble with this man again tonight.”
“Shall I give you Grundy’s new number?” I asked her.
“Grundy’s number has changed!”
In big bother now, soon sobering up, as Salk grabbed the mobile, I overheard him muttering
- 289 -
“That’s fine, Elizabeth, don’t worry, Jim won’t mind.”
“We've paid you just a little less than Volkan,” added the banker “It would be wrong to pay you more than him and it would upset the strict pay structure in Turkey.”
“I want to film you in the flat next week” butted in Peter, “Will that be alright?”
“Yeah, no problem” I told him.
“Have you got the number of that plumber fellow handy, I’ll use him to get into your flat, once we've done this last bit of filming” he confided, “We'll get you out of the country fast – how’s Jim?”
“He’s looking forward to seeing you.”
“It’s bloody freezing in Istanbul and I’ve got a heavy cold” sniffed Salk, “I’ve had some capsules to dry it up, on top of that, I've been drinking whisky all night and I’m floating.”
Two days more and Elizabeth rang us again, declaring that our contracts were ready; she asked me what exactly had MI6 given to me earlier in the week. In response, I told her that I had a list of nine instructions and enquired if she wished me to read them aloud to her. Not worried about her phone bill, excited, Elizabeth cried
“Oh yes! I’d love to hear them.”
“I must cease all contact with the SFO and the police” I began.
“What did Olivia say?” quizzed Peter, eavesdropping on me for a change.
“She said that MI6 have told her not to contact the SFO or the police, they must have fallen out,” comical, Elizabeth surmised “Why do you think they’ve done that Peter.”
“How the hell should I know?” he retorted, “I’m not a bloody oracle!”
“Do carry on, Olivia,” pressed Elizabeth “I’m sorry about that, I’m having a lot of trouble with this man again tonight.”
“Shall I give you Grundy’s new number?” I asked her.
“Grundy’s number has changed!”
In big bother now, soon sobering up, as Salk grabbed the mobile, I overheard him muttering
- 289 -
“I knew they'd do that” ballistic, he began “Did you tell Mr Nadir the number had changed?”
“It's the first thing I told him,” I whimpered, “Honest, I thought you knew…”
“What else has changed?” He thundered “You should have told me about these changes when you knew about them, Olivia!”
“It's not my fault, Peter” I whinged, “I told AN about it twice.”
In truth, Peter’s fault, I blamed him for handing the phone to Nadir. It’s why Salk failed to give us trouble until now. When I got onto Naylor, after a mouthful of expletives, philosophical, he admitted
“Shit happens.”
Salk pledged to call me next day, he didn’t. Three days later, on Tuesday, 3rd March, bursting for news, Naylor urged me to try him. When I did, Peter declared that he had postponed his scheduled visit to our flat. Apparently, still up for it he pledged that he would fix another date. That evening, after phoning Kerry, back in the flat, Jim reported
“Peter's fine, but he's had another weird call, this one from Bravo TV. A nice bloke offered him a chance to go on a show, wait for it – with his face hidden.”
When I reported Kerry’s strange call to Naylor, it strengthened his theory that the Cook Reporters would never dare venture near Kerry. In the interim, Salk got back to us. Informing me that our contracts were ready and Elizabeth was about to pop them in the post. He confirmed that the banker would be in touch with me next day, surprisingly cheerful, Peter declared that he had checked out Grundy’s number just in case it connected direct to MI6, when he found that it didn’t, Salk admitted there was now no value in filming me make the call. Ostensibly, off the hook, it left me thinking funny thoughts. Keeping them to myself, I gave Naylor a bell. Optimistic, wise after the event and unbelievably cocky, he deemed that the Cook Reporters had been bluffing all along. He argued
“They were pressing you for more material before they show their programme” needing no reminder “Like they did when you went to the Fraud Squad.”
Propping up Naylor’s theory, next day, Elizabeth phoned me to talk contracts. Uneasy, she told me that afraid I would think that they were not paying us much she alleged they were paying us the best rates they could offer.
“Don’t worry we’re not avaricious.” I assured her.
“You’ll be paid $175 per week, a little less than Volkan. Jim will receive $150, reflecting your different backgrounds.”
“It's the first thing I told him,” I whimpered, “Honest, I thought you knew…”
“What else has changed?” He thundered “You should have told me about these changes when you knew about them, Olivia!”
“It's not my fault, Peter” I whinged, “I told AN about it twice.”
In truth, Peter’s fault, I blamed him for handing the phone to Nadir. It’s why Salk failed to give us trouble until now. When I got onto Naylor, after a mouthful of expletives, philosophical, he admitted
“Shit happens.”
Salk pledged to call me next day, he didn’t. Three days later, on Tuesday, 3rd March, bursting for news, Naylor urged me to try him. When I did, Peter declared that he had postponed his scheduled visit to our flat. Apparently, still up for it he pledged that he would fix another date. That evening, after phoning Kerry, back in the flat, Jim reported
“Peter's fine, but he's had another weird call, this one from Bravo TV. A nice bloke offered him a chance to go on a show, wait for it – with his face hidden.”
