9.The Impostor
As the extraordinary plot took another new twist, David had to be kidding. The Cook Reporter had asked me to find an MI6 spy willing to pose in front of Peter’s camera. Once back in Dover, I telephoned Naylor and gave him an account of my day at the Fraud Squad. Seemingly happy, he probed
“Excellent, but tell me what went on in the car?”
Realising that MI6 must have had us under surveillance, an alarming notion and terrifying him, I told Naylor about David’s demand. Like me, he accepted that it could be a bluff, but far too risky to ignore and taking drastic action to recover the assignment, giving us the green light, he instructed me to exploit the private detective whom Jim had found in Ramsgate.
“You mean Peter Kerry, how should we handle him?” I queried.
“I want him to play Mister Grundy, remember him? He’s the name mentioned in the instructions you got in July,” Naylor responded.
“Yeah, I remember” I replied “How do we get in touch with Grundy?”
As he explained to me, Naylor confessed that Grundy was simply a creation of his wild imagination. He ordered me to write him a made-up report, once photocopied, I had to destroy the original and present the copy to the Cook Reporters. Amused and intrigued, I asked him what he would like me to say in the inventory. Grundy needed a viable motive to visit me. As I got busy penning a false version of my recent date with Smith, adopting the excuse provided by Naylor and claiming that a Special Branch chap sent by DI John Franks had frisked me, and declaring that the episode had upset me, I asked Grundy if he would call to the flat to give me a pep talk. Upon initiating the task of running Kerry as my agent, needs be I had to picture him as my handler. Keeping tight control over our date, Grundy must see me at the flat where David would insist that I record it. A short script, however when getting to work on it, not easy, my first attempt tame and contrived. As Jim helped me out by playing Grundy, it took around twenty minutes to rehearse the act and that would do. Calling Naylor at once, as we went over it, squeamish, he whined, claiming that my effort was too daring. Not doing it again, I protested
“It needs to be exciting, time’s against us I still have to hook Kerry.”
Aware that David would arrange to have our itemised telephone bill checked out, Naylor had banned us from using our landline to call Kerry. As he returned to the flat after making his call to the detective, Jim told me that Kerry had agreed to do it for a few quid
As the extraordinary plot took another new twist, David had to be kidding. The Cook Reporter had asked me to find an MI6 spy willing to pose in front of Peter’s camera. Once back in Dover, I telephoned Naylor and gave him an account of my day at the Fraud Squad. Seemingly happy, he probed
“Excellent, but tell me what went on in the car?”
Realising that MI6 must have had us under surveillance, an alarming notion and terrifying him, I told Naylor about David’s demand. Like me, he accepted that it could be a bluff, but far too risky to ignore and taking drastic action to recover the assignment, giving us the green light, he instructed me to exploit the private detective whom Jim had found in Ramsgate.
“You mean Peter Kerry, how should we handle him?” I queried.
“I want him to play Mister Grundy, remember him? He’s the name mentioned in the instructions you got in July,” Naylor responded.
“Yeah, I remember” I replied “How do we get in touch with Grundy?”
As he explained to me, Naylor confessed that Grundy was simply a creation of his wild imagination. He ordered me to write him a made-up report, once photocopied, I had to destroy the original and present the copy to the Cook Reporters. Amused and intrigued, I asked him what he would like me to say in the inventory. Grundy needed a viable motive to visit me. As I got busy penning a false version of my recent date with Smith, adopting the excuse provided by Naylor and claiming that a Special Branch chap sent by DI John Franks had frisked me, and declaring that the episode had upset me, I asked Grundy if he would call to the flat to give me a pep talk. Upon initiating the task of running Kerry as my agent, needs be I had to picture him as my handler. Keeping tight control over our date, Grundy must see me at the flat where David would insist that I record it. A short script, however when getting to work on it, not easy, my first attempt tame and contrived. As Jim helped me out by playing Grundy, it took around twenty minutes to rehearse the act and that would do. Calling Naylor at once, as we went over it, squeamish, he whined, claiming that my effort was too daring. Not doing it again, I protested
“It needs to be exciting, time’s against us I still have to hook Kerry.”
Aware that David would arrange to have our itemised telephone bill checked out, Naylor had banned us from using our landline to call Kerry. As he returned to the flat after making his call to the detective, Jim told me that Kerry had agreed to do it for a few quid
- 206 -
plus his train fare. Playing safe, we didn’t intend to warn David about my date with Grundy until it was too late for him or Peter to film it.
On Monday, 24th October, as Kerry arrived on our doorstep, I invited him into the lounge. Late for his date, he blamed ‘leaves on the line’ for delaying his train. Grumbling, he revealed that business was still bad and without his part-time work with the band, he would have no money to meet his bills. Seizing our opportunity, as Jim poured coffee, floating the bait, he enthused
“Olivia’s trying something new, we’ve got contacts, we’ve been talking to a rich foreign bloke, he’ll give us all contracts if we can get something off the ground.”
“What sort of work is it?” quizzed Kerry, eager.
“Exciting, well-paid, you’d be working for Asil Nadir,” I told him.
“What?” flabbergasted, he quizzed “Why should Asil Nadir offer me work?”
At least the first part true, declaring that Nadir was obsessed with security, I claimed that he needed people to verify the bona fides of new contacts before he agreed to meet them. Then my story strayed. We claimed that Nadir chose all his people through an agency. I told him that they had hired us before and that we could help Kerry to impress them. All that he needed to do was pretend that he was taking part in a make-believe secret mission. I assured him
“It’s just harmless fun to get us all nice well-paid jobs, we need to record a fake chat,” I told him, ”It must sound natural.”
“What’s this about the SIS” queried Kerry, as he studied his script, smirking, he quizzed, ”You don’t mean MI6 do you?”
An imaginary detective agency, laughing at him, I contended SIS was short for Société Internationale de Sécurité. As Jim helped me out, we told him that its HQ was in the south of France. Before Kerry went home and checked them out on the Internet, colouring the lie, I told him that it was a special agency, he wouldn’t find them listed in any phone book and they had no website. More truthful, I also told him that we had lived in Nice for a while during an assignment. Spicing it up, I advised him
“This is the big-league, Peter, but its not MI6.”
“I didn’t really think it was,” he responded, trying to save face.
“Our SIS are no less professional” I assured him. “Its no accident they’re based in Nice. They’re in demand, apart from Nadir, they provide their security services to famous pop and film stars.”
“That’s great!” cried Kerry.
- 207 -
On Monday, 24th October, as Kerry arrived on our doorstep, I invited him into the lounge. Late for his date, he blamed ‘leaves on the line’ for delaying his train. Grumbling, he revealed that business was still bad and without his part-time work with the band, he would have no money to meet his bills. Seizing our opportunity, as Jim poured coffee, floating the bait, he enthused
“Olivia’s trying something new, we’ve got contacts, we’ve been talking to a rich foreign bloke, he’ll give us all contracts if we can get something off the ground.”
“What sort of work is it?” quizzed Kerry, eager.
“Exciting, well-paid, you’d be working for Asil Nadir,” I told him.
“What?” flabbergasted, he quizzed “Why should Asil Nadir offer me work?”
At least the first part true, declaring that Nadir was obsessed with security, I claimed that he needed people to verify the bona fides of new contacts before he agreed to meet them. Then my story strayed. We claimed that Nadir chose all his people through an agency. I told him that they had hired us before and that we could help Kerry to impress them. All that he needed to do was pretend that he was taking part in a make-believe secret mission. I assured him
“It’s just harmless fun to get us all nice well-paid jobs, we need to record a fake chat,” I told him, ”It must sound natural.”
“What’s this about the SIS” queried Kerry, as he studied his script, smirking, he quizzed, ”You don’t mean MI6 do you?”
An imaginary detective agency, laughing at him, I contended SIS was short for Société Internationale de Sécurité. As Jim helped me out, we told him that its HQ was in the south of France. Before Kerry went home and checked them out on the Internet, colouring the lie, I told him that it was a special agency, he wouldn’t find them listed in any phone book and they had no website. More truthful, I also told him that we had lived in Nice for a while during an assignment. Spicing it up, I advised him
“This is the big-league, Peter, but its not MI6.”
“I didn’t really think it was,” he responded, trying to save face.
“Our SIS are no less professional” I assured him. “Its no accident they’re based in Nice. They’re in demand, apart from Nadir, they provide their security services to famous pop and film stars.”
“That’s great!” cried Kerry.
- 207 -
We knew the music and movie angle must grab him. Getting to work, finishing the tape in just under an hour, nosey, Kerry wanted to know why he had to call himself Grundy. I explained it was his cover name, stressing that in this game, nobody ever used real monikers. When we had done and just as soon as Kerry returned home to Ramsgate, giving me a call from his landline, we taped another script. All the ingredients mixed and getting back onto David, I reminded him that Grundy was the guy named in my latest MI6 brief and told him about my bogus letter. While on the phone, I claimed that Grundy had called me earlier in the day to tell me that he was visiting the flat the next afternoon. Pleased, David cried
“That’s better!”
“Can Peter be in Dover tomorrow to film Grundy?” I probed.
“Its too short notice” he wailed.
Perfect, no risk and swaggering, I lectured him about the care that we had taken to keep the show running. Reminding David it was a monster of a story, he could only agree when I promised him that he could retire on it. Turning the tables on him and coming clean, David admitted that though he appreciated our efforts, fair enough, duty compelled him to play Devil’s Advocate. He confessed
“I’m chasing it for its spy content. I’m wound up, nobody’s ever filmed a secret service operation in action before” owning up, he told me “This story isn’t about Nadir, Olivia – it’s about you!”
Back to it, alias Peter Kerry, our man Grundy, arrived at the flat on Tuesday, 25th November, just after two. A gloomy afternoon it threatened rain. I couldn’t trust David not to post a camera outside, guarding against it, I had warned Kerry to look the part and wear a nice suit. When the bell went, it must be him and per the script, as I opened the door, looking very smart, if a bit wooden, Kerry began
“Good afternoon, Mrs Frank, I’m Grundy.”
Once in the lounge, crucial, Kerry could stay no more than sixteen minutes. As Jim timed it, the duration of his visit must match the length of our tape. Filling the gap with small talk over coffee, as Jim checked the time once more, zero hour and he called out
“Its time to go!”
When Kerry departed, I played back the tape to refresh my memory.
“I’ll refer to my organisation as the SIS” began Grundy.
“What if Nadir asks about security.” I queried, “When he arrives in the UK?”
- 208 -
“That’s better!”
“Can Peter be in Dover tomorrow to film Grundy?” I probed.
“Its too short notice” he wailed.
Perfect, no risk and swaggering, I lectured him about the care that we had taken to keep the show running. Reminding David it was a monster of a story, he could only agree when I promised him that he could retire on it. Turning the tables on him and coming clean, David admitted that though he appreciated our efforts, fair enough, duty compelled him to play Devil’s Advocate. He confessed
“I’m chasing it for its spy content. I’m wound up, nobody’s ever filmed a secret service operation in action before” owning up, he told me “This story isn’t about Nadir, Olivia – it’s about you!”
