8.The Cook Reporters
As Jim joined me, passing David’s camcorder once more, his car still sat by the SFO entrance. Leaving Elm Street, on our way now to visit MI6, if he had known where we were heading, the Cook Reporter would have tailed us and that would have terminated my hidden agenda. Every step we took, they would be watching us. Naylor had promised us an attractive package to keep our mouths shut, not interested, stitched up by them in the past, my mission marked the opportunity of a lifetime. The British Secret Services intended to inflict upon Nadir, that which they had doled out to me. Not vengeance, I craved justice.
As the Secret Intelligence Service HQ at Vauxhall Cross loomed tall before us, number 85 by the bridge on the Albert Embankment, looking much like a citadel dressed as it was in bottle green glass flanked by giant stone-clad shoulders. As we took advantage of a breach in the wall encircling the building and entered into the grounds, climbing steps to the entrance and once through a revolving door, we encountered a dingy lobby. By the left, two black uniforms eyed us from behind a reinforced window and as we advanced to their desk, I announced
“Mr and Mrs Frank to see John Naylor, he’s expecting us.”
One man retreated from the desk and making for the far wall of his office, out of our earshot, he picked up a telephone and made a quick call. Intrigued by our stirring surroundings, as we gazed around us, just beyond the lobby, standing to our left, more in keeping with a fabled spycentre, an array of bubble-like perspex capsules caught my eye. A futuristic security feature, they denied casual access to an inner lobby and must be innovative lifts. As he headed from their direction, no dinner jacket or bow tie, dressed simply in an ordinary crumpled grey suit, Naylor beckoned us to follow him. Afraid that we might see too much, leading us by the right, away from the lifts, he sped us into a nearby waiting area.
In this game, nothing ever what it seems, as I took in the black leather seating lining all bar one wall, more like the Bond films, admittedly, I found it amusing as a secret panel hummed, suddenly, springing into life, it slid back before us. As Naylor gestured us to enter, venturing forth, nothing special, mundane and bare, it was just the service stairs and access to the underground car park.
As we climbed the steps to the next floor, in common with modern day Britain, never alone with all the blinking cameras, standing before another breach, similar to the one that we had just encountered downstairs, pausing to retrieve a plastic card from his pocket, Naylor quickly passed it through a slot in the top of a small metallic box fixed to the right and halfway up the wall
- 182 -
As Jim joined me, passing David’s camcorder once more, his car still sat by the SFO entrance. Leaving Elm Street, on our way now to visit MI6, if he had known where we were heading, the Cook Reporter would have tailed us and that would have terminated my hidden agenda. Every step we took, they would be watching us. Naylor had promised us an attractive package to keep our mouths shut, not interested, stitched up by them in the past, my mission marked the opportunity of a lifetime. The British Secret Services intended to inflict upon Nadir, that which they had doled out to me. Not vengeance, I craved justice.
As the Secret Intelligence Service HQ at Vauxhall Cross loomed tall before us, number 85 by the bridge on the Albert Embankment, looking much like a citadel dressed as it was in bottle green glass flanked by giant stone-clad shoulders. As we took advantage of a breach in the wall encircling the building and entered into the grounds, climbing steps to the entrance and once through a revolving door, we encountered a dingy lobby. By the left, two black uniforms eyed us from behind a reinforced window and as we advanced to their desk, I announced
“Mr and Mrs Frank to see John Naylor, he’s expecting us.”
One man retreated from the desk and making for the far wall of his office, out of our earshot, he picked up a telephone and made a quick call. Intrigued by our stirring surroundings, as we gazed around us, just beyond the lobby, standing to our left, more in keeping with a fabled spycentre, an array of bubble-like perspex capsules caught my eye. A futuristic security feature, they denied casual access to an inner lobby and must be innovative lifts. As he headed from their direction, no dinner jacket or bow tie, dressed simply in an ordinary crumpled grey suit, Naylor beckoned us to follow him. Afraid that we might see too much, leading us by the right, away from the lifts, he sped us into a nearby waiting area.
In this game, nothing ever what it seems, as I took in the black leather seating lining all bar one wall, more like the Bond films, admittedly, I found it amusing as a secret panel hummed, suddenly, springing into life, it slid back before us. As Naylor gestured us to enter, venturing forth, nothing special, mundane and bare, it was just the service stairs and access to the underground car park.
As we climbed the steps to the next floor, in common with modern day Britain, never alone with all the blinking cameras, standing before another breach, similar to the one that we had just encountered downstairs, pausing to retrieve a plastic card from his pocket, Naylor quickly passed it through a slot in the top of a small metallic box fixed to the right and halfway up the wall
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beside the panel. As it slid back, inviting us to enter first, we advanced into a grey-carpeted lobby.
Unlike the Mossad, it appeared that Britain pampered spies. A plush interior, it matched a 6-star hôtel. As he hastened us along an anonymous white-panelled corridor, Naylor showed us into a stark room and watched as two more uniforms waved electronic wands about our person. One uniform checked the details in our passports, while the second officer provided us with a simple form to sign for our visitor passes. As we pinned them on, Naylor returned us outside to the corridor and more like the Mossad Academy, a warren of passages, as we passed down another corridor and through a door it led into a reception suite.
Attractive and roomy, the chamber boasted panoramic views over the Thames. Plush carpet, air-conditioning and scorching today, we felt relieved to escape the humidity. Seated in enormous leather armchairs, diffused lighting and leafy plants completed the swanky décor. Losing the jacket, cuffs slack, sleeves rolled and his muscles bronzed. Our throats parched, like our meeting at the SFO, no time for coffee, brusque, Naylor enquired.
“How was your meeting with Wardle – was he difficult?”
“You’ll love this,” I began. “He wants us to get jobs with Nadir so that we can feed the SFO with intelligence.”
“Great! All I need to know. Urge Forsyth to help you. Now, lets go over the story you’re to give Alford.”
He presented us with a false version of our recent SFO date, as we went through it, I had to recite the gist of it to David later. As Naylor snatched his jacket off the back of his chair, taking out a slip of paper and a small white card from a pocket, as he handed them to me, meant to tie up any loose ends, the first item, a simple handwritten note, bore the address for MI6 HQ. As Naylor expressed its purpose, he directed me to inform David that Brown wasn’t at the SFO after all. Instead, I had to tell him that as Wardle passed me the note; he explained that I had to meet Brown at the address exhibited upon it. As I examined the card, Naylor expanded that the Security Service freely distributed them. Plain, tacky and the sort of thing printed by railway station vending machines. A London post box address for MI5, it read ‘Director of Establishments.’ Its function to help me keep David hooked, a straightforward ploy to persuade him that he was getting closer to the imaginary Brown. As I stowed the items in my bag, Naylor gloated
“Alford will cherish them as pieces of constructive evidence, before I forget, the Israeli delegation is dead.” Looking pleased with himself, he bragged “It’s served its purpose, lets hope Alford puts it in his programme.”
- 183 -
Unlike the Mossad, it appeared that Britain pampered spies. A plush interior, it matched a 6-star hôtel. As he hastened us along an anonymous white-panelled corridor, Naylor showed us into a stark room and watched as two more uniforms waved electronic wands about our person. One uniform checked the details in our passports, while the second officer provided us with a simple form to sign for our visitor passes. As we pinned them on, Naylor returned us outside to the corridor and more like the Mossad Academy, a warren of passages, as we passed down another corridor and through a door it led into a reception suite.
Attractive and roomy, the chamber boasted panoramic views over the Thames. Plush carpet, air-conditioning and scorching today, we felt relieved to escape the humidity. Seated in enormous leather armchairs, diffused lighting and leafy plants completed the swanky décor. Losing the jacket, cuffs slack, sleeves rolled and his muscles bronzed. Our throats parched, like our meeting at the SFO, no time for coffee, brusque, Naylor enquired.