When I reported Kerry’s strange call to Naylor, it strengthened his theory that the Cook Reporters would never dare venture near Kerry. In the interim, Salk got back to us. Informing me that our contracts were ready and Elizabeth was about to pop them in the post. He confirmed that the banker would be in touch with me next day, surprisingly cheerful, Peter declared that he had checked out Grundy’s number just in case it connected direct to MI6, when he found that it didn’t, Salk admitted there was now no value in filming me make the call. Ostensibly, off the hook, it left me thinking funny thoughts. Keeping them to myself, I gave Naylor a bell. Optimistic, wise after the event and unbelievably cocky, he deemed that the Cook Reporters had been bluffing all along. He argued
“They were pressing you for more material before they show their programme” needing no reminder “Like they did when you went to the Fraud Squad.”
Propping up Naylor’s theory, next day, Elizabeth phoned me to talk contracts. Uneasy, she told me that afraid I would think that they were not paying us much she alleged they were paying us the best rates they could offer.
“Don’t worry we’re not avaricious.” I assured her.
“You’ll be paid $175 per week, a little less than Volkan. Jim will receive $150, reflecting your different backgrounds.”
- 290 -
Not greedy, but it still didn’t seem very much, although we would live in a rent-free furnished apartment in posh Kandilli as part of the deal. Elizabeth assured me that we would need only money for food. She said the rest was for spending and apparently serious, she asked me
”Are you pleased?”
“Its great!” I enthused, hoping it hid my indifference.
When I thought about it, feeling sure that a man of Volkan’s talents earned a lot more than $200 per week, the offer had to be another test to check out if Jim and me were gold diggers. Next day, 6th March, I gave Naylor another bell and asked him what happened next. Supremely sure of himself, he promised me that very soon, Nadir would ask Jim and me to take up our new positions. He forecast
“You’ll stay in Turkey until they think it’s safe to move you to Cyprus.”
“How do you intend to get us out?” I queried, curious.
“How’s not a problem, we’ll use a boat and ship you over to Greece, when’s the snag. You’ll most likely stay in Istanbul until they’ve screened their programme, when you move to Cyprus, that’s when we’ll get you out.”
“What will be happening in the UK?”
“It’ll be pandemonium” chuckled Naylor, finding it very droll, he told me “The tabloids will have a field day, resignations ordered, Nadir fêted. A memo will land on Blair’s desk summing up the true position.”
“What about after that?” I probed.
“When Nadir’s celebrating his victory he’ll relax the security he’ll have around you, it’ll allow you to slip away. We’ll get you to Athens we'll put you on a flight to London. I’ll brief you how to handle the media.”
“Don’t you mean how to rubbish the story?”
Reducing him to depression and paranoia, Naylor meant to ridicule and isolate Nadir. I asked him to confirm how much MI6 was ready to reward us for the job. He assured me that bit was true, we would receive £200,000 plus the bonuses set out in his Final Brief. Later that same evening, Salk called us. Whinging, he alleged that we had failed to establish a direct link to MI6. If only he knew.
“If you’d asked me to call Grundy earlier we’d have what you want” I retorted.
“Hmmm, I still think it’s very strange his number changed just as I wanted to film you make the call” he muttered.
”Are you pleased?”
“Its great!” I enthused, hoping it hid my indifference.
When I thought about it, feeling sure that a man of Volkan’s talents earned a lot more than $200 per week, the offer had to be another test to check out if Jim and me were gold diggers. Next day, 6th March, I gave Naylor another bell and asked him what happened next. Supremely sure of himself, he promised me that very soon, Nadir would ask Jim and me to take up our new positions. He forecast
“You’ll stay in Turkey until they think it’s safe to move you to Cyprus.”
“How do you intend to get us out?” I queried, curious.
“How’s not a problem, we’ll use a boat and ship you over to Greece, when’s the snag. You’ll most likely stay in Istanbul until they’ve screened their programme, when you move to Cyprus, that’s when we’ll get you out.”
“What will be happening in the UK?”
“It’ll be pandemonium” chuckled Naylor, finding it very droll, he told me “The tabloids will have a field day, resignations ordered, Nadir fêted. A memo will land on Blair’s desk summing up the true position.”
“What about after that?” I probed.
“When Nadir’s celebrating his victory he’ll relax the security he’ll have around you, it’ll allow you to slip away. We’ll get you to Athens we'll put you on a flight to London. I’ll brief you how to handle the media.”
“Don’t you mean how to rubbish the story?”
Reducing him to depression and paranoia, Naylor meant to ridicule and isolate Nadir. I asked him to confirm how much MI6 was ready to reward us for the job. He assured me that bit was true, we would receive £200,000 plus the bonuses set out in his Final Brief. Later that same evening, Salk called us. Whinging, he alleged that we had failed to establish a direct link to MI6. If only he knew.
“If you’d asked me to call Grundy earlier we’d have what you want” I retorted.
“Hmmm, I still think it’s very strange his number changed just as I wanted to film you make the call” he muttered.