Back to it, alias Peter Kerry, our man Grundy, arrived at the flat on Tuesday, 25th November, just after two. A gloomy afternoon it threatened rain. I couldn’t trust David not to post a camera outside, guarding against it, I had warned Kerry to look the part and wear a nice suit. When the bell went, it must be him and per the script, as I opened the door, looking very smart, if a bit wooden, Kerry began
“Good afternoon, Mrs Frank, I’m Grundy.”
Once in the lounge, crucial, Kerry could stay no more than sixteen minutes. As Jim timed it, the duration of his visit must match the length of our tape. Filling the gap with small talk over coffee, as Jim checked the time once more, zero hour and he called out
“Its time to go!”
When Kerry departed, I played back the tape to refresh my memory.
“I’ll refer to my organisation as the SIS” began Grundy.
“What if Nadir asks about security.” I queried, “When he arrives in the UK?”
- 208 -
“Not part of your brief” asserted Grundy. “Tell him you’re a liaison officer, tell him the Mossad will look after him, his safety’s certain.”
Grundy asked to see the letters, which Elizabeth had written to me. It meant me leaving the stage to fetch my briefcase from the bedroom. The theatre had to be performed in real time. David, certainly Peter, could be trusted to double-check everything. Sat on the bed, I counted one full minute before returning with my prop.
Filling the gap, while I was absent, Jim shared chitchat with Grundy. Making his imagined audience think that he had journeyed to our flat from London and reciting his lines, the impostor claimed
“I travelled to Dover by train, it took me over two hours to get here.”
A lot like making a play for the radio, quite fun too and as we relaxed, sticking to his script, Grundy asked to see Nadir’s letter. As I handed him an envelope, opening it up, he took out a scrap of paper and cue sound effects, rustling added due realism to the tape. Staring at the blank parchment, Grundy proclaimed
“He doesn’t say much.”
A tendency to laugh in awkward places and staunching my impulse to corpse, as I did so, Grundy ended the session with a pep talk. All done, his act munificent and worth booking again, Kerry went home. Alone in the flat, listening to the tape twice more, satisfied it sounded realistic we waited two hours before facing the critics. Calling David, as I played impresario, hyping it up, I promised him that it was a great tape.
“Where did you hide the mike?” he quizzed, wary, trying to catch me out.
“In a vacuum cleaner bag” I claimed “We left it by Grundy’s chair.”
”Oh brilliant, Olivia!” he yelled, convinced, “But the tape – is it safe?”
“No, I've lost it, David, what do you mean – of course it's safe!”
“Well done!” he exclaimed, adding, “This is a wonderful story!”
Asking me to give Trudy a call, Elizabeth phoned two days later. Responding at once to her coded message, I rang David. In a good mood, he wanted to fix a date for us with Elizabeth. Selling it as a get-together, he suggested
“Lets take lunch in a hôtel and plot our next move.”
Next day, 28th November, Jim joined me once more as we set off to London. Leaving the Tube at the Monument, Elizabeth waltzed
Grundy asked to see the letters, which Elizabeth had written to me. It meant me leaving the stage to fetch my briefcase from the bedroom. The theatre had to be performed in real time. David, certainly Peter, could be trusted to double-check everything. Sat on the bed, I counted one full minute before returning with my prop.
Filling the gap, while I was absent, Jim shared chitchat with Grundy. Making his imagined audience think that he had journeyed to our flat from London and reciting his lines, the impostor claimed
“I travelled to Dover by train, it took me over two hours to get here.”
A lot like making a play for the radio, quite fun too and as we relaxed, sticking to his script, Grundy asked to see Nadir’s letter. As I handed him an envelope, opening it up, he took out a scrap of paper and cue sound effects, rustling added due realism to the tape. Staring at the blank parchment, Grundy proclaimed
“He doesn’t say much.”
A tendency to laugh in awkward places and staunching my impulse to corpse, as I did so, Grundy ended the session with a pep talk. All done, his act munificent and worth booking again, Kerry went home. Alone in the flat, listening to the tape twice more, satisfied it sounded realistic we waited two hours before facing the critics. Calling David, as I played impresario, hyping it up, I promised him that it was a great tape.
“Where did you hide the mike?” he quizzed, wary, trying to catch me out.
“In a vacuum cleaner bag” I claimed “We left it by Grundy’s chair.”
”Oh brilliant, Olivia!” he yelled, convinced, “But the tape – is it safe?”
“No, I've lost it, David, what do you mean – of course it's safe!”
“Well done!” he exclaimed, adding, “This is a wonderful story!”
Asking me to give Trudy a call, Elizabeth phoned two days later. Responding at once to her coded message, I rang David. In a good mood, he wanted to fix a date for us with Elizabeth. Selling it as a get-together, he suggested
“Lets take lunch in a hôtel and plot our next move.”
Next day, 28th November, Jim joined me once more as we set off to London. Leaving the Tube at the Monument, Elizabeth waltzed
- 209 -
around a corner. The first time that we had seen one other since June, kissing and embracing, joyful to see us and as ever immaculate, no more ado, hailing a taxi, Elizabeth requested the cabby take us to the Dorchester.
A fine day and once in Park Lane, jumping out of the cab, we entered the lobby. Scanning the plush hôtel interior, I soon spotted David, seated alone by a table in the sumptuous lounge. Chivalrous, as Jim offered Elizabeth his arm, I ventured forth. The first time that we had met since our deadlock outside the Fraud Squad, smiling, I told him
“I’ve forgiven you for your dirty tricks, David.”
“I'm sorry” a cheeky grin, he added, “But it worked didn't it?”
He didn’t know how well. As Jim led Elizabeth to the table, a waiter arrived with a large pot of Earl Grey and a splendid silver tray of biscuits. All settled in ornate chairs around the table and as I played mum, Jim tried a chocolate finger. Making small talk, initially, we discussed the latest Cook Report, which had appeared on television a few days earlier. Strapped for a better storyline, David had taken a ride up north to Blackpool, where he had exposed a mock auction, taking place on the seafront. Self-effacing, the Cook Reporter readily admitted that hard-hitting stories such as they had produced on the Triad and Serbian war criminal Arkan were few and far between and as he wiped stray crumbs off his chin, finishing his hobnob, David’s hunger all at once focused on me. Hoping that I might help him out, laidback, he drawled
“Have you got something for me?”
David’s familiar black leather briefcase nestled by his feet under the table.
“I’ve just slipped the Grundy tapes into your case” I murmured, discreetly.
An elegant venue, as they made me feel important, it must be a trap. Prepared for it, the Academy had warned me. A pussycat, I liked twisting David around my little finger, though still a doughty challenge, pity about his partner, no fool, Salk a real pain. However, I knew her so well, Elizabeth easy, if you know what I mean. About to give us an example, she told me
“Asil’s head of security insists that you must give him proof you once worked for the Mossad.”
“You’re kidding me – I can’t get references, the Mossad don’t do them, they’ll say I never worked for them, that’s how it is Elizabeth, you’re on a loser,” I told her, incredulous.
“I understand what you mean perfectly,” she snorted, putting me in my place.
A fine day and once in Park Lane, jumping out of the cab, we entered the lobby. Scanning the plush hôtel interior, I soon spotted David, seated alone by a table in the sumptuous lounge. Chivalrous, as Jim offered Elizabeth his arm, I ventured forth. The first time that we had met since our deadlock outside the Fraud Squad, smiling, I told him
“I’ve forgiven you for your dirty tricks, David.”
“I'm sorry” a cheeky grin, he added, “But it worked didn't it?”
He didn’t know how well. As Jim led Elizabeth to the table, a waiter arrived with a large pot of Earl Grey and a splendid silver tray of biscuits. All settled in ornate chairs around the table and as I played mum, Jim tried a chocolate finger. Making small talk, initially, we discussed the latest Cook Report, which had appeared on television a few days earlier. Strapped for a better storyline, David had taken a ride up north to Blackpool, where he had exposed a mock auction, taking place on the seafront. Self-effacing, the Cook Reporter readily admitted that hard-hitting stories such as they had produced on the Triad and Serbian war criminal Arkan were few and far between and as he wiped stray crumbs off his chin, finishing his hobnob, David’s hunger all at once focused on me. Hoping that I might help him out, laidback, he drawled
“Have you got something for me?”
David’s familiar black leather briefcase nestled by his feet under the table.
“I’ve just slipped the Grundy tapes into your case” I murmured, discreetly.
An elegant venue, as they made me feel important, it must be a trap. Prepared for it, the Academy had warned me. A pussycat, I liked twisting David around my little finger, though still a doughty challenge, pity about his partner, no fool, Salk a real pain. However, I knew her so well, Elizabeth easy, if you know what I mean. About to give us an example, she told me
“Asil’s head of security insists that you must give him proof you once worked for the Mossad.”
“You’re kidding me – I can’t get references, the Mossad don’t do them, they’ll say I never worked for them, that’s how it is Elizabeth, you’re on a loser,” I told her, incredulous.
“I understand what you mean perfectly,” she snorted, putting me in my place.
- 210 -
Oops, my mistake. After doing time together, I think I had forgotten Elizabeth was still Nadir’s banker. In court, described as his right hand man and here am I arguing the toss with her. Even Asil didn’t do that. In truth, finding the stuff in the papers about her rubbish, I had grown fond of Elizabeth, though admittedly, she perplexed me now. Assuring me that the references needn’t be genuine, she went on
“Can’t you tell MI6 that you need the papers to satisfy Asil’s security chief? Can’t you leave the problem with them?”
“We don’t need the real thing” interjected David “If Brown supplies false CV’s that’ll be just as good.”
“What use are false references to AN's security chief?” I enquired, bewildered.
Our friendly chat no such thing, a pretty poor set up, it had taken me all of two minutes to see through it. Still doubtful about me, especially after that ludicrous dodgy Assignment Brief, they wanted the references to see if they could trip me up. An awkward silence soon descended. David must have put Elizabeth up to the silly scam. Right now, he seemed very doubtful how to carry it off. Saving him the effort, it would do me no harm to shift the blame to Naylor. Joining in their game, I agreed to present the problem to MI6.
“You can’t expect to join Asil’s security staff without some sort of clearance,” argued Elizabeth. “You need to be vetted by his head of security.”
“Mind you, Elizabeth,” I told her, vying for the last word “I'm not impressed by a security chief willing to pass a CV that he knows is indubitably a fake…”
As the meeting broke up, friends again, Elizabeth offered us a lift in her Volvo to Victoria. Once back in Dover, calling Naylor and a funny sort of day, as I gave him the upshot of our meeting – an act just to satisfy me? Cautious, Naylor told me that we had a problem with this one. Admitting that false papers were usually no problem, he claimed that this was different. He asserted that really, he should seek Israeli say-so first, but in this case, that was strictly impossible. I told him
“Without the forgeries we’re finished.”