“How was your meeting with Wardle – was he difficult?”
“You’ll love this,” I began. “He wants us to get jobs with Nadir so that we can feed the SFO with intelligence.”
“Great! All I need to know. Urge Forsyth to help you. Now, lets go over the story you’re to give Alford.”
He presented us with a false version of our recent SFO date, as we went through it, I had to recite the gist of it to David later. As Naylor snatched his jacket off the back of his chair, taking out a slip of paper and a small white card from a pocket, as he handed them to me, meant to tie up any loose ends, the first item, a simple handwritten note, bore the address for MI6 HQ. As Naylor expressed its purpose, he directed me to inform David that Brown wasn’t at the SFO after all. Instead, I had to tell him that as Wardle passed me the note; he explained that I had to meet Brown at the address exhibited upon it. As I examined the card, Naylor expanded that the Security Service freely distributed them. Plain, tacky and the sort of thing printed by railway station vending machines. A London post box address for MI5, it read ‘Director of Establishments.’ Its function to help me keep David hooked, a straightforward ploy to persuade him that he was getting closer to the imaginary Brown. As I stowed the items in my bag, Naylor gloated
“Alford will cherish them as pieces of constructive evidence, before I forget, the Israeli delegation is dead.” Looking pleased with himself, he bragged “It’s served its purpose, lets hope Alford puts it in his programme.”
- 183 -
“It’s a tall story,” I rejoined “And a wonder Mrs Forsyth didn’t see through it.”
“I’m sure you know by now that Forsyth possesses a penchant for entertaining stories – she likes thrills,” amusing himself and chuckling, he claimed “I’m sure it’s why she’s stuck by Nadir.”
“What excuse do I give for axing the delegation?” I probed.
“Ohhhh, tell them it’s a decision from the top,” he suggested, dismissive.
Rising to his feet, as Naylor turned his back to us, rolling down his shirtsleeves and cuffs buttoned, he grabbed his jacket off the chair, as we watched him slip it back on, taking out his brown leather wallet, quickly away again and facing us, he handed me a £20 note to cover our fare. Our briefing over and leaving the room together as he marched us back along the labyrinth, a fine escort, broad shoulders and he needed them in this job.
Bidding us bon voyage and leaving us with a uniform, as I watched Naylor turn to go, careless, his right hand dived into a pocket as he took out his plastic once more. Green with a red diagonal band and his mugshot upon it, doubling for an ID card and like the visitor passes that we had to hand in, it had a lapel clip fixed to it. Out the same way that we had arrived, the security guard didn’t stop to talk, looking mean and hard, dangling from his trouser pocket, a slender brown leather strap announced that he carried a truncheon.
Taking a fizzy drink and a coach back to Dover, we jumped into the first phone box that we could find. When I called David, sulking, he moaned
“You didn’t spend much time with Wardle – only thirty minutes.”
Unknown to him, Naylor had taken forty. David amended his sullen attitude when I gave him the MI6 version of my trip to the SFO. If right, it would force me to rethink my agenda. Like all the rumours in the papers, wild and groundless, I asserted that Wardle had informed me that Nadir was into arms deals with Libya and Iraq. Just as silly, I claimed that Nelson had alleged that the SFO had proof the tycoon was implicated in swindles, hard drugs and shady Swiss Companies. David loved it, hungry for more, he asked me about Brown. Per Naylor’s brief, I explained that Brown wasn’t at the SFO after all. Instead, he had left a note for me with Wardle. Feeding David more porkies, I unveiled
“I had to present myself at the venue written upon it. It was only the MI6 HQ at Vauxhall Cross. We went there after we’d finished at the SFO.”
“Oh we’ve missed a wonderful opportunity!” whimpered David, distraught. He cried, “If only I’d tailed you…shit, my fault! I’d have had it in the programme.”
“I’m sure you know by now that Forsyth possesses a penchant for entertaining stories – she likes thrills,” amusing himself and chuckling, he claimed “I’m sure it’s why she’s stuck by Nadir.”
“What excuse do I give for axing the delegation?” I probed.
“Ohhhh, tell them it’s a decision from the top,” he suggested, dismissive.
Rising to his feet, as Naylor turned his back to us, rolling down his shirtsleeves and cuffs buttoned, he grabbed his jacket off the chair, as we watched him slip it back on, taking out his brown leather wallet, quickly away again and facing us, he handed me a £20 note to cover our fare. Our briefing over and leaving the room together as he marched us back along the labyrinth, a fine escort, broad shoulders and he needed them in this job.
Bidding us bon voyage and leaving us with a uniform, as I watched Naylor turn to go, careless, his right hand dived into a pocket as he took out his plastic once more. Green with a red diagonal band and his mugshot upon it, doubling for an ID card and like the visitor passes that we had to hand in, it had a lapel clip fixed to it. Out the same way that we had arrived, the security guard didn’t stop to talk, looking mean and hard, dangling from his trouser pocket, a slender brown leather strap announced that he carried a truncheon.
Taking a fizzy drink and a coach back to Dover, we jumped into the first phone box that we could find. When I called David, sulking, he moaned
“You didn’t spend much time with Wardle – only thirty minutes.”
Unknown to him, Naylor had taken forty. David amended his sullen attitude when I gave him the MI6 version of my trip to the SFO. If right, it would force me to rethink my agenda. Like all the rumours in the papers, wild and groundless, I asserted that Wardle had informed me that Nadir was into arms deals with Libya and Iraq. Just as silly, I claimed that Nelson had alleged that the SFO had proof the tycoon was implicated in swindles, hard drugs and shady Swiss Companies. David loved it, hungry for more, he asked me about Brown. Per Naylor’s brief, I explained that Brown wasn’t at the SFO after all. Instead, he had left a note for me with Wardle. Feeding David more porkies, I unveiled
“I had to present myself at the venue written upon it. It was only the MI6 HQ at Vauxhall Cross. We went there after we’d finished at the SFO.”
“Oh we’ve missed a wonderful opportunity!” whimpered David, distraught. He cried, “If only I’d tailed you…shit, my fault! I’d have had it in the programme.”
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“Can’t be helped, David. Brown said I should have met my MI6 handler today, he said he was tied up. He gave me a card with my new contact address upon it, I’ll let you have it and Brown’s note.”
Before we ended the call, David cried, ”This is so compelling!”
Asking me to find an hôtel in Dover where he could rent a room, David wanted us to meet. About to take a vacation with his wife Trish, before flying to Portugal, he wished us to encounter his partner, Peter Salkeld, an all-rounder, quite apart from being a cameraman for The Cook Report, a producer in his own right. Chuckling, David said
“Pete’s easy to recognise – he looks like a mad mullah!”
As I left the box, discussing my exchange with David, Jim warned me that the Cook Reporters wanted me before a camera. A few days more, 9th July a sunny morning and as we left the flat, Jim joined me for the short stroll to the Churchill Hôtel on Dover’s seafront. As a clock struck eleven, David met us in the lobby and leading us into a private room, graciously kissing me on the cheek, we met Salk. Average height like David, there all similarity ended. Dressed a little like a country gent in his tweeds, mid-fifties, scrawny, a bushy beard and Peter’s frizzy hair a bird nest, not only dyed, but two shades of auburn.
When our refreshment arrived, all seated and the scene set, like poker players facing each other around an octagonal table, relieving the tension, Peter dunked a digestive in his tea and David tried to cajole us
“We’re all friends here, I want you to consider yourselves on The Cook Report team, you can trust Peter, he’s worked with Roger on The Cook Report for eleven years, I trust him completely.” Making it appear an afterthought, David added, “Salk’s got his camera, we’ll do a spot of filming, you know – get something in the can!”
“You didn’t mention filming, David” I chided him.
“Didn’t I” he responded “Perhaps you'd like a drink in the lounge where you'll be more comfortable while we set up the lighting.”