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“Coincidence” I argued, winding him up “Can you tell me how long Jim and me will remain in Istanbul after the programme’s gone out?”
“Oh, I should think about a month – why?” he probed.
“Istanbul’s risky, we’d be safer in Cyprus” I ventured.
Peter advised me not to worry. He declared that very soon, Jim and me would be political figures receiving diplomatic protection. He claimed that Asil Nadir would be elevated to a great statesman. Hmm usually such a sceptic, Salk crowed
“He'll be a billionaire!”
After Israel, I knew about cynicism. On Saturday morning, Peter called us again and maintaining his more recent friendly posture, unlike him, it put me on my guard. Claiming that our contracts were in the post, he directed
“Sign the copies, return them to Mr Nadir, on their receipt he'll ask Elizabeth to arrange your flight.”
Too good to be true, how can I ever forget what happened to Dad. On Monday, 9th March, we received the contracts with a cover letter dated 2nd March. It read. ‘Dear Mr and Mrs Frank, I am pleased to inform you my new offices have now been completed. Attached is the formal letter of employment for positions within my company. If you accept the offer, please will you sign the enclosed copy letter and return it to my head of security, Mr V Karabudak. My office will contact you directly on receipt of your acceptance of this offer, to agree your starting date. Yours truly, Asil Nadir.’
As instructed, we sent it back and two weeks more, now Saturday, 21st March, terribly twitchy, Naylor urged me to call David. I had to ask him why we had still not received a starting date.
“Hello, hello, I can’t hear you.”
I could hear him fine. David alleged that his mobile must be out of range and promised to call me back. I waited two minutes. As anticipated, he failed to keep his promise. Going through the motions and dialling his number again, David had switched off his phone. When I informed Naylor, fearing that his project was about to vaporise, hysterical, he stated the bleeding obvious and cried
“Something’s wrong – I can feel it! Don't try calling them again. If they call you, drop everything and report to me.”
On Monday, 30th March, when I informed him that no one had been in touch, Naylor urged me to verify that Peter Kerry’s flimsy cover was blown. Getting onto it right away, Jim phoned Elizabeth and reminding her that we had still not received a date to start work with her boss, the endgame, Elizabeth shrieked
“Oh, I should think about a month – why?” he probed.
“Istanbul’s risky, we’d be safer in Cyprus” I ventured.
Peter advised me not to worry. He declared that very soon, Jim and me would be political figures receiving diplomatic protection. He claimed that Asil Nadir would be elevated to a great statesman. Hmm usually such a sceptic, Salk crowed
“He'll be a billionaire!”
After Israel, I knew about cynicism. On Saturday morning, Peter called us again and maintaining his more recent friendly posture, unlike him, it put me on my guard. Claiming that our contracts were in the post, he directed
“Sign the copies, return them to Mr Nadir, on their receipt he'll ask Elizabeth to arrange your flight.”
Too good to be true, how can I ever forget what happened to Dad. On Monday, 9th March, we received the contracts with a cover letter dated 2nd March. It read. ‘Dear Mr and Mrs Frank, I am pleased to inform you my new offices have now been completed. Attached is the formal letter of employment for positions within my company. If you accept the offer, please will you sign the enclosed copy letter and return it to my head of security, Mr V Karabudak. My office will contact you directly on receipt of your acceptance of this offer, to agree your starting date. Yours truly, Asil Nadir.’
As instructed, we sent it back and two weeks more, now Saturday, 21st March, terribly twitchy, Naylor urged me to call David. I had to ask him why we had still not received a starting date.
“Hello, hello, I can’t hear you.”
I could hear him fine. David alleged that his mobile must be out of range and promised to call me back. I waited two minutes. As anticipated, he failed to keep his promise. Going through the motions and dialling his number again, David had switched off his phone. When I informed Naylor, fearing that his project was about to vaporise, hysterical, he stated the bleeding obvious and cried
“Something’s wrong – I can feel it! Don't try calling them again. If they call you, drop everything and report to me.”
On Monday, 30th March, when I informed him that no one had been in touch, Naylor urged me to verify that Peter Kerry’s flimsy cover was blown. Getting onto it right away, Jim phoned Elizabeth and reminding her that we had still not received a date to start work with her boss, the endgame, Elizabeth shrieked
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“You won’t get one now – it's finished! I suggest you call David or Peter.”
Naylor phoned me next day. Refusing to admit that it had been a huge blunder on his part to gamble everything on Kerry and believing his assignment not dead, only pining, he urged us to carry on as if nothing had changed. Like the Python sketch, he stubbornly refused to accept his Parrot’s demise. Begging Jim to call David, he had to sound emotional. Very silly now, he ordered Jim to say that if he refused to carry on then we would take our lives.
“Isn’t that a bit extreme?” I queried, stunned.
”Shock tactics!” he argued.
Despair more like. Just to indulge him, trying David’s number again, this time he deigned to answer. Jim told him
“I phoned Elizabeth yesterday, she said that its finished. I don't know what she means, we’ve still got work to do.”