“We’ll supply second-rate forgeries” problem sorted and back to his old self, he argued “Let’s face it, Alford knows they’re fakes, eh, when do you need them?”
“Elizabeth has to write to me for them, we’ve maybe got a week” I reckoned.
“Why do you think Alford wants them?” he probed.
- 211 -
“Can’t you tell MI6 that you need the papers to satisfy Asil’s security chief? Can’t you leave the problem with them?”
“We don’t need the real thing” interjected David “If Brown supplies false CV’s that’ll be just as good.”
“What use are false references to AN's security chief?” I enquired, bewildered.
Our friendly chat no such thing, a pretty poor set up, it had taken me all of two minutes to see through it. Still doubtful about me, especially after that ludicrous dodgy Assignment Brief, they wanted the references to see if they could trip me up. An awkward silence soon descended. David must have put Elizabeth up to the silly scam. Right now, he seemed very doubtful how to carry it off. Saving him the effort, it would do me no harm to shift the blame to Naylor. Joining in their game, I agreed to present the problem to MI6.
“You can’t expect to join Asil’s security staff without some sort of clearance,” argued Elizabeth. “You need to be vetted by his head of security.”
“Mind you, Elizabeth,” I told her, vying for the last word “I'm not impressed by a security chief willing to pass a CV that he knows is indubitably a fake…”
As the meeting broke up, friends again, Elizabeth offered us a lift in her Volvo to Victoria. Once back in Dover, calling Naylor and a funny sort of day, as I gave him the upshot of our meeting – an act just to satisfy me? Cautious, Naylor told me that we had a problem with this one. Admitting that false papers were usually no problem, he claimed that this was different. He asserted that really, he should seek Israeli say-so first, but in this case, that was strictly impossible. I told him
“Without the forgeries we’re finished.”
“We’ll supply second-rate forgeries” problem sorted and back to his old self, he argued “Let’s face it, Alford knows they’re fakes, eh, when do you need them?”
“Elizabeth has to write to me for them, we’ve maybe got a week” I reckoned.
“Why do you think Alford wants them?” he probed.
- 211 -
“He’s still suspicious,” I asserted “And he’s very disappointed, he still has nothing he can use on MI6.”
“Lets give Alford a surprise” springing one on me, he added “I want Grundy to give you the references as part of a covert pre-arranged meeting.”
Reminiscent of Victorian charlatans setting up a séance, spooky and nothing what it seemed, James Randi would have a job getting to the bottom of this scam. The very nature of the spy game, like peeling onions, unless you know the trick, you’ll shed many tears attempting to reach the core.
Now 8th December, in the post, I received a pretend missive from Elizabeth. It requested me to acquire false citations from the fanciful Brown. The fake Grundy set to hand them to me in a staged drop. Just when the Cook Reporters thought they were getting closer to it, with every step, they strayed further from the truth.
In her letter, Elizabeth made it clear to me that our flight to Turkey depended on quality references. As promised, no problem, Naylor had already dispatched them to us in the post. Making my next move and phoning Elizabeth, I thanked her for her letter and pledged to get the references to the banker shortly.
Compounding the tangle, I penned another invented report to Grundy, it asked him to deliver the false résumés. Destroying the original, we spared the copy for David to peruse. While Jim was out, he dialled Peter Kerry and told him that we had another little job for him.
Next day, as he called to our flat once more, very glum, as Kerry sat on the sofa in our lounge, easy to feel sorry for him, but then, like Nadir, one day, he could always tell his story. Right now, needle stuck, he whinged
“I’ve got bills to meet and little money to pay them.”
“Never mind, Peter,” responded Jim, cajoling Kerry “Those tapes you helped us with are great, they've gone long ways towards better times ahead.”
“Do you want me to make another recording?” asked Kerry.
“Its nothing much” promised Jim “Just a short chat on the phone.”
“Yeah, easy” concurred Kerry after he had read the script “What’s it all about?”
I handed him a large brown sealed envelope, it contained the references Naylor wished us to pass to the Cook Reporters. Offering me a smirk and the impression that he was only half joking, Kerry quizzed
“What’s in here – drugs?”
“Lets give Alford a surprise” springing one on me, he added “I want Grundy to give you the references as part of a covert pre-arranged meeting.”
Reminiscent of Victorian charlatans setting up a séance, spooky and nothing what it seemed, James Randi would have a job getting to the bottom of this scam. The very nature of the spy game, like peeling onions, unless you know the trick, you’ll shed many tears attempting to reach the core.
Now 8th December, in the post, I received a pretend missive from Elizabeth. It requested me to acquire false citations from the fanciful Brown. The fake Grundy set to hand them to me in a staged drop. Just when the Cook Reporters thought they were getting closer to it, with every step, they strayed further from the truth.
In her letter, Elizabeth made it clear to me that our flight to Turkey depended on quality references. As promised, no problem, Naylor had already dispatched them to us in the post. Making my next move and phoning Elizabeth, I thanked her for her letter and pledged to get the references to the banker shortly.
Compounding the tangle, I penned another invented report to Grundy, it asked him to deliver the false résumés. Destroying the original, we spared the copy for David to peruse. While Jim was out, he dialled Peter Kerry and told him that we had another little job for him.
Next day, as he called to our flat once more, very glum, as Kerry sat on the sofa in our lounge, easy to feel sorry for him, but then, like Nadir, one day, he could always tell his story. Right now, needle stuck, he whinged
“I’ve got bills to meet and little money to pay them.”
“Never mind, Peter,” responded Jim, cajoling Kerry “Those tapes you helped us with are great, they've gone long ways towards better times ahead.”
“Do you want me to make another recording?” asked Kerry.
“Its nothing much” promised Jim “Just a short chat on the phone.”
“Yeah, easy” concurred Kerry after he had read the script “What’s it all about?”
I handed him a large brown sealed envelope, it contained the references Naylor wished us to pass to the Cook Reporters. Offering me a smirk and the impression that he was only half joking, Kerry quizzed
“What’s in here – drugs?”
- 212 -
“Cast your mind back, Peter, to the first tape we did” I directed, “You might recall that I mentioned references – they’re in the envelope…”
Conning Kerry again, this scam too good to be true, even the best fall for them, I promised him that playing the courier and passing the envelope to us would make him a star. Explaining his latest task in more detail, I told him that first off, he had to reprise his Grundy character and phone me to arrange a meeting in the local park where, in the next few days, we had to convene and stage a brief, but convincing act. Jim outlined
“We must be seen to take the envelope from your hand, it’s why we’re meeting in the open – What do you think?”
“Dead easy” agreed Kerry. “I play Grundy again and we tape another scripted phone call, then we meet in the park, where I give you the envelope and scarper.”
“You pick things up fast, Peter!” applauded Jim.
“Grab your coat,” I urged him. “Its time for rehearsals.”
Prudently, mapping out the route that we meant Kerry to take to the park and building into it defences to shield Grundy’s flimsy ID. Shortly, as we all marched down Dour Street together, at the bottom, we led Kerry towards a multi-storey car park at the rear of the Charlton Centre, whereupon Jim advised him
“Park your car here, Peter, arrive early, don’t dare be late. Wear a watch, wait about fifteen minutes before the time of your meeting, then leave your car.”
“Go to the Co-op Pioneer supermarket – just here” I showed him, pointing.
As we ventured into the food mart’s entrance, gesturing towards two payphones clamped to a nearby wall, Jim advised Kerry that he must use one of the phones to call a taxi. Leaving the supermarket, as we traced the route that Kerry’s taxi had to take to reach the park, strolling down Maison Dieu Road together, not far from a set of traffic lights, we turned right into Dieu Stone Lane. Little more than a track then and muddy with all the rain, it led directly into a cul-de-sac.
“Don’t forget, Peter,” I urged him. “Its vital the taxi takes you down this lane.”
As we paused by the entrance to a private car park, assuring him that we had scouted the land and warning Kerry that it offered him his only escape, I advised him that on the day of our meeting, he must tell the taxi driver to wait. Moving on and we crossed a small footbridge standing over the River Dour. It led directly into the park. As Jim drew Kerry’s attention to it, he pointed to a lonely wooden bench standing nearby and unveiled
Conning Kerry again, this scam too good to be true, even the best fall for them, I promised him that playing the courier and passing the envelope to us would make him a star. Explaining his latest task in more detail, I told him that first off, he had to reprise his Grundy character and phone me to arrange a meeting in the local park where, in the next few days, we had to convene and stage a brief, but convincing act. Jim outlined
“We must be seen to take the envelope from your hand, it’s why we’re meeting in the open – What do you think?”
“Dead easy” agreed Kerry. “I play Grundy again and we tape another scripted phone call, then we meet in the park, where I give you the envelope and scarper.”
“You pick things up fast, Peter!” applauded Jim.
“Grab your coat,” I urged him. “Its time for rehearsals.”
Prudently, mapping out the route that we meant Kerry to take to the park and building into it defences to shield Grundy’s flimsy ID. Shortly, as we all marched down Dour Street together, at the bottom, we led Kerry towards a multi-storey car park at the rear of the Charlton Centre, whereupon Jim advised him
“Park your car here, Peter, arrive early, don’t dare be late. Wear a watch, wait about fifteen minutes before the time of your meeting, then leave your car.”
“Go to the Co-op Pioneer supermarket – just here” I showed him, pointing.
As we ventured into the food mart’s entrance, gesturing towards two payphones clamped to a nearby wall, Jim advised Kerry that he must use one of the phones to call a taxi. Leaving the supermarket, as we traced the route that Kerry’s taxi had to take to reach the park, strolling down Maison Dieu Road together, not far from a set of traffic lights, we turned right into Dieu Stone Lane. Little more than a track then and muddy with all the rain, it led directly into a cul-de-sac.
“Don’t forget, Peter,” I urged him. “Its vital the taxi takes you down this lane.”
As we paused by the entrance to a private car park, assuring him that we had scouted the land and warning Kerry that it offered him his only escape, I advised him that on the day of our meeting, he must tell the taxi driver to wait. Moving on and we crossed a small footbridge standing over the River Dour. It led directly into the park. As Jim drew Kerry’s attention to it, he pointed to a lonely wooden bench standing nearby and unveiled
- 213 -
“We’ll be waiting for you over there.”
As we strolled over to the bench, I could have chosen any location, but aware that Salk favoured an appealing backdrop, this one possessed all the elements to make good television. About to wind up the brief and giving Kerry his last orders, I entreated
“Listen and remember, when you cross the bridge, stride directly towards us and greet me. Hand over the envelope and tell me the references are from the SIS, we shake hands and say thank you – that's it, just go!”
“Take the taxi back to the supermarket” directed Jim “Then jump into your car and drive home.”