Once we had partaken our tea and biscuits, not long afterwards, joining us in the lounge, as we finished our fruit juice, David ordered another round of drinks, placing them on a tray and gesturing us to follow him, he called out
“C’mon, we’re ready!”
Back in the room, they had been busy. Converting the chamber into a working studio, heat from camera lights made it feel tropical. As Peter adjusted a vase of lovely carnations, satisfied, David cried out to him
“Take a break, Pete – I've got a gin and tonic for you!”
- 185 -
Before we ended the call, David cried, ”This is so compelling!”
Asking me to find an hôtel in Dover where he could rent a room, David wanted us to meet. About to take a vacation with his wife Trish, before flying to Portugal, he wished us to encounter his partner, Peter Salkeld, an all-rounder, quite apart from being a cameraman for The Cook Report, a producer in his own right. Chuckling, David said
“Pete’s easy to recognise – he looks like a mad mullah!”
As I left the box, discussing my exchange with David, Jim warned me that the Cook Reporters wanted me before a camera. A few days more, 9th July a sunny morning and as we left the flat, Jim joined me for the short stroll to the Churchill Hôtel on Dover’s seafront. As a clock struck eleven, David met us in the lobby and leading us into a private room, graciously kissing me on the cheek, we met Salk. Average height like David, there all similarity ended. Dressed a little like a country gent in his tweeds, mid-fifties, scrawny, a bushy beard and Peter’s frizzy hair a bird nest, not only dyed, but two shades of auburn.
When our refreshment arrived, all seated and the scene set, like poker players facing each other around an octagonal table, relieving the tension, Peter dunked a digestive in his tea and David tried to cajole us
“We’re all friends here, I want you to consider yourselves on The Cook Report team, you can trust Peter, he’s worked with Roger on The Cook Report for eleven years, I trust him completely.” Making it appear an afterthought, David added, “Salk’s got his camera, we’ll do a spot of filming, you know – get something in the can!”
“You didn’t mention filming, David” I chided him.
“Didn’t I” he responded “Perhaps you'd like a drink in the lounge where you'll be more comfortable while we set up the lighting.”
Once we had partaken our tea and biscuits, not long afterwards, joining us in the lounge, as we finished our fruit juice, David ordered another round of drinks, placing them on a tray and gesturing us to follow him, he called out
“C’mon, we’re ready!”
Back in the room, they had been busy. Converting the chamber into a working studio, heat from camera lights made it feel tropical. As Peter adjusted a vase of lovely carnations, satisfied, David cried out to him
“Take a break, Pete – I've got a gin and tonic for you!”
- 185 -
In one corner, two powerful arc lamps threw piercing beams onto a lonely chair and as Jim caught me staring at it, he won no marks for guessing where I sit. Taking my place in front of the camera fixed to a tripod standing two metres from me. As Peter endeavoured to fix a microphone onto my T-shirt, doing his best to avoid fingering my boobs. His first sortie futile and watching him have another go, a big grin on his face, David joked
“Why don't you stick it in her cleavage, Pete?”
Not helping matters, my top tight, timidly, Salk tried again and to his enormous relief, this time successful, he returned to his camera. Placing his chair next to the tripod, as David settled himself before me, we began by discussing my childhood. Inevitably, touching upon the topic of my gender. Rushing me through my life, as David raced, wanting more about the IDF, he quizzed
“Were you reckless? Did you take part in combat?”
“No I can’t have that, you’re prompting her, David,” warned Salk.
My fault, thinking too hard, responding with due care; anxious to say nothing, which I might regret, it obliged David to winkle my stuff from me. Trying to relax and past the Mossad. Dazzled by the fierce glare, my head banging, I didn’t need a migraine now. David’s questions relentless and casting my mind back, I told him
“I was leaving for work in my car a man on a street corner signalled me to stop, we met later in a car park…”
Playing to Naylor’s script, appalled by my frankness, as I told them nearly all my secrets, it had better be worth it. Unable to believe it, soon David knew all about Graham Hill, the cheques, all my life I had taken such care to hide, now hanging out nearly all of my dirty washing and on camera too. I still said nothing about the Hart’s passports and our new NI numbers. David liked it when I told him about the prison transfers. Delving deeper, wanting more and an hour later, finally, the spotlight off me, but the thumping migraine had drained me. As we quit filming, keen to lose it and removing the mike, I handed it over to Peter. As I rejoined Jim, pleased with my début, David assured me that I had done well. For reward, bearing gifts, he told me
”Now you can tape your chats with Brown.”
As I watched, David produced a dictation machine from his case together with a handful of blank cassettes. I had to stow everything in my bag together with an earpiece for the machine. A long day and now three in the afternoon, exchanging handshakes, we left them to right the room and exiting the hôtel, still sunny out, as Jim joined me for a stroll along the promenade. Becalmed today, a cool sea breeze from the Channel revived me. Once back
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“Why don't you stick it in her cleavage, Pete?”
Not helping matters, my top tight, timidly, Salk tried again and to his enormous relief, this time successful, he returned to his camera. Placing his chair next to the tripod, as David settled himself before me, we began by discussing my childhood. Inevitably, touching upon the topic of my gender. Rushing me through my life, as David raced, wanting more about the IDF, he quizzed
“Were you reckless? Did you take part in combat?”
“No I can’t have that, you’re prompting her, David,” warned Salk.
My fault, thinking too hard, responding with due care; anxious to say nothing, which I might regret, it obliged David to winkle my stuff from me. Trying to relax and past the Mossad. Dazzled by the fierce glare, my head banging, I didn’t need a migraine now. David’s questions relentless and casting my mind back, I told him
“I was leaving for work in my car a man on a street corner signalled me to stop, we met later in a car park…”
Playing to Naylor’s script, appalled by my frankness, as I told them nearly all my secrets, it had better be worth it. Unable to believe it, soon David knew all about Graham Hill, the cheques, all my life I had taken such care to hide, now hanging out nearly all of my dirty washing and on camera too. I still said nothing about the Hart’s passports and our new NI numbers. David liked it when I told him about the prison transfers. Delving deeper, wanting more and an hour later, finally, the spotlight off me, but the thumping migraine had drained me. As we quit filming, keen to lose it and removing the mike, I handed it over to Peter. As I rejoined Jim, pleased with my début, David assured me that I had done well. For reward, bearing gifts, he told me
”Now you can tape your chats with Brown.”
As I watched, David produced a dictation machine from his case together with a handful of blank cassettes. I had to stow everything in my bag together with an earpiece for the machine. A long day and now three in the afternoon, exchanging handshakes, we left them to right the room and exiting the hôtel, still sunny out, as Jim joined me for a stroll along the promenade. Becalmed today, a cool sea breeze from the Channel revived me. Once back
- 186 -
at the flat, I called Naylor. Once he had received my update, he directed
“It’s time to call their bluff.”
Jumping to it, David absent on leave for a fortnight, I dropped a line to Peter. An ultimatum, it threatened that unless they cut the stuff about my gender from their film, I would deny all. Meant to put the Cook Reporters off the scent, calling Salk next day and Jim found that the trick had worked. During their chat, Peter admitted that until he received my letter, he had feared that we could be double-crossers. Confessing that David thought likewise, he said they were worried and had believed that MI6 might want to avenge them for chasing Nadir’s story. In his book, Roger Cook admitted that the dubious deeds of SFO Director Wardle, gave credence to Nadir’s fears that he was the victim of a conspiracy. Happy – so he said, Peter cried
“You can’t be MI6, they’d not let your sensibilities get in the way of their ops.”