“It is finished, Jim,” replied David, “It's all over. I suggest you start a new life, go to France…”
“Its not finished, David, it can’t be” argued Jim, doing his party piece.
”It's kaput, finito!” vowed David.
“Its not over for us, David” like a line from a soap, Jim claimed “We've come too far to end it like this, we'll hire a car and get a hose pipe and end it.”
“Don't you think that's a bit drastic?” yelled David, shaken. “I can't agree with that, it's a cop out it really is, make a new life in France.”
Naylor’s assignment in bits, April, so appropriate, All Fool’s Day, as we looked on the bright side of life, David phoned us and settled the issue.
“The charade’s over, we know that you paid a detective to read scripts over the phone, we know he's no MI6 officer – we know about Peter Kerry!”
No point denying the truth. Not long after, Naylor called to the flat to collect his mobile phone equipment. Giving me David’s posh home address in Hertfordshire, some spymaster, an absurd proposal, he alleged that we could always contact the Cook Reporter again and revive his interest by admitting that maybe Kerry was no officer, but just like us, MI6 had employed him as one of their secret agents. Promising to get back to him, when Naylor left the arena, no whistle yet and into extra time, I told Jim
“They think it's all over.”
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Naylor phoned me next day. Refusing to admit that it had been a huge blunder on his part to gamble everything on Kerry and believing his assignment not dead, only pining, he urged us to carry on as if nothing had changed. Like the Python sketch, he stubbornly refused to accept his Parrot’s demise. Begging Jim to call David, he had to sound emotional. Very silly now, he ordered Jim to say that if he refused to carry on then we would take our lives.
“Isn’t that a bit extreme?” I queried, stunned.
”Shock tactics!” he argued.
Despair more like. Just to indulge him, trying David’s number again, this time he deigned to answer. Jim told him
“I phoned Elizabeth yesterday, she said that its finished. I don't know what she means, we’ve still got work to do.”
“It is finished, Jim,” replied David, “It's all over. I suggest you start a new life, go to France…”
“Its not finished, David, it can’t be” argued Jim, doing his party piece.
”It's kaput, finito!” vowed David.
“Its not over for us, David” like a line from a soap, Jim claimed “We've come too far to end it like this, we'll hire a car and get a hose pipe and end it.”
“Don't you think that's a bit drastic?” yelled David, shaken. “I can't agree with that, it's a cop out it really is, make a new life in France.”
Naylor’s assignment in bits, April, so appropriate, All Fool’s Day, as we looked on the bright side of life, David phoned us and settled the issue.
“The charade’s over, we know that you paid a detective to read scripts over the phone, we know he's no MI6 officer – we know about Peter Kerry!”
No point denying the truth. Not long after, Naylor called to the flat to collect his mobile phone equipment. Giving me David’s posh home address in Hertfordshire, some spymaster, an absurd proposal, he alleged that we could always contact the Cook Reporter again and revive his interest by admitting that maybe Kerry was no officer, but just like us, MI6 had employed him as one of their secret agents. Promising to get back to him, when Naylor left the arena, no whistle yet and into extra time, I told Jim
“They think it's all over.”
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Using the cash proffered by Salk and placing my new clothes on ice, we bought a new computer. Months later, I had produced something like a book about our mission. Buried under a cloak of secrecy for too long, isolated, uncertain what we should do next, nothing to hide and seeking support, in July, I sent a synopsis of my work to my old employer Graham Hill. Hoping that he would feel outraged to learn the truth behind the plot to rob him. In my parcel, meaning to tempt him to contact her, I sent Graham a copy of one of the banker’s letters. On 14th August, as she phoned us, Elizabeth quizzed
“Is it really true?”
“It most certainly is,” confirmed Jim.
Elizabeth asked me to talk to Kevin Dowling; she revealed that he was another Cook Reporter. Condescending like Pelham, I didn’t like him at all. Unsure what we should do next, on 7th September, alleging that he would love to be involved with a book, Salk phoned us. As we began a new game of chess, Peter alleged
“I lost £16,000 when AN pulled the plug, I’d like to be involved in a book.”
Promising to be a very strange partnership and hardly based on trust, unable to believe what Peter told me, he still questioned everything I said. Resting my case, I told him that Elizabeth had phoned me a month back and asked him if he knew anything about that or a man called Dowling. Peter warned me
“Don’t tell Dowling anything! He’s a boozer with a big mouth after a cheap story for the Sundays – stay clear of him, work with me!”
Salk claimed that he had not been in touch with Elizabeth in ages. As he tried to support his fib, conspiratorial, he suggested we didn’t tell her that we had kissed and made up. Anyhow, humouring him we agreed to convene at our old haunt, the Churchill and on Saturday, 12th September, we assembled in the lounge. The smart Samsonite attaché case leaning against Peter’s chair the same sort that the Mossad always preferred, unlike his partner, David, we had not seen him carry a briefcase before. As Peter noticed me staring at it, looking guilty, he sprang from his seat and more fibs, throwing open his jacket he cried
“I’m not wired!”