Once back in the flat, playing it safe, we ran through the whole operation once more. Jim had chosen well, so far, Kerry had done us proud and I handed him a few more quid, Naylor would pay us back. When Kerry reached his home, as we taped another little chat on the phone, it set up our drop in the park. All fixed and calling Naylor, I told him that we had primed the fuse and agreed to talk again next day. Meaning to applaud good news, he assured me
“I’ll be waiting for your call.”
Phoning David again, on Wednesday evening, 10th December, I informed him that Grundy had called me earlier that same day to fix another date. Whetting his appetite, I unveiled that Grundy had pledged to have the references with him.
“Well done, Olivia!” cried David “Just what I need, but where is it precisely, where he’s going to meet you?”
“He warned me to keep away from Kwik Save car park, the supermarket’s near the park. He said he’s leaving his car there.”
“Why did he tell you that?” quizzed David, all at once suspicious.
Crafty, I wanted David to believe that if he disregarded my caution and parked his car near the food mart, he would be at liberty to tail Grundy’s car when we had concluded our rendezvous with him in the park. As I defeated that risk by making use of the strict one-way traffic system and aware that Kerry’s taxi would visit the scene from a different direction. Parking their car near the supermarket meant that if the Cook Reporters attempted to pursue Kerry, then they would find themselves barred from hot pursuit by a gang of ‘No Entry’ road signs. Artfully, I told him
“I’m only repeating what he said, I have to sit on a bench in Pencester Gardens, it’s a little park in the town centre” I revealed, “The bench sits near a little green footbridge in the south eastern corner.”
“What time do you need to be there?” demanded David.
- 214 -
As we strolled over to the bench, I could have chosen any location, but aware that Salk favoured an appealing backdrop, this one possessed all the elements to make good television. About to wind up the brief and giving Kerry his last orders, I entreated
“Listen and remember, when you cross the bridge, stride directly towards us and greet me. Hand over the envelope and tell me the references are from the SIS, we shake hands and say thank you – that's it, just go!”
“Take the taxi back to the supermarket” directed Jim “Then jump into your car and drive home.”
Once back in the flat, playing it safe, we ran through the whole operation once more. Jim had chosen well, so far, Kerry had done us proud and I handed him a few more quid, Naylor would pay us back. When Kerry reached his home, as we taped another little chat on the phone, it set up our drop in the park. All fixed and calling Naylor, I told him that we had primed the fuse and agreed to talk again next day. Meaning to applaud good news, he assured me
“I’ll be waiting for your call.”
Phoning David again, on Wednesday evening, 10th December, I informed him that Grundy had called me earlier that same day to fix another date. Whetting his appetite, I unveiled that Grundy had pledged to have the references with him.
“Well done, Olivia!” cried David “Just what I need, but where is it precisely, where he’s going to meet you?”
“He warned me to keep away from Kwik Save car park, the supermarket’s near the park. He said he’s leaving his car there.”
“Why did he tell you that?” quizzed David, all at once suspicious.
Crafty, I wanted David to believe that if he disregarded my caution and parked his car near the food mart, he would be at liberty to tail Grundy’s car when we had concluded our rendezvous with him in the park. As I defeated that risk by making use of the strict one-way traffic system and aware that Kerry’s taxi would visit the scene from a different direction. Parking their car near the supermarket meant that if the Cook Reporters attempted to pursue Kerry, then they would find themselves barred from hot pursuit by a gang of ‘No Entry’ road signs. Artfully, I told him
“I’m only repeating what he said, I have to sit on a bench in Pencester Gardens, it’s a little park in the town centre” I revealed, “The bench sits near a little green footbridge in the south eastern corner.”
“What time do you need to be there?” demanded David.
- 214 -
“Grundy plans to be in the park at thirteen-hundred” I unveiled “He told me he could be a bit late or a little early, he said he's got a lot of traffic to negotiate.”
“I’ve got to make plans,” he replied, “What’s the park like? Pete will join me on Friday to film the meeting, he’ll need somewhere to hide.”
“It's a park, David, you know, long stretches of lawn, there’s some shrubbery near the bench where Peter might hide” I suggested.
“Can we convene very early on the morning of the meeting?” he probed.
“Grundy’s an important spy, MI6 will post watchers at the flat and in the park to protect him” I cautioned.
“I need to get a recording device to you” began David, hesitant, he added, “It’s the machine I showed you in the car, will you use it for me – please?”
“No problem!” I assured him. “Phone me in the morning, remember two rings, a signal, Jim’ll meet you in WH Smith's, its on the corner of Biggins Street.”
“Where’s that?” he demanded.
“David,” I told him “Do us a favour, buy a map in the town in the morning.”
“Good idea!” he confessed and laughing, he promised, “I'll do just that.”
“Don’t you want me to tell you what Grundy looks like?” I enquired.
“That’s another good idea!” he chuckled.
“Six feet tall, black hair, smart” I warned him “Don't go near the lad – he's fit.”
On Friday morning, 12th December, at ten, our landline burst into life, two rings. It was David’s signal and as Jim left the flat to buy a newspaper, a short distance, once inside the shop, David nudged his arm and whispered
“We’re in McDonalds.”
As Jim trailed David, not far down the street, the journalist led him to the burger joint. Once inside and upstairs by a quiet table, Salk awaited them. As he showed Jim how to use the pocket-sized machine, a mini-compact disc player, it came complete with a microphone. As Jim slipped it under his paper, returning to the flat, he showed the gadget to me. As I cringed, it brought to mind the row in London. Kerry had no idea that we planned to record his performance.
- 215 -
“I’ve got to make plans,” he replied, “What’s the park like? Pete will join me on Friday to film the meeting, he’ll need somewhere to hide.”
“It's a park, David, you know, long stretches of lawn, there’s some shrubbery near the bench where Peter might hide” I suggested.
“Can we convene very early on the morning of the meeting?” he probed.
“Grundy’s an important spy, MI6 will post watchers at the flat and in the park to protect him” I cautioned.
“I need to get a recording device to you” began David, hesitant, he added, “It’s the machine I showed you in the car, will you use it for me – please?”
“No problem!” I assured him. “Phone me in the morning, remember two rings, a signal, Jim’ll meet you in WH Smith's, its on the corner of Biggins Street.”
“Where’s that?” he demanded.
“David,” I told him “Do us a favour, buy a map in the town in the morning.”
“Good idea!” he confessed and laughing, he promised, “I'll do just that.”
“Don’t you want me to tell you what Grundy looks like?” I enquired.
“That’s another good idea!” he chuckled.
“Six feet tall, black hair, smart” I warned him “Don't go near the lad – he's fit.”
On Friday morning, 12th December, at ten, our landline burst into life, two rings. It was David’s signal and as Jim left the flat to buy a newspaper, a short distance, once inside the shop, David nudged his arm and whispered
“We’re in McDonalds.”
As Jim trailed David, not far down the street, the journalist led him to the burger joint. Once inside and upstairs by a quiet table, Salk awaited them. As he showed Jim how to use the pocket-sized machine, a mini-compact disc player, it came complete with a microphone. As Jim slipped it under his paper, returning to the flat, he showed the gadget to me. As I cringed, it brought to mind the row in London. Kerry had no idea that we planned to record his performance.
- 215 -
As we made ready for our tryst, Jim popped the CD player into its suede pouch. Taking the machine from him, I fastened it to a belt around my waist and as the device rested against my hip, handily fixing the mike to my bra, it sat within my cleavage. I stuffed all the telltale trailing lead under my blouse. Nearly done, just before we left the flat, Jim set the machine to record.
Wired up and as we headed for the park, not very far, soon entering Pencester Gardens, belying the frost, bathed in sparkling sunshine, gleaming ice heightened our edginess. One slip now and we would never get up. Few people about, as we made for our bench, making me glance at my watch, a nearby clock struck the hour. One precisely, but where was Kerry?
Bemoaning the chill, as we huddled together, shivering on the bench, remaining calm, the sleuth never to the minute and soon bored staring at hovering gannets swooping gulls and wishing that we had thought on and fetched some bread with us to feed them. Ten minutes more, still no sign of anyone. As the clock struck the quarter, suddenly, David bobbed up from behind a nearby bush. Seized by cramp, his hilarious silly walk rivalled John Cleese and made me start giggling just as Kerry arrived on the scene and all at once, I cried
“Look, there he is!”
Our relief heartfelt, partially hidden under his smart raincoat, looking the part in his stylish suit, crisp and even businesslike, as Kerry made for us, clutching the envelope bearing our false papers. Before freezing to it, leaping from the bench, all smiles and handshakes, didn’t want it to look too good, deliberately fluffing my lines, I began
“Good morning – sorry, I mean, eh, good afternoon, Mr Grundy.”
“Good afternoon, Mrs Frank” responded Kerry, very stilted, couldn’t be helped, he added, “Here are your references from the SIS.”
As Kerry handed it over to me, just for the camera, I flourished the envelope and like an old hand, ad-libbing once more, Jim asked him
”These are from the SIS?”
“Yes,” verified Grundy.
Raising our alarm, as he lost the plot, why didn’t Kerry turn and go. Standing there motionless before us like a mannequin. Perplexed, as rising panic gripped us, in unison we tried again
“Goodbye, Mr Grundy.”
For sure no theatre luminary, Kerry would do for the soaps. Eventually, taking his cue and turning on his heel and soon departing, as planned, he left the stage by the footbridge.
Wired up and as we headed for the park, not very far, soon entering Pencester Gardens, belying the frost, bathed in sparkling sunshine, gleaming ice heightened our edginess. One slip now and we would never get up. Few people about, as we made for our bench, making me glance at my watch, a nearby clock struck the hour. One precisely, but where was Kerry?
Bemoaning the chill, as we huddled together, shivering on the bench, remaining calm, the sleuth never to the minute and soon bored staring at hovering gannets swooping gulls and wishing that we had thought on and fetched some bread with us to feed them. Ten minutes more, still no sign of anyone. As the clock struck the quarter, suddenly, David bobbed up from behind a nearby bush. Seized by cramp, his hilarious silly walk rivalled John Cleese and made me start giggling just as Kerry arrived on the scene and all at once, I cried
“Look, there he is!”
Our relief heartfelt, partially hidden under his smart raincoat, looking the part in his stylish suit, crisp and even businesslike, as Kerry made for us, clutching the envelope bearing our false papers. Before freezing to it, leaping from the bench, all smiles and handshakes, didn’t want it to look too good, deliberately fluffing my lines, I began
“Good morning – sorry, I mean, eh, good afternoon, Mr Grundy.”
“Good afternoon, Mrs Frank” responded Kerry, very stilted, couldn’t be helped, he added, “Here are your references from the SIS.”
As Kerry handed it over to me, just for the camera, I flourished the envelope and like an old hand, ad-libbing once more, Jim asked him
”These are from the SIS?”
“Yes,” verified Grundy.
Raising our alarm, as he lost the plot, why didn’t Kerry turn and go. Standing there motionless before us like a mannequin. Perplexed, as rising panic gripped us, in unison we tried again
“Goodbye, Mr Grundy.”