Listing the dates when he would be free to discuss trade with them, Elizabeth sent me a charming letter declaring that Asil Nadir was happy to meet the Israelis in the TRNC. It suggested that the tycoon was predisposed to believe in me. In response, I sent Elizabeth a letter that revealed the delegation was now dead and reminded her that we were jobless. In another letter, although disappointed by my news about the delegation, Elizabeth divulged that she would soon be flying to the TRNC and then onto Turkey, where she promised to have words with Nadir about us joining his security team. Nice having a special envoy, unaware I ran her like my agent and phoning us again on 22nd July, Elizabeth cried
“I’ve changed all my plans, I’m in Istanbul I’m going to speak with Asil before flying to Cyprus, can you give Trudy a call?”
Changing his sex, Trudy was her codename for David. Elizabeth knew that MI5 routinely tapped her landline. Naylor tapped mine too, serving a useful purpose pointless to tape my calls they went down the line to MI6. That night we received another phone call. Peter Kerry told Jim
“Sorry, the Israeli concert’s off, I couldn’t clinch a deal, Michael Jackson and Sinead O’Connor got death threats – so that’s it.”
Jim suggested something would turn up and thanked Kerry for letting us know. When David returned from his break in Portugal, Jim gave him a call. The Cook Reporter insisted that he was 100 percent satisfied that our story was true. David agreed not to use anything in his programme about my sexual status without my prior consent. Like Salk, he claimed that my threat to pull out convinced him that we couldn’t be trying to dupe them. He went on so much that I believed it was wise not to trust him. Like my
“It’s time to call their bluff.”
Jumping to it, David absent on leave for a fortnight, I dropped a line to Peter. An ultimatum, it threatened that unless they cut the stuff about my gender from their film, I would deny all. Meant to put the Cook Reporters off the scent, calling Salk next day and Jim found that the trick had worked. During their chat, Peter admitted that until he received my letter, he had feared that we could be double-crossers. Confessing that David thought likewise, he said they were worried and had believed that MI6 might want to avenge them for chasing Nadir’s story. In his book, Roger Cook admitted that the dubious deeds of SFO Director Wardle, gave credence to Nadir’s fears that he was the victim of a conspiracy. Happy – so he said, Peter cried
“You can’t be MI6, they’d not let your sensibilities get in the way of their ops.”
Listing the dates when he would be free to discuss trade with them, Elizabeth sent me a charming letter declaring that Asil Nadir was happy to meet the Israelis in the TRNC. It suggested that the tycoon was predisposed to believe in me. In response, I sent Elizabeth a letter that revealed the delegation was now dead and reminded her that we were jobless. In another letter, although disappointed by my news about the delegation, Elizabeth divulged that she would soon be flying to the TRNC and then onto Turkey, where she promised to have words with Nadir about us joining his security team. Nice having a special envoy, unaware I ran her like my agent and phoning us again on 22nd July, Elizabeth cried
“I’ve changed all my plans, I’m in Istanbul I’m going to speak with Asil before flying to Cyprus, can you give Trudy a call?”
Changing his sex, Trudy was her codename for David. Elizabeth knew that MI5 routinely tapped her landline. Naylor tapped mine too, serving a useful purpose pointless to tape my calls they went down the line to MI6. That night we received another phone call. Peter Kerry told Jim
“Sorry, the Israeli concert’s off, I couldn’t clinch a deal, Michael Jackson and Sinead O’Connor got death threats – so that’s it.”
Jim suggested something would turn up and thanked Kerry for letting us know. When David returned from his break in Portugal, Jim gave him a call. The Cook Reporter insisted that he was 100 percent satisfied that our story was true. David agreed not to use anything in his programme about my sexual status without my prior consent. Like Salk, he claimed that my threat to pull out convinced him that we couldn’t be trying to dupe them. He went on so much that I believed it was wise not to trust him. Like my
-187 -
agenda, indeed part of it, keeping my qualms well hidden, I didn’t want to worry Naylor. Trying too hard, David argued
“Your handlers would never let you pull out on your own accord, you can’t be on their team, although I must admit that when you contacted Roger, we all felt very nervous.”
I called Naylor at once, pleased, he told me that we had to phone Wardle at the SFO. He wanted Jim to inform Wardle that Elizabeth was trying to organise jobs for us with Nadir. In the event, Wardle divulged to Jim that he had had a chat with Pelham and had confirmed I used to work for the Mossad. Wardle admitted that he was impressed. Always busy on the phone, next day, I had an unexpected call on my landline from MI5. A posh voice like Pelham, the caller informed me
”An acquaintance of yours, Mr Pelham, would like you to telephone him this afternoon at 2-30, will you be available to make the call?”
MI5 had used my landline number, instead of calling me on Naylor’s mobile. Taking a risk, I decided that it was in order to reciprocate. Utilising my landline to call them, later that same day, I phoned MI5. Giving the telephonist his name, as she put through my call, apparently not busy, Pelham enquired
“How do you find Mr Naylor?”
“We get along fine” I assured him, “He spends all his time giving us money” I joked, prolonging our chat and stretching the time.
“Tell me” he quizzed “How’s his scheme developing – working well?”
“Going nicely” I responded, sycophantic “Of course, your operation developed the ground for the work in progress.”
“I’m very glad it wasn’t wasted” he replied “Its just a pity that the operation failed to reach fruition.”
“It was a huge shock,” I told him. “When Nay…eh, Mr Naylor, told me that I was free to talk to the media about me working for you.”
Pelham claimed that he was no less shocked when Naylor first mooted the idea. Trying to take me for a ride, I knew his game; MI5 had merely laid the turf for MI6 to play in Turkey. Suppressing my view, I concurred with his opinion.
“I have to confess” alleged Pelham ”At first, the idea struck me as ridiculous, but the more that you think about it, the more ingenious that you realise it is. I’m content with your collaboration. Let me extend my gratitude to Mr Frank. I have to go, I wish you every success with Mr Naylor.”
As Pelham finally wound up our call, it had endured some fifteen minutes. Too dangerous to tape, it could have been a trap. Like most spy agencies, MI5 used gadgets on their telephones to detect
“Your handlers would never let you pull out on your own accord, you can’t be on their team, although I must admit that when you contacted Roger, we all felt very nervous.”
I called Naylor at once, pleased, he told me that we had to phone Wardle at the SFO. He wanted Jim to inform Wardle that Elizabeth was trying to organise jobs for us with Nadir. In the event, Wardle divulged to Jim that he had had a chat with Pelham and had confirmed I used to work for the Mossad. Wardle admitted that he was impressed. Always busy on the phone, next day, I had an unexpected call on my landline from MI5. A posh voice like Pelham, the caller informed me
”An acquaintance of yours, Mr Pelham, would like you to telephone him this afternoon at 2-30, will you be available to make the call?”
MI5 had used my landline number, instead of calling me on Naylor’s mobile. Taking a risk, I decided that it was in order to reciprocate. Utilising my landline to call them, later that same day, I phoned MI5. Giving the telephonist his name, as she put through my call, apparently not busy, Pelham enquired
“How do you find Mr Naylor?”
“We get along fine” I assured him, “He spends all his time giving us money” I joked, prolonging our chat and stretching the time.
“Tell me” he quizzed “How’s his scheme developing – working well?”
“Going nicely” I responded, sycophantic “Of course, your operation developed the ground for the work in progress.”
“I’m very glad it wasn’t wasted” he replied “Its just a pity that the operation failed to reach fruition.”
“It was a huge shock,” I told him. “When Nay…eh, Mr Naylor, told me that I was free to talk to the media about me working for you.”
Pelham claimed that he was no less shocked when Naylor first mooted the idea. Trying to take me for a ride, I knew his game; MI5 had merely laid the turf for MI6 to play in Turkey. Suppressing my view, I concurred with his opinion.
“I have to confess” alleged Pelham ”At first, the idea struck me as ridiculous, but the more that you think about it, the more ingenious that you realise it is. I’m content with your collaboration. Let me extend my gratitude to Mr Frank. I have to go, I wish you every success with Mr Naylor.”