For good measure, he gave us a twirl and suggested that we should frisk him. Declining his offer and we claimed that we trusted him but didn’t say how far. All seated and searching my face for a reaction, Peter confided
“I’ve had a word with Lauledge.”
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“Is it really true?”
“It most certainly is,” confirmed Jim.
Elizabeth asked me to talk to Kevin Dowling; she revealed that he was another Cook Reporter. Condescending like Pelham, I didn’t like him at all. Unsure what we should do next, on 7th September, alleging that he would love to be involved with a book, Salk phoned us. As we began a new game of chess, Peter alleged
“I lost £16,000 when AN pulled the plug, I’d like to be involved in a book.”
Promising to be a very strange partnership and hardly based on trust, unable to believe what Peter told me, he still questioned everything I said. Resting my case, I told him that Elizabeth had phoned me a month back and asked him if he knew anything about that or a man called Dowling. Peter warned me
“Don’t tell Dowling anything! He’s a boozer with a big mouth after a cheap story for the Sundays – stay clear of him, work with me!”
Salk claimed that he had not been in touch with Elizabeth in ages. As he tried to support his fib, conspiratorial, he suggested we didn’t tell her that we had kissed and made up. Anyhow, humouring him we agreed to convene at our old haunt, the Churchill and on Saturday, 12th September, we assembled in the lounge. The smart Samsonite attaché case leaning against Peter’s chair the same sort that the Mossad always preferred, unlike his partner, David, we had not seen him carry a briefcase before. As Peter noticed me staring at it, looking guilty, he sprang from his seat and more fibs, throwing open his jacket he cried
“I’m not wired!”
For good measure, he gave us a twirl and suggested that we should frisk him. Declining his offer and we claimed that we trusted him but didn’t say how far. All seated and searching my face for a reaction, Peter confided
“I’ve had a word with Lauledge.”
- 294 -
Spoiling it for Salk, like day one with David, not a flicker. Not scared of him, Lauledge should be frightened of me. Peeved with Peter, ever since prison, my integrity facing constant scrutiny, his clumsy strategy only succeeded in erecting a wall between us. He realised that himself now, endeavouring to knock it down, Salk claimed that he always knew there had to be more and asked me if he might read the book. Not then worthy of the label, more a rambling diary. I reckoned his experienced journalistic eye would be helpful and agreed to let him criticise my copy. Before we ventured further, Peter asked me if the contents of my memoirs were true. Before he would permit me to answer, he declared that if only fiction, never mind, we could publish the book as a novel mixed up with facts. Issuing me with a stern warning, Salk asserted that if I declared my tale true and he found it wasn’t, I agreed, we were finished. He didn’t want my answer now. Instead, he proposed that I should call him later in the week. Weary with his primitive games and offended by his unreasonable suspicions, I exclaimed
“Faction!”
Peter’s face expressed every sort of emotion. Well it would, I still wasn’t meant to know the name of his company. My revenge for trying to startle me when he mentioned Lauledge, touché, I told Peter
“You know, Freddie Forsyth does it, weaves fact and fiction, he calls it faction.”
“Oh…yes” he faltered, rattled, “I suppose we could do it as faction.”
As Peter dashed off to the gents, on the surface, his gesture thoughtful, it let us discuss his pitch in private. Don’t worry I had not forgotten his spy case. Jim had since sussed it too. Using it to our advantage and making up our supposed to be private conversation as we went along. When Peter returned, it was time to leave. As we dallied by an exit, staring at the miserable weather, pelting it down, Salk suggested that we looked after his case while he fetched his wheels. While Peter was absent, as I tried to lift his case, weighing a ton, it had to contain a camera.
On Wednesday, as planned, I phoned Peter. Before I could say a word, excited he yelled
“The book reads true!”
A final ultimatum, promising me that he had loads, Salk unveiled that I had to answer all his searching questions. Under siege, I dreaded opening the post. As months flashed by, it was soon 1999. The interrogation by mail at an end, anxious to eliminate Peter’s fears about us being MI6 and revealing all, I asked him if he believed us now. Openly admitting that in the course of the many months that he had known us, he had feared all along that, we
“Faction!”
Peter’s face expressed every sort of emotion. Well it would, I still wasn’t meant to know the name of his company. My revenge for trying to startle me when he mentioned Lauledge, touché, I told Peter
“You know, Freddie Forsyth does it, weaves fact and fiction, he calls it faction.”
“Oh…yes” he faltered, rattled, “I suppose we could do it as faction.”
As Peter dashed off to the gents, on the surface, his gesture thoughtful, it let us discuss his pitch in private. Don’t worry I had not forgotten his spy case. Jim had since sussed it too. Using it to our advantage and making up our supposed to be private conversation as we went along. When Peter returned, it was time to leave. As we dallied by an exit, staring at the miserable weather, pelting it down, Salk suggested that we looked after his case while he fetched his wheels. While Peter was absent, as I tried to lift his case, weighing a ton, it had to contain a camera.
On Wednesday, as planned, I phoned Peter. Before I could say a word, excited he yelled
“The book reads true!”