For sure no theatre luminary, Kerry would do for the soaps. Eventually, taking his cue and turning on his heel and soon departing, as planned, he left the stage by the footbridge.
- 216 -
Adhering to his brief, as we watched, disappearing from view the impostor melted into the cul-de-sac beyond.
Never satisfied and seizing his chance, as we knew he must, David raced after Grundy. Sealing the fait accompli, another manoeuvre lay in store for him.
As we sped back to the flat, first defrosting our freezing bums on a hot radiator, Jim helped to unravel me from David’s CD player and warming to it, I reported to Naylor. Only halftime, but a convincing start to the game, the second half about to kick off, we felt confident that the Cook Reporters must deem the fixed match genuine.
Opening Grundy’s envelope, I pulled out three sheets of cheap white paper. A menorah, the national crest of Israel sat at the top of each document and directly beneath, it read Embassy of Israel. The real address fax and phone numbers for the establishment in Kensington Gardens maybe, although mediocre imitations, the crest should have been blue not black. No website or e-mail address and no plug for the big bash next year when Israel was 50. Perhaps I am pedantic, but I thought that they went to university. Could MI6 do no better, the Latin signature might have passed muster in cursive Hebrew script.
All three papers carried the same date – 15th December 1997. Addressed to us both, as I read aloud each one in turn, the first page began. ‘I refer to your recent request to obtain elements of your service history with the Israel Defence Force and allied services. I apologise for the delay, but you will appreciate the material you requested is of a sensitive nature, certain procedures needed to be followed in accordance with security provisions. You must be aware a service history cannot be provided. The enclosed references of confirmation of service, and character, will prove sufficient to your needs. Yours sincerely, Zvi Kaplan, secretary to the Ambassador.’
Bearing the same signature, the next paper referred to me alone. ‘To whom it may concern, Olivia Jayne Frank. I can confirm that the above named individual served the Israel Defence Force, and allied Security Service, and found to be of exemplary character, honest, and trustworthy. In accord with security provisions, I am unable to attest to the exact nature of service in which the individual was involved, or release personal details relevant to the individual during service. I am unable to enter into communication concerning this reference.’
The third document related to Jim, it ran similar to mine, though no reference to the IDF, a fib, it suggested that he too had been a spy. As I placed the papers back into the envelope, Jim got them photocopied. We placed the copies into a separate envelope along with the latest tape and the Fraud Squad visitor pass, which Jim
Never satisfied and seizing his chance, as we knew he must, David raced after Grundy. Sealing the fait accompli, another manoeuvre lay in store for him.
As we sped back to the flat, first defrosting our freezing bums on a hot radiator, Jim helped to unravel me from David’s CD player and warming to it, I reported to Naylor. Only halftime, but a convincing start to the game, the second half about to kick off, we felt confident that the Cook Reporters must deem the fixed match genuine.
Opening Grundy’s envelope, I pulled out three sheets of cheap white paper. A menorah, the national crest of Israel sat at the top of each document and directly beneath, it read Embassy of Israel. The real address fax and phone numbers for the establishment in Kensington Gardens maybe, although mediocre imitations, the crest should have been blue not black. No website or e-mail address and no plug for the big bash next year when Israel was 50. Perhaps I am pedantic, but I thought that they went to university. Could MI6 do no better, the Latin signature might have passed muster in cursive Hebrew script.
All three papers carried the same date – 15th December 1997. Addressed to us both, as I read aloud each one in turn, the first page began. ‘I refer to your recent request to obtain elements of your service history with the Israel Defence Force and allied services. I apologise for the delay, but you will appreciate the material you requested is of a sensitive nature, certain procedures needed to be followed in accordance with security provisions. You must be aware a service history cannot be provided. The enclosed references of confirmation of service, and character, will prove sufficient to your needs. Yours sincerely, Zvi Kaplan, secretary to the Ambassador.’
Bearing the same signature, the next paper referred to me alone. ‘To whom it may concern, Olivia Jayne Frank. I can confirm that the above named individual served the Israel Defence Force, and allied Security Service, and found to be of exemplary character, honest, and trustworthy. In accord with security provisions, I am unable to attest to the exact nature of service in which the individual was involved, or release personal details relevant to the individual during service. I am unable to enter into communication concerning this reference.’
The third document related to Jim, it ran similar to mine, though no reference to the IDF, a fib, it suggested that he too had been a spy. As I placed the papers back into the envelope, Jim got them photocopied. We placed the copies into a separate envelope along with the latest tape and the Fraud Squad visitor pass, which Jim
- 217 -
had shrewdly smuggled. Dropping David’s CD player into my bag together with the envelope and we set off to join our audience.
Bright blue sky gone, dismal sea mist made it feel dank, as we popped into the Churchill, huddled around a table and coffee, appearing justly nervous, we found the Cook Reporters by a window in the lounge. Crowded today and caught in the midst of some coach party convention, spotting a free table I took a seat by it. As Jim fetched them over, a waiter set down a pot of coffee before us. As Jim played mum, impressed, David cried
“Bloody marvellous you two!”
We hoped that one day; Kerry might receive his fair share of the credit. Gulping down his coffee, as David signalled to a waiter, he ordered another pot. Nice and cosy, while Salk enjoyed an inquisitive chat with Jim about my distant exploits in Israel, interrupting them, I begged
“Peter, please tell me you got good pictures this time.”
“I had to be careful, I couldn't get too close,” he grumbled “I fancied hiding in the shrubbery by your bench, but thought better of it, don’t you worry, I’ve got what we need” he assured us, quizzing “Did you see me in the park?”
“We never did,” admitted Jim. “Where did you hide?”
“I was tempted to hide in the bus shelter, it was too far away,” confided Peter. “So I did a spot of gardening and poked the camera through some bushes, it gave me a good shot of you two on the bench.”
“Our man was late, wasn't he?” remarked David “It doesn’t matter, I would have been prepared to wait hours – bet you would too!”
“Yeah, of course,“ I agreed, shuddering at the thought “I must admit, Grundy had us worried, anyhow, now we've some proper spy footage.”
Eager to discover their content, David enquired if we had read the references. Jim revealed that he had done better than that and had taken copies for the Cook Reporters to take home. Hyped up and unable to wait, David demanded their gist. Consequently, as I started to recite the substance of the false papers to him, soon proving too much and unable to stop himself, David erupted
“Fuuuuck…this is incredible – we can make this run a year!”
Alarmed, I had no desire to spend another year on the edge and chiding him for his poor memory, I promptly reminded David that according to the Assignment Brief, Nadir must act within ninety days of receiving it or the security deal with the Mossad was off.
“It's the work of a schoolboy!” argued David “You don't take it seriously?”
Bright blue sky gone, dismal sea mist made it feel dank, as we popped into the Churchill, huddled around a table and coffee, appearing justly nervous, we found the Cook Reporters by a window in the lounge. Crowded today and caught in the midst of some coach party convention, spotting a free table I took a seat by it. As Jim fetched them over, a waiter set down a pot of coffee before us. As Jim played mum, impressed, David cried
“Bloody marvellous you two!”
We hoped that one day; Kerry might receive his fair share of the credit. Gulping down his coffee, as David signalled to a waiter, he ordered another pot. Nice and cosy, while Salk enjoyed an inquisitive chat with Jim about my distant exploits in Israel, interrupting them, I begged
“Peter, please tell me you got good pictures this time.”
“I had to be careful, I couldn't get too close,” he grumbled “I fancied hiding in the shrubbery by your bench, but thought better of it, don’t you worry, I’ve got what we need” he assured us, quizzing “Did you see me in the park?”
“We never did,” admitted Jim. “Where did you hide?”
“I was tempted to hide in the bus shelter, it was too far away,” confided Peter. “So I did a spot of gardening and poked the camera through some bushes, it gave me a good shot of you two on the bench.”
“Our man was late, wasn't he?” remarked David “It doesn’t matter, I would have been prepared to wait hours – bet you would too!”
“Yeah, of course,“ I agreed, shuddering at the thought “I must admit, Grundy had us worried, anyhow, now we've some proper spy footage.”
Eager to discover their content, David enquired if we had read the references. Jim revealed that he had done better than that and had taken copies for the Cook Reporters to take home. Hyped up and unable to wait, David demanded their gist. Consequently, as I started to recite the substance of the false papers to him, soon proving too much and unable to stop himself, David erupted
“Fuuuuck…this is incredible – we can make this run a year!”
Alarmed, I had no desire to spend another year on the edge and chiding him for his poor memory, I promptly reminded David that according to the Assignment Brief, Nadir must act within ninety days of receiving it or the security deal with the Mossad was off.
“It's the work of a schoolboy!” argued David “You don't take it seriously?”
- 218 -
”It doesn't matter what I think,” I retorted “They could take Jim and me off the street – you bet we take it seriously!”
Compelled to squash David’s sulk before it went too far and summoning more hype, as I sold the plot to him again, straying from Naylor’s script, he would have had a fit if he had known. I told David
“You’ve missed something.”
“What’s that?” he probed.
“MI6 have broken protocols,” I told him.
Sexing it up a bit more, by falsifying the references, MI6 had this time gone too far and breached spy rules. Not for them to mind the law, above it, Britain might rightly accuse Israel of many things, but fair’s fair, MI6 never asked them if they could forge their documents and appearing encouraged, tentative, David queried
“Are the contents in them correct?”
“Mine’s true enough,” I told him “Jim’s isn’t. Its made-up, he’s never worked with any spy service, well not until now, he’s certainly never had anything to do with the Mossad, that’s for sure.”
“No more Devil’s Advocate!” cried David “We're off to Turkey!”
Back in the flat and rounding off an eventful day and reporting to Naylor, I told him that the Cook Reporters appeared convinced that Kerry really was MI6. Cool, he probed
“What do they think of the references?”
“They love them” I responded.
“What happens next?” enquired Naylor.
“Istanbul,” I reckoned.
Two days more and on 17th December, nearly Chanukah and charismatic, Salk phoned and warning me to expect a courier delivery, he had slipped a present in the post for us. Everyone’s favourite now, Elizabeth called soon after promising me that we would arrive in Istanbul on 9th January. The banker vowed
“Asil is so looking forward to meeting you.”
On Saturday morning 20th December, as soon as the courier departed from the flat, I opened my parcel. Just as Peter had promised and now and then, you could trust him. As I checked out the overdue mobile, a Motorola digital job, it guarded against secret scanning. Two days more, it sprang into life, David, and a worrying scheme. He declared
“I'd like us to do something before we go to Turkey, um, what do you think?”
Compelled to squash David’s sulk before it went too far and summoning more hype, as I sold the plot to him again, straying from Naylor’s script, he would have had a fit if he had known. I told David
“You’ve missed something.”
“What’s that?” he probed.
“MI6 have broken protocols,” I told him.