As Pelham finally wound up our call, it had endured some fifteen minutes. Too dangerous to tape, it could have been a trap. Like most spy agencies, MI5 used gadgets on their telephones to detect
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recording devices. Listed on my bill, the call still amounted to a security lapse on their part. On 7th August, as Elizabeth flew back to England, promising us that she had sorted our career prospects with him, the banker directed us to send our résumés direct to Nadir in Istanbul. Three weeks on, I reminded her that Nadir had still not replied.
“Asil’s been burdened with heavy work just recently” she explained.
Meanwhile, as he investigated the plot to rob Graham Hill, David needed our police witness statements. Ages later, when Arthur eventually got around to it, he posted them to us and we sent David photocopies. Graham’s statement verified that I knew my arrest was in the offing. In it, he had confirmed that I had cleared my desk before any police enquiry. I made no mistake, per plot, upon making out the final cheque, Graham’s wife, Margaret, found no fewer than three deliberate errors resulting in my arrest. I had a reputation. Roy Trick had once told Jim that he thought my work meticulous and Graham had told the police he considered me pedantic. Mum would have been proud, I had made it as an accountant and as a career, admittedly, it had turned out more thrilling than I had reckoned.
Meanwhile, Nadir’s letter now weeks overdue and phoning me again, Elizabeth made more pathetic excuses for its delay. On 24th September, the banker about to board a plane at Heathrow, once more, unwittingly acting as my agent, she pledged
“I’m off to Istanbul, I’m going to talk with Asil about you meeting him.”
Two days more, Elizabeth flew back to England clutching Nadir’s letter. Ready to pop in the post, she promised to send it to us. When we received it, dated 25th September and printed on Nadir’s notepaper, thanking us for applying to join his personal staff, his letter ran, 'Unfortunately since arriving in Turkey, I have been very busy. I would like you to visit me in the middle of December. Elizabeth will make the arrangements, regards, Asil Nadir’.
Looking like he wasn’t yet convinced, Nadir downright stalling. Fed up by all the delays, I called MI6. As Naylor organised our next move, he promised us that he would arrange it for me to receive a contrived telephone call to speed things along. Beforehand, he wanted Jim to phone Wardle at the SFO and let him know that we had received a message from Nadir. Directing me to send the SFO a copy, Naylor said that he wanted to keep Wardle hooked in case we needed him again. An hour on and elated about Nadir’s letter, Jim told me
- 189 -
“Asil’s been burdened with heavy work just recently” she explained.
Meanwhile, as he investigated the plot to rob Graham Hill, David needed our police witness statements. Ages later, when Arthur eventually got around to it, he posted them to us and we sent David photocopies. Graham’s statement verified that I knew my arrest was in the offing. In it, he had confirmed that I had cleared my desk before any police enquiry. I made no mistake, per plot, upon making out the final cheque, Graham’s wife, Margaret, found no fewer than three deliberate errors resulting in my arrest. I had a reputation. Roy Trick had once told Jim that he thought my work meticulous and Graham had told the police he considered me pedantic. Mum would have been proud, I had made it as an accountant and as a career, admittedly, it had turned out more thrilling than I had reckoned.
Meanwhile, Nadir’s letter now weeks overdue and phoning me again, Elizabeth made more pathetic excuses for its delay. On 24th September, the banker about to board a plane at Heathrow, once more, unwittingly acting as my agent, she pledged
“I’m off to Istanbul, I’m going to talk with Asil about you meeting him.”
Two days more, Elizabeth flew back to England clutching Nadir’s letter. Ready to pop in the post, she promised to send it to us. When we received it, dated 25th September and printed on Nadir’s notepaper, thanking us for applying to join his personal staff, his letter ran, 'Unfortunately since arriving in Turkey, I have been very busy. I would like you to visit me in the middle of December. Elizabeth will make the arrangements, regards, Asil Nadir’.
Looking like he wasn’t yet convinced, Nadir downright stalling. Fed up by all the delays, I called MI6. As Naylor organised our next move, he promised us that he would arrange it for me to receive a contrived telephone call to speed things along. Beforehand, he wanted Jim to phone Wardle at the SFO and let him know that we had received a message from Nadir. Directing me to send the SFO a copy, Naylor said that he wanted to keep Wardle hooked in case we needed him again. An hour on and elated about Nadir’s letter, Jim told me
- 189 -
“Wardle said he's been talking to the Fraud Squad at Scotland Yard, he’s trying to organise contacts for us for when we’re working for AN.”
On 3rd October, as Naylor issued my latest brief, he warned me to expect a call on my landline. Replacing the handset, I grabbed David’s dictation machine and waited for the phone to ring. When it did, taping the call at three in the afternoon, miles fast, it was the Speaking Clock.
“In ten seconds, the time will be six o'clock and ten seconds, beep, beep, beep, in ten seconds...”
Pursuing my directions and after the third time check, replacing the handset, I stopped the tape machine and squeezed it into my pocket. Passing its long lead through belt loops sewn into the waistband of my denims and slipping the little earpiece into another pocket, I pulled on a jacket to hide everything and exited the flat. Feeling conspicuous, as I loitered outside a nearby public call box, amusing me, as I glanced up the road, apt, I spotted two watchers sat in a Vauxhall. As the phone rang, it was my cue. Inside the box, earpiece in place, I activated the tape and upon answering the call, his voice like the guy behind my call to Pelham. No preamble, he told me
“I have a message for you, Victor Charlie, noon, Tuesday, collect Package.”
As the line clicked dead, stopping the tape and taking out the earpiece, I exited the box and returned to the flat. Promptly rewinding the tape, Jim played it back. The soundtrack crystal clear, it had captured not just their coded message, but my crunching footfalls, passing traffic noise, even squawking seagulls. That evening, nipping out and popping into another box, I called David. Anxious he wailed
”What does it mean?”
“Victor Charlie means Vauxhall Cross, the MI6 HQ we’ll have to go there on Tuesday at noon to collect a package.”
“Are you sure? Oh I agree with your interpretation of the location and time, but I thought you people mean to meet someone when you say collect a package.”
He was right, but keeping him guessing and laughing, I insisted that he watched too many spy movies. David asked me if I thought that it was in response to AN's letter. Declaring that I didn’t care for conjecture, as the simple message gained its desired effect, David admitted
“Whatever it is I’m excited, I'll get Salk to film it.”
“How do you plan to film me?”
- 190 -
On 3rd October, as Naylor issued my latest brief, he warned me to expect a call on my landline. Replacing the handset, I grabbed David’s dictation machine and waited for the phone to ring. When it did, taping the call at three in the afternoon, miles fast, it was the Speaking Clock.
“In ten seconds, the time will be six o'clock and ten seconds, beep, beep, beep, in ten seconds...”
Pursuing my directions and after the third time check, replacing the handset, I stopped the tape machine and squeezed it into my pocket. Passing its long lead through belt loops sewn into the waistband of my denims and slipping the little earpiece into another pocket, I pulled on a jacket to hide everything and exited the flat. Feeling conspicuous, as I loitered outside a nearby public call box, amusing me, as I glanced up the road, apt, I spotted two watchers sat in a Vauxhall. As the phone rang, it was my cue. Inside the box, earpiece in place, I activated the tape and upon answering the call, his voice like the guy behind my call to Pelham. No preamble, he told me
“I have a message for you, Victor Charlie, noon, Tuesday, collect Package.”
As the line clicked dead, stopping the tape and taking out the earpiece, I exited the box and returned to the flat. Promptly rewinding the tape, Jim played it back. The soundtrack crystal clear, it had captured not just their coded message, but my crunching footfalls, passing traffic noise, even squawking seagulls. That evening, nipping out and popping into another box, I called David. Anxious he wailed
”What does it mean?”
“Victor Charlie means Vauxhall Cross, the MI6 HQ we’ll have to go there on Tuesday at noon to collect a package.”