A final ultimatum, promising me that he had loads, Salk unveiled that I had to answer all his searching questions. Under siege, I dreaded opening the post. As months flashed by, it was soon 1999. The interrogation by mail at an end, anxious to eliminate Peter’s fears about us being MI6 and revealing all, I asked him if he believed us now. Openly admitting that in the course of the many months that he had known us, he had feared all along that, we
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were too good to be true. As I had long since realised, Peter, not David, led the enquiry into Jim and me.
As Salk confessed, he admitted that impressed, no matter how many times he had tried to trip me up, not once had I detracted from my story. No matter how hard he had attempted to deceive me, never deviating, I had remained consistent throughout my account. Finally, Salk asserted
“I wouldn’t be doing this if I thought it was a tissue of lies.”
“Here’s all the proof you need,” I declared “MI5 only provided us with new National Insurance and NHS numbers to fit our bogus ID.”
No way could we achieve that on our own. Jim had called NI central records in Newcastle. An officer incumbent in their investigations department soon verified all we needed to know. As Peter closed his interrogation, facing my worst ordeal yet and trying my hand at writing, making many false starts and relying heavily on Salk’s tips and ideas, I set about turning my diary into a book. A daunting task and many weeks later, as Peter offered me his valuable criticism, the first draft of my preliminary manuscript not very skilled, it would reduce me to tears and these days not in the best of health, but not lacking for motivation, at last, as it began to emerge, Salk declared
“You have a sensational story – we must find a way to tell it!”
Unmoved by our denials, in return for his support, Peter demanded guarantees that we had defected. It meant that we had still to convince him that our aspiration to publish a book formed no part of a fresh MI6 assignment to ruin his retirement. Otherwise, on our own and compelled to go with him, Peter asked me to organise a date in a public place so that he could film me chatting with Pelham or Naylor. I tried warning him, heedful of their personal security, it was extremely doubtful that any spy worth their salt would ever agree to walk into such a blatant trap. Futile to argue, it served only to make Peter worry that we were still with them.
Frustrated and just to pacify him, expecting nothing in return, I penned a note to Pelham. Playing to Salk’s rules, Jim found a lawyer willing to witness any reply. Sending our letter by Recorded Delivery and hanging onto a stamped receipt as proof that we had indeed posted it. Dated 17th January 2000, its content made up and designed to extract one more response, my lines read ‘Dear Mr Pelham, We received two very interesting telephone calls this weekend. First on Saturday, out of the blue, Elizabeth Forsyth contacted us. She said that Asil Nadir is planning to invite us to return to Istanbul. Mr Nadir wishes to review the case. We received the second call on Sunday. Peter Kerry. He said that his business is on the verge of collapse. He
As Salk confessed, he admitted that impressed, no matter how many times he had tried to trip me up, not once had I detracted from my story. No matter how hard he had attempted to deceive me, never deviating, I had remained consistent throughout my account. Finally, Salk asserted
“I wouldn’t be doing this if I thought it was a tissue of lies.”
“Here’s all the proof you need,” I declared “MI5 only provided us with new National Insurance and NHS numbers to fit our bogus ID.”
No way could we achieve that on our own. Jim had called NI central records in Newcastle. An officer incumbent in their investigations department soon verified all we needed to know. As Peter closed his interrogation, facing my worst ordeal yet and trying my hand at writing, making many false starts and relying heavily on Salk’s tips and ideas, I set about turning my diary into a book. A daunting task and many weeks later, as Peter offered me his valuable criticism, the first draft of my preliminary manuscript not very skilled, it would reduce me to tears and these days not in the best of health, but not lacking for motivation, at last, as it began to emerge, Salk declared
“You have a sensational story – we must find a way to tell it!”
Unmoved by our denials, in return for his support, Peter demanded guarantees that we had defected. It meant that we had still to convince him that our aspiration to publish a book formed no part of a fresh MI6 assignment to ruin his retirement. Otherwise, on our own and compelled to go with him, Peter asked me to organise a date in a public place so that he could film me chatting with Pelham or Naylor. I tried warning him, heedful of their personal security, it was extremely doubtful that any spy worth their salt would ever agree to walk into such a blatant trap. Futile to argue, it served only to make Peter worry that we were still with them.
Frustrated and just to pacify him, expecting nothing in return, I penned a note to Pelham. Playing to Salk’s rules, Jim found a lawyer willing to witness any reply. Sending our letter by Recorded Delivery and hanging onto a stamped receipt as proof that we had indeed posted it. Dated 17th January 2000, its content made up and designed to extract one more response, my lines read ‘Dear Mr Pelham, We received two very interesting telephone calls this weekend. First on Saturday, out of the blue, Elizabeth Forsyth contacted us. She said that Asil Nadir is planning to invite us to return to Istanbul. Mr Nadir wishes to review the case. We received the second call on Sunday. Peter Kerry. He said that his business is on the verge of collapse. He
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needs money, he begged us to provide him with more work! We need your advice. We’re eager to work for you again.’