Sexing it up a bit more, by falsifying the references, MI6 had this time gone too far and breached spy rules. Not for them to mind the law, above it, Britain might rightly accuse Israel of many things, but fair’s fair, MI6 never asked them if they could forge their documents and appearing encouraged, tentative, David queried
“Are the contents in them correct?”
“Mine’s true enough,” I told him “Jim’s isn’t. Its made-up, he’s never worked with any spy service, well not until now, he’s certainly never had anything to do with the Mossad, that’s for sure.”
“No more Devil’s Advocate!” cried David “We're off to Turkey!”
Back in the flat and rounding off an eventful day and reporting to Naylor, I told him that the Cook Reporters appeared convinced that Kerry really was MI6. Cool, he probed
“What do they think of the references?”
“They love them” I responded.
“What happens next?” enquired Naylor.
“Istanbul,” I reckoned.
Two days more and on 17th December, nearly Chanukah and charismatic, Salk phoned and warning me to expect a courier delivery, he had slipped a present in the post for us. Everyone’s favourite now, Elizabeth called soon after promising me that we would arrive in Istanbul on 9th January. The banker vowed
“Asil is so looking forward to meeting you.”
On Saturday morning 20th December, as soon as the courier departed from the flat, I opened my parcel. Just as Peter had promised and now and then, you could trust him. As I checked out the overdue mobile, a Motorola digital job, it guarded against secret scanning. Two days more, it sprang into life, David, and a worrying scheme. He declared
“I'd like us to do something before we go to Turkey, um, what do you think?”
- 219 -
“I don't think that we should push our luck David, we don’t want to spoil an excellent story, it’ll get better when we go to Turkey” I predicted.
“Perhaps you're right,” he granted “You know me, always wanting more!”
Many a true word and I likened David to Oliver Twist. All excited, in her next letter, Elizabeth revealed that all being well, after our date with Nadir, we could wind up our affairs in the UK and live in Turkey.
The banker called again on 2nd January 1998 and told us that she had reserved our seats on a plane bound for Istanbul. We had to collect our tickets from the Turkish Airlines desk when we turned up at Heathrow. A few days more and we had a call from the impostor. Peter Kerry asked me if I might help him in one of his investigations. He explained
“It’s a woman to woman sort of thing.”
“I’m very sorry, Peter, I'm unavailable for the next few days. Jim's joining me on a trip abroad, its connected to the work we've been doing” I explained.
On Wednesday, 7th January, just 48-hours before our flight, Salk phoned me. Arrogant, he demanded the ID of our MI6 contact in Istanbul. I told him
“I thought you understood, there won’t be a contact in Turkey.”
“But how will you keep in touch with them?” he quizzed.
Going over old ground, I reminded him that MI6 had instructed us to depend on Neil Smith as a phone contact. So irritating, Peter remarked
“I find that very strange.”
“Peter, I find you very strange!” I retorted, infuriated.
Always nitpicking, Peter never missed a slot to worry me. I had spent all of my life trying to keep everyone happy all of the time. The Cook Report that they had done on Nadir only scratched the surface I craved an explicit exposé. Justifiably, Peter still fearful of a set up, if I revealed all now and confessed to helping MI6 stitch him up, he must cut and run wrecking my agenda.
Two hours more and regretting now that I had received it, the new mobile rang again. Breathless, David urged me to give him all the spiel on my non-existent MI6 contact in Turkey. Hacked off and firm, I held
“Impossible, David, we don't have an MI6 contact in Turkey, if we did you’d be the first to know, as you know our contact is Neil Smith.”
“Call Grundy!” he demanded, “Ask him if you’ve got a contact.”
“Perhaps you're right,” he granted “You know me, always wanting more!”
Many a true word and I likened David to Oliver Twist. All excited, in her next letter, Elizabeth revealed that all being well, after our date with Nadir, we could wind up our affairs in the UK and live in Turkey.
The banker called again on 2nd January 1998 and told us that she had reserved our seats on a plane bound for Istanbul. We had to collect our tickets from the Turkish Airlines desk when we turned up at Heathrow. A few days more and we had a call from the impostor. Peter Kerry asked me if I might help him in one of his investigations. He explained
“It’s a woman to woman sort of thing.”
“I’m very sorry, Peter, I'm unavailable for the next few days. Jim's joining me on a trip abroad, its connected to the work we've been doing” I explained.
On Wednesday, 7th January, just 48-hours before our flight, Salk phoned me. Arrogant, he demanded the ID of our MI6 contact in Istanbul. I told him
“I thought you understood, there won’t be a contact in Turkey.”
“But how will you keep in touch with them?” he quizzed.
Going over old ground, I reminded him that MI6 had instructed us to depend on Neil Smith as a phone contact. So irritating, Peter remarked
“I find that very strange.”
“Peter, I find you very strange!” I retorted, infuriated.
Always nitpicking, Peter never missed a slot to worry me. I had spent all of my life trying to keep everyone happy all of the time. The Cook Report that they had done on Nadir only scratched the surface I craved an explicit exposé. Justifiably, Peter still fearful of a set up, if I revealed all now and confessed to helping MI6 stitch him up, he must cut and run wrecking my agenda.
Two hours more and regretting now that I had received it, the new mobile rang again. Breathless, David urged me to give him all the spiel on my non-existent MI6 contact in Turkey. Hacked off and firm, I held
“Impossible, David, we don't have an MI6 contact in Turkey, if we did you’d be the first to know, as you know our contact is Neil Smith.”
“Call Grundy!” he demanded, “Ask him if you’ve got a contact.”
- 220 -
“There’s no point calling Grundy,” I told him, evenly.
“You're so negative, Olivia!” whined David.
You have to hand it to him; he had a good idea of how I tick. No patience when it came to gross stupidity. Outraged by his last remark, it hit a nerve and inflamed my fury. David had to have conspired with Peter to present me with this mad last minute hitch. Angry with him now and rising to his goading, I tried once more
“You’ve been talking to Peter, when I say there’s no contact I mean just that!”
“What did Peter say?” enquired David, playing innocent.
“You know what he said” I fumed. “Don't play games with me.”
Changing his tune a bit, he confessed that he might have had words with Peter. Though once more imploring me to tape another call with Grundy, David stooped to insults. Winding me up, he declared
“Just to make certain you’ve not made a mistake.”
”Do you think MI6 would hire me if I make imbecile cock-ups?” I asked him.
”You're overestimating MI6, Olivia, I mean, the Assignment Brief, AN would never fall for that – it's crap!”
“We've had this out before, David, I don’t care what you might think.”
“Olivia, you've got to do it!”
“What’s wrong?” begged Jim, as I finished the call.
“David’s off his head, bloody hysterical. We’ve got problems, Jim, we must tape another call to Grundy.”
“How do we do that?”
“I don’t know, I can't think, it’s this damned migraine.”
Begging me to rest, Jim insisted that it was time to let him do something or I would be too ill for Turkey. Pleading with me, Jim maintained that he would phone Kerry while I took a nap. Fretful, I bleated
“But whenever I call Naylor, I always get a woman's voice I have to wait for an operator to put my call through, how do we replicate that?”
“Leave it with me” persevered Jim. “Get your head down.”
My problems with anxiety began towards the conclusion of my stint for Israel, when post traumatic stress disorder raised its ugly head. The last thing I needed then were the dire events, which followed upon my return to Britain. Frantic to equalize the
“You're so negative, Olivia!” whined David.
You have to hand it to him; he had a good idea of how I tick. No patience when it came to gross stupidity. Outraged by his last remark, it hit a nerve and inflamed my fury. David had to have conspired with Peter to present me with this mad last minute hitch. Angry with him now and rising to his goading, I tried once more
“You’ve been talking to Peter, when I say there’s no contact I mean just that!”
“What did Peter say?” enquired David, playing innocent.
“You know what he said” I fumed. “Don't play games with me.”
Changing his tune a bit, he confessed that he might have had words with Peter. Though once more imploring me to tape another call with Grundy, David stooped to insults. Winding me up, he declared
“Just to make certain you’ve not made a mistake.”
”Do you think MI6 would hire me if I make imbecile cock-ups?” I asked him.
”You're overestimating MI6, Olivia, I mean, the Assignment Brief, AN would never fall for that – it's crap!”
“We've had this out before, David, I don’t care what you might think.”
“Olivia, you've got to do it!”
“What’s wrong?” begged Jim, as I finished the call.
“David’s off his head, bloody hysterical. We’ve got problems, Jim, we must tape another call to Grundy.”
“How do we do that?”
“I don’t know, I can't think, it’s this damned migraine.”
Begging me to rest, Jim insisted that it was time to let him do something or I would be too ill for Turkey. Pleading with me, Jim maintained that he would phone Kerry while I took a nap. Fretful, I bleated
“But whenever I call Naylor, I always get a woman's voice I have to wait for an operator to put my call through, how do we replicate that?”
“Leave it with me” persevered Jim. “Get your head down.”
My problems with anxiety began towards the conclusion of my stint for Israel, when post traumatic stress disorder raised its ugly head. The last thing I needed then were the dire events, which followed upon my return to Britain. Frantic to equalize the
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injustice, fiercely independent, always striving to put everything right all on my own, but I had a trusted partner now and acceding to Jim’s advice, stretching out on the bed and sleep swiftly engulfed me. Two hours later, as he gently nudged me awake, Jim enquired
“How are you?”
“My migraine’s cleared,” I admitted, smiling.
Seizing his chance, Jim revealed that he had tried to phone Kerry earlier; there was then no answer. He had just tried his number again and gaining a response, Kerry explained that he had just returned home with Sandra, his wife, girlfriend, Jim not sure and no matter, the impostor had agreed to read another script and record another tape. He didn’t want any payment, well only a minute’s work and more experienced at it now, keeping it simple, I found it comparatively easy to complete the script.
As I called Naylor, relating the hitch to him before reciting my work, at once upset, he didn’t care for surprises. Claiming that this one might drop him in it. Wasting valuable time as he dithered, rarely reticent, this time Naylor objected
“Its a direct link to the building, I’m not sure I can authorise the call.”
“C’mon, if we don’t do this you’ll have to abort,” I warned him.
“Can’t you tell Alford that you couldn’t make the call, use an excuse?”
”If I don’t do it, he’ll sulk and call everything off,” I rejoined.
Imperative, I had to meet Nadir to win precious credibility before I could hope to gain my fifteen minutes of media recognition to tell my story and shame them. My hidden agenda hanging in the balance, indifferent to his fears, pressing on and reading aloud my script and overcoming his paranoia, he yielded
“I suppose it sounds fairly harmless. Okay, we’ll do it on the proviso that the call lasts no more than a minute.” Consoling himself, Naylor added
“Its hardly enough time for Alford to call it a clear-cut link.”
The more I thought about him, the more I hoped that Naylor was a loose canon at MI6. Bringing about his downfall would benefit them, as much as anyone else.