“Are you sure? Oh I agree with your interpretation of the location and time, but I thought you people mean to meet someone when you say collect a package.”
He was right, but keeping him guessing and laughing, I insisted that he watched too many spy movies. David asked me if I thought that it was in response to AN's letter. Declaring that I didn’t care for conjecture, as the simple message gained its desired effect, David admitted
“Whatever it is I’m excited, I'll get Salk to film it.”
“How do you plan to film me?”
- 190 -
“Don’t worry, Pete will take the greatest care” guaranteed David “He won't try to get too close. I'll talk to him before I call Elizabeth, she'll let you know when to call me back using the usual code.”
Elizabeth called me a couple of days later. As she changed David’s sex once more, the banker asked me to give Angela a call at eight that evening. Reacting to her message, at the designated hour, I found another box and phoned David. Answering my call at once, afterwards reporting our natter to Naylor, I told him
“David Alford says he's tied up tomorrow, but Peter Salkeld will be there. He’ll be posing as a tourist with a camcorder, he won’t try to enter the building.”
“Very good” responded Naylor “I’ll make myself available at twelve sharp, eh, bring a bag large enough to take a large envelope.”
“What’s in the package?”
“You’ll find out, I want you in and out in just two minutes, it’s enough to keep Alford happy for a bit longer, but not enough time for him to call evidence, we’ll say you called in to ask for directions, whatever...”
Next morning, Tuesday 7th October, as Jim joined me, we travelled to London. As we closed in on the MI6 HQ, drizzly today, we needed our brolly. Once more, passing through the revolving doors, we entered into the extraordinary building. Before the desk, I told the security men that we had to collect a package from Mr Naylor. Much like the first time that we had visited the spycentre, as one uniform retreated to the far end of his office, he made a quick phone call. Shortly, as we watched, no jacket on this occasion, casual in his shirtsleeves, Naylor stepped out of a lift and making his way to the security desk, no ceremony, he told us
“You want this!”
As he shoved it through a narrow slot in the bottom of the screen, swiftly taking the package from him, I squeezed it into my bag and wasting no time, as Naylor hastened from the scene, Jim trailed me outside.
Following our instructions, as if appreciating the view, we dallied for a moment by the embankment, staring across the Thames at Westminster. Moving on and no looking back, leaving the south bank, we crossed the river at Lambeth Bridge. Upon reaching Millbank, passing the MI5 HQ portico and shortly, taking seats, we boarded a coach to Dover. Opening the package on the bus, a plain plastic wallet held two envelopes. I opted for the white one first and inside it, we found a single sheet of paper. Boldly headed, it read. ‘For Your Eyes Only’
- 191 -
Elizabeth called me a couple of days later. As she changed David’s sex once more, the banker asked me to give Angela a call at eight that evening. Reacting to her message, at the designated hour, I found another box and phoned David. Answering my call at once, afterwards reporting our natter to Naylor, I told him
“David Alford says he's tied up tomorrow, but Peter Salkeld will be there. He’ll be posing as a tourist with a camcorder, he won’t try to enter the building.”
“Very good” responded Naylor “I’ll make myself available at twelve sharp, eh, bring a bag large enough to take a large envelope.”
“What’s in the package?”
“You’ll find out, I want you in and out in just two minutes, it’s enough to keep Alford happy for a bit longer, but not enough time for him to call evidence, we’ll say you called in to ask for directions, whatever...”
Next morning, Tuesday 7th October, as Jim joined me, we travelled to London. As we closed in on the MI6 HQ, drizzly today, we needed our brolly. Once more, passing through the revolving doors, we entered into the extraordinary building. Before the desk, I told the security men that we had to collect a package from Mr Naylor. Much like the first time that we had visited the spycentre, as one uniform retreated to the far end of his office, he made a quick phone call. Shortly, as we watched, no jacket on this occasion, casual in his shirtsleeves, Naylor stepped out of a lift and making his way to the security desk, no ceremony, he told us
“You want this!”
As he shoved it through a narrow slot in the bottom of the screen, swiftly taking the package from him, I squeezed it into my bag and wasting no time, as Naylor hastened from the scene, Jim trailed me outside.
Following our instructions, as if appreciating the view, we dallied for a moment by the embankment, staring across the Thames at Westminster. Moving on and no looking back, leaving the south bank, we crossed the river at Lambeth Bridge. Upon reaching Millbank, passing the MI5 HQ portico and shortly, taking seats, we boarded a coach to Dover. Opening the package on the bus, a plain plastic wallet held two envelopes. I opted for the white one first and inside it, we found a single sheet of paper. Boldly headed, it read. ‘For Your Eyes Only’
- 191 -
A list of instructions, it advised us to use the codename ‘Mr Parrot’ for Asil Nadir and alerted us to be prepared to work with the SFO and or Special Branch, using their facilities if necessary. Okay for us to write to MI6 at Vauxhall Cross, but we must address all our letters to the Government Communications Bureau. In any emergency, we had to telephone MI6 HQ and ask for ‘Mr Grundy.’ As a security measure, any such calls must always derive from our landline, otherwise, we wouldn’t be recognised as MI6 agents. Reading on, the document asserted that before we left Britain, we would discover the identity of our contact in Turkey. The bottom line warned us to destroy the paper within 24-hours without making a copy. Inside the brown envelope, we found a wad of used banknotes to cover our expenses. Upon our arrival back in Dover, I called David and begging me to read the document aloud for him, sexing it up, I began
“We’ve been promised £100,000 when we’ve done the job.”
“Brilliant! Send me a copy, call Pete and arrange a rendezvous.”
“Did he film us outside MI6?” I probed.
“You’re not aware of something,” replied David.
“What do you mean?” I queried, anxious.
“I’m sorry, Olivia, I must go” whispering, he ended “I'm on duty it's awkward.”
A nervous night and first thing next morning, I called Salk. Assuring me that all was fine and confirming that he had filmed Jim and me making for the MI6 HQ, he noticed that before we ventured into the building, we paused for a jiffy by a phone box, before electing to push on. I explained to him that it was raining, two minutes early, we considered taking shelter in the box, then thought better of it. Peter told me
“I was on a bridge and got soaked, there's something you're not aware of.”
“That's what David said – what do you mean?”
“Its nothing, it’s just that when you left the building you were tailed by a man in a green coat and when you stopped by the embankment, he did likewise.”
“Did you get him on film?”
“Afraid not” alleged Peter “I had to protect the camera, it was getting wet, I got you going into the building – you were only in two minutes.”
“We only called in to pick up a package,” I reminded him.
“I’m sorry, we didn't want to worry you, it's why we were reluctant to tell you about the tail – why do you think they followed you?”
- 192 -
“We’ve been promised £100,000 when we’ve done the job.”
“Brilliant! Send me a copy, call Pete and arrange a rendezvous.”
“Did he film us outside MI6?” I probed.
“You’re not aware of something,” replied David.
“What do you mean?” I queried, anxious.
“I’m sorry, Olivia, I must go” whispering, he ended “I'm on duty it's awkward.”
A nervous night and first thing next morning, I called Salk. Assuring me that all was fine and confirming that he had filmed Jim and me making for the MI6 HQ, he noticed that before we ventured into the building, we paused for a jiffy by a phone box, before electing to push on. I explained to him that it was raining, two minutes early, we considered taking shelter in the box, then thought better of it. Peter told me
“I was on a bridge and got soaked, there's something you're not aware of.”
“That's what David said – what do you mean?”
“Its nothing, it’s just that when you left the building you were tailed by a man in a green coat and when you stopped by the embankment, he did likewise.”
“Did you get him on film?”
“Afraid not” alleged Peter “I had to protect the camera, it was getting wet, I got you going into the building – you were only in two minutes.”
“We only called in to pick up a package,” I reminded him.
“I’m sorry, we didn't want to worry you, it's why we were reluctant to tell you about the tail – why do you think they followed you?”