On 27th January and astounded that we had received a reply. Jim phoned our lawyer. An hour later, taking seats together in her office, we gave up the sealed envelope. As we watched her slit open the envelope with a knife, she extracted a single sheet of headed paper. Reading its contents aloud, the lawyer told us
“This letter is from PO Box 3255, London SW1P 1AE. It’s dated 26th January and is addressed to you both. It begins; with reference to your letter dated 17th January, and states, the Nadir case is closed. It’s impossible to offer you another assignment. I’ve no use for Kerry. I suggest that you make a fresh start. I’m sorry if you find this disappointing, it must be our final communication. Its signed T Pelham, for the Director General.”
Once back in the flat, we got onto Peter via e-mail, phoning us back, he alleged that we couldn’t prove MI5 sent it.
“Oh yes we can!” I cried.
A chink in MI5 security, like all the other documents, which he had posted to us, the envelope, which had contained Pelham’s letter, carried no postage stamp, franked, it gave us our lead. Jim made a careful note of the frank’s coded serial number and then dialled a customer service number at a Royal Mail office. They advised Jim that he had to call the curiously titled, London Meter Reading Office.
A helpful young clerk answered Jim’s call, making no mention of MI5, at once Jim explained to him that he wished to trace the sender of a letter, which he had just received. As Jim gave him the code, the obliging clerk outlined that he would need to check it against Royal Mail records. When he got back to Jim, jumpy, the clerk confessed
“I shouldn’t be telling you this – I could lose my job! The letter went out from Thorney Street, its a government building, I’ll give you the phone number…”
Jim dialled the number immediately. A woman answered, she announced
“Hello – goods inward.”
“I’ve received a letter” began Jim, “Its from PO Box 3255.”
“I need a name or an extension number,” insisted the woman.
Hanging up, Jim realised that if he had given the woman Pelham’s name, she would have put him on the line.
Passing on Jim’s results to Peter, I reported to him that we had backtracked the MI5 letter from our flat direct to Pelham’s desk. Not that we had wanted it, we had even obtained the Security Service post room telephone number and address. It carried the
On 27th January and astounded that we had received a reply. Jim phoned our lawyer. An hour later, taking seats together in her office, we gave up the sealed envelope. As we watched her slit open the envelope with a knife, she extracted a single sheet of headed paper. Reading its contents aloud, the lawyer told us
“This letter is from PO Box 3255, London SW1P 1AE. It’s dated 26th January and is addressed to you both. It begins; with reference to your letter dated 17th January, and states, the Nadir case is closed. It’s impossible to offer you another assignment. I’ve no use for Kerry. I suggest that you make a fresh start. I’m sorry if you find this disappointing, it must be our final communication. Its signed T Pelham, for the Director General.”
Once back in the flat, we got onto Peter via e-mail, phoning us back, he alleged that we couldn’t prove MI5 sent it.
“Oh yes we can!” I cried.
A chink in MI5 security, like all the other documents, which he had posted to us, the envelope, which had contained Pelham’s letter, carried no postage stamp, franked, it gave us our lead. Jim made a careful note of the frank’s coded serial number and then dialled a customer service number at a Royal Mail office. They advised Jim that he had to call the curiously titled, London Meter Reading Office.
A helpful young clerk answered Jim’s call, making no mention of MI5, at once Jim explained to him that he wished to trace the sender of a letter, which he had just received. As Jim gave him the code, the obliging clerk outlined that he would need to check it against Royal Mail records. When he got back to Jim, jumpy, the clerk confessed
“I shouldn’t be telling you this – I could lose my job! The letter went out from Thorney Street, its a government building, I’ll give you the phone number…”
Jim dialled the number immediately. A woman answered, she announced
“Hello – goods inward.”
“I’ve received a letter” began Jim, “Its from PO Box 3255.”
“I need a name or an extension number,” insisted the woman.
Hanging up, Jim realised that if he had given the woman Pelham’s name, she would have put him on the line.
Passing on Jim’s results to Peter, I reported to him that we had backtracked the MI5 letter from our flat direct to Pelham’s desk. Not that we had wanted it, we had even obtained the Security Service post room telephone number and address. It carried the
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same postcode as the one, which I had used to send all my stuff to Pelham at Thames House, the MI5 HQ. A hard man to please, Salk moaned
“The tabloids will say you paid some geezer to frank it.”
I had laboured in offices far too long to know that franking machines possessed unique serial numbers, which allowed Royal Mail to track their source. The code we had, indubitably, linked us to MI5. No satisfying some, Peter claimed
“I don’t know if it’s enough, we’ve got nothing else.”
“What do you mean? We’ve got loads of stuff, what about the NI numbers?”
“The press will say you got them from a bloke in a south London pub.”
Absurd and at once springing a leak in his preposterous theory, it sank like the Titanic. Such numbers useless to us, they would most likely relate to cons in gaol, I knew that once in prison, many inmates surrendered their numbers to villains on the out, whereupon, dividing the proceeds, they made false benefit claims.