We needed to make another fake tape. Working on it at once, whenever calling the MI6 HQ from Dover, I dialled an eleven-digit number. Using our landline and David’s dictation machine and recording Jim as he tapped in eleven different digits, I cut the line dead before it connected, pausing the tape, before rewinding it to the segment, where Jim had tapped in the eleventh digit.
“How are you?”
“My migraine’s cleared,” I admitted, smiling.
Seizing his chance, Jim revealed that he had tried to phone Kerry earlier; there was then no answer. He had just tried his number again and gaining a response, Kerry explained that he had just returned home with Sandra, his wife, girlfriend, Jim not sure and no matter, the impostor had agreed to read another script and record another tape. He didn’t want any payment, well only a minute’s work and more experienced at it now, keeping it simple, I found it comparatively easy to complete the script.
As I called Naylor, relating the hitch to him before reciting my work, at once upset, he didn’t care for surprises. Claiming that this one might drop him in it. Wasting valuable time as he dithered, rarely reticent, this time Naylor objected
“Its a direct link to the building, I’m not sure I can authorise the call.”
“C’mon, if we don’t do this you’ll have to abort,” I warned him.
“Can’t you tell Alford that you couldn’t make the call, use an excuse?”
”If I don’t do it, he’ll sulk and call everything off,” I rejoined.
Imperative, I had to meet Nadir to win precious credibility before I could hope to gain my fifteen minutes of media recognition to tell my story and shame them. My hidden agenda hanging in the balance, indifferent to his fears, pressing on and reading aloud my script and overcoming his paranoia, he yielded
“I suppose it sounds fairly harmless. Okay, we’ll do it on the proviso that the call lasts no more than a minute.” Consoling himself, Naylor added
“Its hardly enough time for Alford to call it a clear-cut link.”
The more I thought about him, the more I hoped that Naylor was a loose canon at MI6. Bringing about his downfall would benefit them, as much as anyone else.
We needed to make another fake tape. Working on it at once, whenever calling the MI6 HQ from Dover, I dialled an eleven-digit number. Using our landline and David’s dictation machine and recording Jim as he tapped in eleven different digits, I cut the line dead before it connected, pausing the tape, before rewinding it to the segment, where Jim had tapped in the eleventh digit.
- 222 -
As Jim called back Kerry, exercising care, he recited the script for the detective to copy. Shortly, back from the call box, Jim warned me to expect Kerry’s call any minute. Tape primed, earpiece in place, as I waited for the phone to ring, it soon burst into life. Meant to be an outgoing call, we didn’t need to record the ringing, picking up the handset as I hit record, just like MI6, a woman answered
“May I help you?”
“I want to speak to Mr Grundy,” I told her.
Adding due realism, like they do, she placed my call on hold and shortly, Kerry announced his alter ego.
“Grundy.”
“Do I have any contacts in Turkey?” I queried.
“As arranged Mrs Frank” he confirmed “Call Smith from Turkey, if you have any problems put them in a report and send it to HQ upon your return from Istanbul.”
Ending the call, Jim rewound the tape and as we listened to it, star of the show, alias Kerry’s partner, Sandra had played the part of the MI6 telephonist.
In practice, it wouldn’t be that easy to tape a genuine call to Naylor. In common with MI5, MI6 knew how to kill all known bugs. Defeating all notions, which I had entertained about catching them on tape and not sure if it was legal then, anyhow, it was far too risky for me to find out. Time would tell, but it seemed that the Cook Reporters knew nothing about such matters either.
As we timed the call, my critical chat with Kerry ran for just under one minute. A convoluted caper, next day, Jim dialled MI6, as he flirted with their telephonist while I timed the call, once it matched the length of our tape, at 56 seconds, I cut the line. A sneak, we trusted David to pull our phone bill later to investigate if we had really dialled the number for MI6 HQ. An hour more, fittingly, at eleven and talk of the Devil, his Advocate phoned me.
“I'm at the airport with Pete, we’ve got to hang about a bit. Our flight’s delayed. You shouldn’t experience problems you're on a scheduled plane.”
“Yeah right, is that all, David?”
“Are you sure you’re alright, Olivia?”
“I phoned Grundy this morning,” I told him.
“I see, but are you alright?” he persisted.
“Grundy confirmed Smith is our contact” I replied flat.
“Oh, eh, well I hope you have a good flight tomorrow.”
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“May I help you?”
“I want to speak to Mr Grundy,” I told her.
Adding due realism, like they do, she placed my call on hold and shortly, Kerry announced his alter ego.
“Grundy.”
“Do I have any contacts in Turkey?” I queried.
“As arranged Mrs Frank” he confirmed “Call Smith from Turkey, if you have any problems put them in a report and send it to HQ upon your return from Istanbul.”
Ending the call, Jim rewound the tape and as we listened to it, star of the show, alias Kerry’s partner, Sandra had played the part of the MI6 telephonist.
In practice, it wouldn’t be that easy to tape a genuine call to Naylor. In common with MI5, MI6 knew how to kill all known bugs. Defeating all notions, which I had entertained about catching them on tape and not sure if it was legal then, anyhow, it was far too risky for me to find out. Time would tell, but it seemed that the Cook Reporters knew nothing about such matters either.
As we timed the call, my critical chat with Kerry ran for just under one minute. A convoluted caper, next day, Jim dialled MI6, as he flirted with their telephonist while I timed the call, once it matched the length of our tape, at 56 seconds, I cut the line. A sneak, we trusted David to pull our phone bill later to investigate if we had really dialled the number for MI6 HQ. An hour more, fittingly, at eleven and talk of the Devil, his Advocate phoned me.
“I'm at the airport with Pete, we’ve got to hang about a bit. Our flight’s delayed. You shouldn’t experience problems you're on a scheduled plane.”
“Yeah right, is that all, David?”
“Are you sure you’re alright, Olivia?”
“I phoned Grundy this morning,” I told him.
“I see, but are you alright?” he persisted.
“Grundy confirmed Smith is our contact” I replied flat.
“Oh, eh, well I hope you have a good flight tomorrow.”
- 223 -
Annoyed with their suspicious minds. Me the victim, not the villain and sensing that the Cook Reporters showed signs of taking me for granted, a ploy, meaning to scare them, my turn to express doubts, it reminded them that without me, they had no story. Their mad last-minute call stunt to Grundy was just the thing to frighten off Naylor, without him, we would never know his real objective.
As I packed one case, taking few clothes with us, according to the flight tickets the duration of our stay in Istanbul was only three days. On Friday morning, 9th January, upon our arrival at Heathrow airport, Jim led me to Terminal 3 and the Türk Hava Yollari desk where we collected our tickets and left our solitary case with American Airlines baggage-handlers. David mistaken once more, heavy fog in Istanbul delayed our flight by two hours.
Feeling the strain, as we homed in on our quarry, I had another awful migraine. Boarding a Boeing 737, we enjoyed a light meal during the three-hour and a bit flight. Fatigued and loads on my mind, managing only a nap, my seat dwelt next to a window. My first flight since leaving Israel and as a myriad of tiny lights twinkled far below, missing the buzz, as I hugged Jim’s arm, looking forward to it, Istanbul, a spy capital and a splendid arena for what could be my final curtain.
As the aircraft descended, reminding me even more of my El Al flights, joining in as everyone applauded our pilot and crew, a gentle bump and we touched down at Atatürk. In no hurry, we trailed behind everyone else as we exited the plane, entering into an enclosed gangway. Parting like the Red Sea, as attendant airline staff allowed him through, a dark and resolute stranger sped directly towards us. A quality suit and palpably Turkish, he demanded
“Your passports please!”
An official-looking plastic ID tag pinned to his lapel, I couldn’t see what it said, so unlike me, feeling fatigued, I guessed that he must be some sort of customs man and entrusted him with our precious passports. At once spinning on his heel, he dashed off down a corridor with them. As panic set in, rapidly chasing after him, we ended up in a fast-track corridor reserved for VIP’s. No mistake, as he waved us on, escaping all the routine checks and waltzing down the aisle past a plethora of staring uniforms, self-consciously tugging the hem of my short skirt, as we trod the red carpet, I peeped back at Jim. Blasé about it, he assured me
“Don’t worry, I can take it!”
Hiding in an alcove, Jim spotted Salk, camera and David at his shoulder filming our entrance as we strode into the smart airport atrium. As Jim searched for the luggage carousel, we didn’t get very far, wearing her trademark Hermès scarf, the same one that
As I packed one case, taking few clothes with us, according to the flight tickets the duration of our stay in Istanbul was only three days. On Friday morning, 9th January, upon our arrival at Heathrow airport, Jim led me to Terminal 3 and the Türk Hava Yollari desk where we collected our tickets and left our solitary case with American Airlines baggage-handlers. David mistaken once more, heavy fog in Istanbul delayed our flight by two hours.
Feeling the strain, as we homed in on our quarry, I had another awful migraine. Boarding a Boeing 737, we enjoyed a light meal during the three-hour and a bit flight. Fatigued and loads on my mind, managing only a nap, my seat dwelt next to a window. My first flight since leaving Israel and as a myriad of tiny lights twinkled far below, missing the buzz, as I hugged Jim’s arm, looking forward to it, Istanbul, a spy capital and a splendid arena for what could be my final curtain.
As the aircraft descended, reminding me even more of my El Al flights, joining in as everyone applauded our pilot and crew, a gentle bump and we touched down at Atatürk. In no hurry, we trailed behind everyone else as we exited the plane, entering into an enclosed gangway. Parting like the Red Sea, as attendant airline staff allowed him through, a dark and resolute stranger sped directly towards us. A quality suit and palpably Turkish, he demanded
“Your passports please!”
An official-looking plastic ID tag pinned to his lapel, I couldn’t see what it said, so unlike me, feeling fatigued, I guessed that he must be some sort of customs man and entrusted him with our precious passports. At once spinning on his heel, he dashed off down a corridor with them. As panic set in, rapidly chasing after him, we ended up in a fast-track corridor reserved for VIP’s. No mistake, as he waved us on, escaping all the routine checks and waltzing down the aisle past a plethora of staring uniforms, self-consciously tugging the hem of my short skirt, as we trod the red carpet, I peeped back at Jim. Blasé about it, he assured me
“Don’t worry, I can take it!”
Hiding in an alcove, Jim spotted Salk, camera and David at his shoulder filming our entrance as we strode into the smart airport atrium. As Jim searched for the luggage carousel, we didn’t get very far, wearing her trademark Hermès scarf, the same one that
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she had worn in prison, as we embraced, radiant and Elizabeth drawled
“Well hello – It’s so good to see you.”
As Jim found the carousel and our case, we had forgotten about our passports. As the mystery man reappeared before us, he proudly presented them to us, now duly stamped with Turkish visas. Clicking his fingers, then as he peeled several notes from a thick wad, in a mad rush, besieged by porters, the winner grabbed a fat tip and our case. Impressed, I enquired
“Elizabeth, who is that man?”