- 192 -
“Probably to see if anyone picked me up or to see if I opened the package in the street – how should I know, how far did he trail us?”
“Yes I can see that now, I suppose that they would check up on you, he tailed a short distance behind you until you reached Lambeth Bridge, then he stopped to watch as you walked past MI5 on the other side of the river before turning back.”
Peter asked me to call him again on Sunday. Leaving the box and once back at the flat, I phoned Naylor and described to him David’s ebullient reaction, I also mentioned to him the tail that Salk had sighted. Naylor candidly admitted that he had arranged the tail to make the event look real.
I sent a copy of our list of instructions to Elizabeth and told her about our visit to MI6, taking the opportunity to remind her that David had still not produced the mobile phone that he had promised to deliver weeks earlier. On Sunday evening, 12th October, another hike to the box, I dialled Peter and complained
“If MI6 are watching us, they'll think it peculiar if we keep using call boxes – they know we’ve got our own phone.”
Peter pledged to have a word with David about the matter. Asking me to find a remote spot in Dover, Salk urged me to find somewhere quiet where we wouldn’t be disturbed. I asked him if he meant to film us. Denying the notion, he claimed
“It’s just for a chat, fetch the cash and the document MI6 gave you.”
Leaving the box, I discussed my call with Jim. Not easily fooled, he assured me that Peter wanted to film us. Next day, I phoned Salk to confirm our meeting, but regretful, he had to postpone our rendezvous, claiming that he didn’t want to, but his bread and butter, he had to fly to Hungary on another mission for The Cook Report. Hoping to call us on Saturday, he pledged
“I'll use a code, three rings – for heaven's sake don't answer it!”
Next day, 15th October, we received a smashing letter from Elizabeth, keyed up by our visit to MI6, the banker said that she was keeping Nadir posted on our progress and had ordered David to provide us with a mobile phone immediately. I called Naylor at once and reported
“Elizabeth’s expressed a wish to join us on our flight to Turkey.”
Two days more, we received a two-page letter from Robert Wardle. Addressed to Jim and printed on SFO stationery, it was in response to the Nadir photocopy that we had sent to him a few days earlier. Very dry, Wardle thanked us for our assistance, forgetful of some issues that we had raised and covering his back, he described our mission, as he saw it.
“Yes I can see that now, I suppose that they would check up on you, he tailed a short distance behind you until you reached Lambeth Bridge, then he stopped to watch as you walked past MI5 on the other side of the river before turning back.”
Peter asked me to call him again on Sunday. Leaving the box and once back at the flat, I phoned Naylor and described to him David’s ebullient reaction, I also mentioned to him the tail that Salk had sighted. Naylor candidly admitted that he had arranged the tail to make the event look real.
I sent a copy of our list of instructions to Elizabeth and told her about our visit to MI6, taking the opportunity to remind her that David had still not produced the mobile phone that he had promised to deliver weeks earlier. On Sunday evening, 12th October, another hike to the box, I dialled Peter and complained
“If MI6 are watching us, they'll think it peculiar if we keep using call boxes – they know we’ve got our own phone.”
Peter pledged to have a word with David about the matter. Asking me to find a remote spot in Dover, Salk urged me to find somewhere quiet where we wouldn’t be disturbed. I asked him if he meant to film us. Denying the notion, he claimed
“It’s just for a chat, fetch the cash and the document MI6 gave you.”
Leaving the box, I discussed my call with Jim. Not easily fooled, he assured me that Peter wanted to film us. Next day, I phoned Salk to confirm our meeting, but regretful, he had to postpone our rendezvous, claiming that he didn’t want to, but his bread and butter, he had to fly to Hungary on another mission for The Cook Report. Hoping to call us on Saturday, he pledged
“I'll use a code, three rings – for heaven's sake don't answer it!”
Next day, 15th October, we received a smashing letter from Elizabeth, keyed up by our visit to MI6, the banker said that she was keeping Nadir posted on our progress and had ordered David to provide us with a mobile phone immediately. I called Naylor at once and reported
“Elizabeth’s expressed a wish to join us on our flight to Turkey.”
Two days more, we received a two-page letter from Robert Wardle. Addressed to Jim and printed on SFO stationery, it was in response to the Nadir photocopy that we had sent to him a few days earlier. Very dry, Wardle thanked us for our assistance, forgetful of some issues that we had raised and covering his back, he described our mission, as he saw it.
- 193 -
'You have suggested that Mr Nadir may intend to return to the United Kingdom clandestinely for a short period, and that you, and Mrs Frank would be in a position to give information about that, and possibly other matters were you to go to Turkey or Cyprus. You have asked for arrangements to be put in place to enable you to pass any such information to this office.'
'If you go to Turkey or Cyprus and wish to send any information to this office, it can be sent either by fax or by telephone message to me, if I am not available to Detective Sergeant Smith at the Company Fraud Department of New Scotland Yard. Although you have expressed concerns about using a public telephone this would be the only practicable way of your contacting me or the police at short notice.’
‘Finally I ought to remind you of the views I expressed when I met you, and Mrs Frank together with Robert Nelson on 3rd July. The Government of the United Kingdom and the Serious Fraud Office would not resort to any illegitimate means to ensure Nadir was returned to the UK to stand trial. Equally, we would not wish you to contravene the law of any country you may go to. If you have any information you want to send to us we are willing to receive it at face value, but we are not asking you to contact Nadir, or anyone else, or to carry out any investigation either on our behalf, or on behalf of the police.’
Dated 16th October, full of legal gobbledygook and of course no mention of his involvement with MI5. He duly signed the lengthy missive, R J Wardle, Assistant Director. Joyful, Naylor urged me to drop it in the post for him. I meant to keep the letter for my own purposes, like I had done before with Pelham’s letter and claiming to have destroyed the original, I told him that he would have to accept a photocopy.
We met Peter on 24th October at the Churchill and after a chat; he suggested that he drive us to my nominated quiet spot. We piled into Salk’s red Ford estate parked outside the entrance. No great distance and shortly, we arrived at Western Heights. The soaring chalk cliffs looming over the yacht harbour offered us safe haven. Steering the car down a lonely lane, leading to a long-abandoned military base at the bottom and at once cutting the engine, as he parked his Granada by a tall hedgerow. Wasting no time, Peter climbed out of the car and expanded
“I won’t be long, I’m just going to scout the land.”
A lovely day, as we waited for him to return, our desolate vantage point gave us a great view of the Channel. When Peter revisited the car, we climbed out to join him. Opening up the Ford’s tailgate, resting beside his tripod lay his camera. In the woods and no big surprise, about to film us, he unveiled
“I've found a place where we shouldn't be disturbed.”
'If you go to Turkey or Cyprus and wish to send any information to this office, it can be sent either by fax or by telephone message to me, if I am not available to Detective Sergeant Smith at the Company Fraud Department of New Scotland Yard. Although you have expressed concerns about using a public telephone this would be the only practicable way of your contacting me or the police at short notice.’
‘Finally I ought to remind you of the views I expressed when I met you, and Mrs Frank together with Robert Nelson on 3rd July. The Government of the United Kingdom and the Serious Fraud Office would not resort to any illegitimate means to ensure Nadir was returned to the UK to stand trial. Equally, we would not wish you to contravene the law of any country you may go to. If you have any information you want to send to us we are willing to receive it at face value, but we are not asking you to contact Nadir, or anyone else, or to carry out any investigation either on our behalf, or on behalf of the police.’
Dated 16th October, full of legal gobbledygook and of course no mention of his involvement with MI5. He duly signed the lengthy missive, R J Wardle, Assistant Director. Joyful, Naylor urged me to drop it in the post for him. I meant to keep the letter for my own purposes, like I had done before with Pelham’s letter and claiming to have destroyed the original, I told him that he would have to accept a photocopy.