It was relatively easy to investigate the National Insurance numbers supplied to us by MI5, when we were still pretending to be Mr and Mrs Hart. Apart from the fact that they should never have been supplied to us in the first instance, the NI numbers issued to us authentic, they were issued through official channels. Still trying to convince him, that if we were working for MI6, we would never have given up our information about the frank and certainly wouldn’t have divulged the truth about the NI numbers, frustrating, but it made no difference to him.
Secretly fond of him, a great bloke, parting company, we missed Salk. Isolated again and forced to suspend the book, we looked at gaining jobs. Tired of double-dealing we longed for the simple life, but facing catch-22 who would believe our extraordinary curriculum vitae?
As we searched for jobs, we contacted a London detective agency. Nationwide Investigation Group led us to believe that if we paid them £300 and successfully completed their private investigator training course, they promised to offer us an interview. We passed our examinations with distinction and upon receipt of our impressive certificates, we reminded them about the promised interview. It turned out to be another scam and Bliar once bragged its not rip off Britain. My blood boiling, the doctor warned me that it was hypertension. The stress too much, as more complications set in, Jim ordered me take a much needed break. As he took over, searching the phone directory, this time Jim found for us a top-flight lawyer.
- 298 -
“The tabloids will say you paid some geezer to frank it.”
I had laboured in offices far too long to know that franking machines possessed unique serial numbers, which allowed Royal Mail to track their source. The code we had, indubitably, linked us to MI5. No satisfying some, Peter claimed
“I don’t know if it’s enough, we’ve got nothing else.”
“What do you mean? We’ve got loads of stuff, what about the NI numbers?”
“The press will say you got them from a bloke in a south London pub.”
Absurd and at once springing a leak in his preposterous theory, it sank like the Titanic. Such numbers useless to us, they would most likely relate to cons in gaol, I knew that once in prison, many inmates surrendered their numbers to villains on the out, whereupon, dividing the proceeds, they made false benefit claims.
It was relatively easy to investigate the National Insurance numbers supplied to us by MI5, when we were still pretending to be Mr and Mrs Hart. Apart from the fact that they should never have been supplied to us in the first instance, the NI numbers issued to us authentic, they were issued through official channels. Still trying to convince him, that if we were working for MI6, we would never have given up our information about the frank and certainly wouldn’t have divulged the truth about the NI numbers, frustrating, but it made no difference to him.
Secretly fond of him, a great bloke, parting company, we missed Salk. Isolated again and forced to suspend the book, we looked at gaining jobs. Tired of double-dealing we longed for the simple life, but facing catch-22 who would believe our extraordinary curriculum vitae?
As we searched for jobs, we contacted a London detective agency. Nationwide Investigation Group led us to believe that if we paid them £300 and successfully completed their private investigator training course, they promised to offer us an interview. We passed our examinations with distinction and upon receipt of our impressive certificates, we reminded them about the promised interview. It turned out to be another scam and Bliar once bragged its not rip off Britain. My blood boiling, the doctor warned me that it was hypertension. The stress too much, as more complications set in, Jim ordered me take a much needed break. As he took over, searching the phone directory, this time Jim found for us a top-flight lawyer.
- 298 -
Madeleine Abas informed Jim that she had represented ex-MI6 Officer Richard Tomlinson. Unlike him, meaning to remain within the law, initially, Madeleine encouraged us to present our book for vetting to the Joint Intelligence Committee. However, aware that representatives from MI5 and MI6 sat upon its panel, we didn’t care for that idea and after more discussion, the lawyer suggested that we should dispatch our draft manuscript to Special Branch.
Madeleine assured us that Special Branch endorsement amounted to the same thing as JIC approval and freed me to publish my book in the public domain.
Paranoid about making a fatal mistake and ending up back in prison, we trusted no one. Alas, sometimes you have to take risks. Settling the issue and Madeleine contacted Special Branch on our behalf.
Impressed by our approach, Detective Chief Superintendent Mark Lewingdon described our conduct commendable. Encouraged by his response, we sent him a draft of our manuscript on compact disc to New Scotland Yard. As he delegated the task of reading our account to Detective Sergeant Tim Jones, shortly, he rang Jim and told us that he had found our story tragic yet compelling. Urging us to publish, poetic justice, he told Jim
“You’ve done no wrong, but they’ll be livid”.
© COPYRIGHT OLIVIA FRANK ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Madeleine assured us that Special Branch endorsement amounted to the same thing as JIC approval and freed me to publish my book in the public domain.
Paranoid about making a fatal mistake and ending up back in prison, we trusted no one. Alas, sometimes you have to take risks. Settling the issue and Madeleine contacted Special Branch on our behalf.
Impressed by our approach, Detective Chief Superintendent Mark Lewingdon described our conduct commendable. Encouraged by his response, we sent him a draft of our manuscript on compact disc to New Scotland Yard. As he delegated the task of reading our account to Detective Sergeant Tim Jones, shortly, he rang Jim and told us that he had found our story tragic yet compelling. Urging us to publish, poetic justice, he told Jim
“You’ve done no wrong, but they’ll be livid”.
© COPYRIGHT OLIVIA FRANK ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