“Oh, I believe he's attached to the eh…”
Still no wiser, as we trailed her wake, leading us outside, a black limo drew up before us and as a smart Turkish chauffeur leapt out, Elizabeth cried
“Here’s the car!”
As the chauffeur grabbed our case and stowed it in the boot, Elizabeth opted for the front seat, while Jim joined me in the rear. Back behind the wheel, swiftly the car in motion, the chauffeur sped us through busy evening traffic. Twisting in her seat to face us, as Elizabeth unveiled our exciting schedule for the next day, she began
“It’s safe to talk now, you’ll see Asil in the morning, he’s so anxious to meet you. A car will collect you from your hôtel – it’s where we’re going now.”
Right up her street and enjoying herself, as Elizabeth peered through the rear window, thrilled by the prospect, she queried
“I’m checking to see if we’re being followed – do you think it likely?”
“Very likely” I suggested, doing no good to disappoint her.
“Have you anything new to report?” queried Elizabeth.
Hyping the intrigue, I promised her that my MI6 handler would be biting his fingernails about what happened next. Pure theatre I alleged that he was terrified that Asil Nadir might reject his Assignment Brief. A devilish laugh, responding in kind, Elizabeth urged me
“Feel free to discuss your endeavours on behalf of MI6 with Asil.”
When the car stopped, we had arrived outside the 5-star Dedeman and as the chauffeur hastened to retrieve our case from the boot, we entered into the lobby. Much like festive Christmas decorations, twinkling lights marked the ninth month of the Muslim year and Ramazan. Upon checking in at the impressive desk, as Elizabeth handed us the key to room 1504, the banker revealed
“Well hello – It’s so good to see you.”
As Jim found the carousel and our case, we had forgotten about our passports. As the mystery man reappeared before us, he proudly presented them to us, now duly stamped with Turkish visas. Clicking his fingers, then as he peeled several notes from a thick wad, in a mad rush, besieged by porters, the winner grabbed a fat tip and our case. Impressed, I enquired
“Elizabeth, who is that man?”
“Oh, I believe he's attached to the eh…”
Still no wiser, as we trailed her wake, leading us outside, a black limo drew up before us and as a smart Turkish chauffeur leapt out, Elizabeth cried
“Here’s the car!”
As the chauffeur grabbed our case and stowed it in the boot, Elizabeth opted for the front seat, while Jim joined me in the rear. Back behind the wheel, swiftly the car in motion, the chauffeur sped us through busy evening traffic. Twisting in her seat to face us, as Elizabeth unveiled our exciting schedule for the next day, she began
“It’s safe to talk now, you’ll see Asil in the morning, he’s so anxious to meet you. A car will collect you from your hôtel – it’s where we’re going now.”
Right up her street and enjoying herself, as Elizabeth peered through the rear window, thrilled by the prospect, she queried
“I’m checking to see if we’re being followed – do you think it likely?”
“Very likely” I suggested, doing no good to disappoint her.
“Have you anything new to report?” queried Elizabeth.
Hyping the intrigue, I promised her that my MI6 handler would be biting his fingernails about what happened next. Pure theatre I alleged that he was terrified that Asil Nadir might reject his Assignment Brief. A devilish laugh, responding in kind, Elizabeth urged me
“Feel free to discuss your endeavours on behalf of MI6 with Asil.”
When the car stopped, we had arrived outside the 5-star Dedeman and as the chauffeur hastened to retrieve our case from the boot, we entered into the lobby. Much like festive Christmas decorations, twinkling lights marked the ninth month of the Muslim year and Ramazan. Upon checking in at the impressive desk, as Elizabeth handed us the key to room 1504, the banker revealed
- 225 -
“I’m in room 1215, order whatever you like don’t concern yourself about the bill, all your expenses will be met by the company.”
Showing us to the lifts as a porter gripped our case, before parting, we agreed to join Elizabeth for supper. Upon reaching our floor, the porter led us to a comfy room, armchairs, telly, phone and mini-bar, a lovely bathroom en suite. Oh, how I ached to jump into the divine king-size bed. As Jim tipped the porter, gripped by fatigue and splashing cold water onto my face to wake myself up, just ten short minutes later, we found Elizabeth waiting for us by a candlelit table in the Lobby Restaurant. Swallowed up in a stimulating aroma of herbs and spices, as we tried Turkish cuisine and a red wine. Advocating Yakut, Elizabeth warned us
“You'll drink a lot of it in Turkey.”
Fruity and palatable, Elizabeth certainly had good taste. None too talkative, Jim tucked into his feast, while sleepy more than hungry, my meal more a snack. As Elizabeth pondered, taking us by surprise, she quizzed
“Which part of Istanbul would you especially like to see?”
“We’ve not really thought about it,” I admitted, explaining, “According to our flight tickets we’re only here for a couple of days.”
“I’m sure Asil will amend your tickets once he’s met you.” confident, Elizabeth added “He’ll wish you to stay in Istanbul a few days so you can explore the city.”
Our meal finished, Elizabeth suggested that we should celebrate. Midnight and I had to meet the main man in the morning. Unable to refuse, as we trailed her to the lifts, Elizabeth took us to the Rooftop Bar. It was like being back on the plane, a heady vision, as we stared out of the panoramic window, flaunted before us, Byzantium, a shimmering collage of crescents and stars.
At once making for the bar, Elizabeth ordered the best bubbly. I would perhaps get away with champagne, however, the banker directed the grinning barman to flood it with whisky liqueur. In no mood for a fling, I wanted to take the low road to bed. Too late and as we joined Elizabeth, we raised our glasses and toasted
“To Success!”
A couple of hours later, desperate to catch up on lost sleep, needing to be at my best in the morning, I climbed into bed. An hour more, shivering, head pounding, just making it to the bathroom, not recommended, mixing booze with painkillers for my migraine. Even worse, craving to end my raging thirst and not thinking, I grabbed a tumbler and straight from the tap gulped mouthfuls of bug-rich water. Back in the room, still sprawled out and oblivious to the drama, Jim snored. As I exploited the mini-
Showing us to the lifts as a porter gripped our case, before parting, we agreed to join Elizabeth for supper. Upon reaching our floor, the porter led us to a comfy room, armchairs, telly, phone and mini-bar, a lovely bathroom en suite. Oh, how I ached to jump into the divine king-size bed. As Jim tipped the porter, gripped by fatigue and splashing cold water onto my face to wake myself up, just ten short minutes later, we found Elizabeth waiting for us by a candlelit table in the Lobby Restaurant. Swallowed up in a stimulating aroma of herbs and spices, as we tried Turkish cuisine and a red wine. Advocating Yakut, Elizabeth warned us
“You'll drink a lot of it in Turkey.”
Fruity and palatable, Elizabeth certainly had good taste. None too talkative, Jim tucked into his feast, while sleepy more than hungry, my meal more a snack. As Elizabeth pondered, taking us by surprise, she quizzed
“Which part of Istanbul would you especially like to see?”
“We’ve not really thought about it,” I admitted, explaining, “According to our flight tickets we’re only here for a couple of days.”
“I’m sure Asil will amend your tickets once he’s met you.” confident, Elizabeth added “He’ll wish you to stay in Istanbul a few days so you can explore the city.”
Our meal finished, Elizabeth suggested that we should celebrate. Midnight and I had to meet the main man in the morning. Unable to refuse, as we trailed her to the lifts, Elizabeth took us to the Rooftop Bar. It was like being back on the plane, a heady vision, as we stared out of the panoramic window, flaunted before us, Byzantium, a shimmering collage of crescents and stars.
At once making for the bar, Elizabeth ordered the best bubbly. I would perhaps get away with champagne, however, the banker directed the grinning barman to flood it with whisky liqueur. In no mood for a fling, I wanted to take the low road to bed. Too late and as we joined Elizabeth, we raised our glasses and toasted
“To Success!”
A couple of hours later, desperate to catch up on lost sleep, needing to be at my best in the morning, I climbed into bed. An hour more, shivering, head pounding, just making it to the bathroom, not recommended, mixing booze with painkillers for my migraine. Even worse, craving to end my raging thirst and not thinking, I grabbed a tumbler and straight from the tap gulped mouthfuls of bug-rich water. Back in the room, still sprawled out and oblivious to the drama, Jim snored. As I exploited the mini-
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bar, the label said spring water. Feeling a mite better, I glanced out of the window watching little yellow taxis flit far below.
Four in the morning, once back in bed, I tried to get some sleep. Tossing and turning, then as dawn broke, a local muezzin began calling the faithful of Islam to prayer. For a moment back in Israel, as I listened to his melodic voice, he sent me off to sleep. No mercy, the bedside phone buzzing, Jim persisted
“C’mon lazybones, get up, that’s our early morning call.”
Once dressed, a bright day, Elizabeth joined us for breakfast in the dining room. Before she dashed back to her room, the banker explained that she had pressing business to attend to and told us
“I received a call in my room about an hour ago – Asil’s office, a small change of plan, a tiny delay, our car will now collect us at 11-30.”
As Jim led me out into the street, a brief stroll, still feeling groggy, I hoped that the cool morning air might revive me. As I tried to gather my befuddled wits, Asil Nadir presented a stimulating challenge, an astute guy, mine no easy mission, my job to dupe him.
When the Mercedes arrived, Jim rode shotgun, while I joined Elizabeth on the backseat. The traffic appalling and the car crawled until, leaving Europe behind us, our gateway to Asia, we suddenly approached an elegant suspension bridge gracefully spanning the mighty Bosphorus. Soon venturing into Kandilli Caddesi and a new mountain to climb, Elizabeth declared
“We’ve arrived!”
© COPYRIGHT OLIVIA FRANK ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Four in the morning, once back in bed, I tried to get some sleep. Tossing and turning, then as dawn broke, a local muezzin began calling the faithful of Islam to prayer. For a moment back in Israel, as I listened to his melodic voice, he sent me off to sleep. No mercy, the bedside phone buzzing, Jim persisted
“C’mon lazybones, get up, that’s our early morning call.”
Once dressed, a bright day, Elizabeth joined us for breakfast in the dining room. Before she dashed back to her room, the banker explained that she had pressing business to attend to and told us
“I received a call in my room about an hour ago – Asil’s office, a small change of plan, a tiny delay, our car will now collect us at 11-30.”
As Jim led me out into the street, a brief stroll, still feeling groggy, I hoped that the cool morning air might revive me. As I tried to gather my befuddled wits, Asil Nadir presented a stimulating challenge, an astute guy, mine no easy mission, my job to dupe him.
When the Mercedes arrived, Jim rode shotgun, while I joined Elizabeth on the backseat. The traffic appalling and the car crawled until, leaving Europe behind us, our gateway to Asia, we suddenly approached an elegant suspension bridge gracefully spanning the mighty Bosphorus. Soon venturing into Kandilli Caddesi and a new mountain to climb, Elizabeth declared
“We’ve arrived!”
© COPYRIGHT OLIVIA FRANK ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