We met Peter on 24th October at the Churchill and after a chat; he suggested that he drive us to my nominated quiet spot. We piled into Salk’s red Ford estate parked outside the entrance. No great distance and shortly, we arrived at Western Heights. The soaring chalk cliffs looming over the yacht harbour offered us safe haven. Steering the car down a lonely lane, leading to a long-abandoned military base at the bottom and at once cutting the engine, as he parked his Granada by a tall hedgerow. Wasting no time, Peter climbed out of the car and expanded
“I won’t be long, I’m just going to scout the land.”
A lovely day, as we waited for him to return, our desolate vantage point gave us a great view of the Channel. When Peter revisited the car, we climbed out to join him. Opening up the Ford’s tailgate, resting beside his tripod lay his camera. In the woods and no big surprise, about to film us, he unveiled
“I've found a place where we shouldn't be disturbed.”
- 194 -
As we trailed Peter, he led us to the foot of a rising path, paved with mighty stone slabs, they cut into dense copse, just beyond it nestled a concealed Drop Redoubt. Meant to defend England against France, but never needed, Napoleon failed to turn up for the match. As Salk fixed his camera to the tripod, inviting me to peep through the lens, it pointed to a mossy chestnut branch halfway up the slabs. The stricken bough resting sideways directly across our path, making for a natural bench, Peter told us to climb up past it, then turn around and stroll back down the path, until reaching the branch, we were to park our bums upon it. As the camera rolled, I had to read aloud the MI6 brief, while Jim counted the cash. Making a start on the feature, all went well until reaching the branch, ad-libbing as he took out his hankie, gallantly, Jim spread it over the moss to protect my skirt. Watching our vignette and derisive, Salk howled
“No, no, no, I can't be having that!”
Peter’s curmudgeonly reaction at once set me off giggling. Quickly pocketing his hankie, as Jim hid his red-face from the camera, amused by the scene and grinning himself now, our director yelled
“I'll pay any dry-cleaning bills.”
As we retreated up the steps, Peter returned behind his camera ready for take two. Ignoring the moss, settling upon the branch and opening up my bag, I took out Naylor’s package and withdrawing the cash from the wallet, I handed it to Jim. As he began to count it, I recited the MI6 brief. All done, as Jim helped me stuff everything back into my bag, we strolled down the path together until out of shot, whereupon Peter cried
“It's a wrap – well done! I’ll be with you in a moment.”
Tripod dismantled camera in the car, leaving the scene and back on the road, only briefly, steering us down another secluded lane, an isolated place, wasteland now that the army had deserted. As Salk cut the engine once more, he wanted to read Naylor’s instructions. When I handed the brief to him, carefully perusing it, suddenly, Peter snapped
“What’s this about an assignment – what assignment?”
“It might come later” I suggested, doubtful.
“Can I take the document?” he enquired.
“Sure you can Peter, Jim’s taken a copy, I mean for you to take it, I’ve got more stuff for you.”
As I tipped out more morsels from my bag, a long shot, Peter asked Jim to list all the serial numbers on the banknotes that Naylor had given to us. As I turned around in my seat and fed Jim
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“No, no, no, I can't be having that!”
Peter’s curmudgeonly reaction at once set me off giggling. Quickly pocketing his hankie, as Jim hid his red-face from the camera, amused by the scene and grinning himself now, our director yelled
“I'll pay any dry-cleaning bills.”
As we retreated up the steps, Peter returned behind his camera ready for take two. Ignoring the moss, settling upon the branch and opening up my bag, I took out Naylor’s package and withdrawing the cash from the wallet, I handed it to Jim. As he began to count it, I recited the MI6 brief. All done, as Jim helped me stuff everything back into my bag, we strolled down the path together until out of shot, whereupon Peter cried
“It's a wrap – well done! I’ll be with you in a moment.”
Tripod dismantled camera in the car, leaving the scene and back on the road, only briefly, steering us down another secluded lane, an isolated place, wasteland now that the army had deserted. As Salk cut the engine once more, he wanted to read Naylor’s instructions. When I handed the brief to him, carefully perusing it, suddenly, Peter snapped
“What’s this about an assignment – what assignment?”
“It might come later” I suggested, doubtful.
“Can I take the document?” he enquired.
“Sure you can Peter, Jim’s taken a copy, I mean for you to take it, I’ve got more stuff for you.”
As I tipped out more morsels from my bag, a long shot, Peter asked Jim to list all the serial numbers on the banknotes that Naylor had given to us. As I turned around in my seat and fed Jim
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the dough, Salk asked him to copy all the data onto one of several coloured cards lying beside him on the rear seat. As Jim stared at the messages scrawled upon the garish cards, provocative, they offered punters ‘sexy girl massage’.
“Does Roger know about this, Peter?” I asked him, sounding prim.
“Oh take no notice of that lot” disdainful, he retorted, “We used them the other week in a Cook Report we did in Amsterdam.”
As I handed Salk a tape with the daft MI6 Speaking Clock message recorded upon it, passing him several more items, including copies of Nadir’s note and the statements from Arthur. Placing them with all the other items in his glove box, as Jim finished listing his serial numbers. Peter enquired if we cared for a spot of high tea. Back in the Churchill lounge, we settled in a quiet corner to talk about the proposed documentary. David and Salk might pretend that they were my pals; like they had told me at the Academy, I had none, well excepting Jim. Otherwise, trusting nobody, I asked Peter if Roger was planning to present the programme that we were making.
“I don’t know” frowning Salk alleged “The Cook Report audience is declining it’s down to only eight million.”
Nowadays, television companies would die for an audience that big. Peter said that they were inclined to have our projected programme screened by the BBC on Panorama. He contended that there was a cash incentive to get it shown by the BBC. He claimed that they paid more and alleging that David must raise as much money as he could, he said that his partner had sunk £40,000 into the making of the programme. Raising his eyebrows, it prompted Jim to remark that he thought Carlton was funding it. As he explained, Peter proclaimed
“We’re freelance, after making a show we hawk it around trying to attract a buyer, I'm not sure Roger will have it, trouble is, we’d have to tell him what’s in it before he can make a decision and Roger's got a big mouth!”
While Peter drove home to Gloucester, I reported the day’s events to Naylor. Like me, he knew that Salk was bluffing. Roger Cook clam-like when it came to an exclusive and Carlton had just commissioned him to make a batch of specials. Anyhow, Peter told us to deposit the money that MI6 had given us into a separate bank account. He asserted that it was vital to isolate the cash to show we never meant to spend it. Frankly, I thought Peter silly when he argued that it might help us when we lifted the lid on MI6, he claimed that we would need it when they hit us with their injunctions and launched a legal battle for breach of contract. Not their policy, the British secret services never confirm or deny their operations.
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“Does Roger know about this, Peter?” I asked him, sounding prim.
“Oh take no notice of that lot” disdainful, he retorted, “We used them the other week in a Cook Report we did in Amsterdam.”
As I handed Salk a tape with the daft MI6 Speaking Clock message recorded upon it, passing him several more items, including copies of Nadir’s note and the statements from Arthur. Placing them with all the other items in his glove box, as Jim finished listing his serial numbers. Peter enquired if we cared for a spot of high tea. Back in the Churchill lounge, we settled in a quiet corner to talk about the proposed documentary. David and Salk might pretend that they were my pals; like they had told me at the Academy, I had none, well excepting Jim. Otherwise, trusting nobody, I asked Peter if Roger was planning to present the programme that we were making.
“I don’t know” frowning Salk alleged “The Cook Report audience is declining it’s down to only eight million.”
Nowadays, television companies would die for an audience that big. Peter said that they were inclined to have our projected programme screened by the BBC on Panorama. He contended that there was a cash incentive to get it shown by the BBC. He claimed that they paid more and alleging that David must raise as much money as he could, he said that his partner had sunk £40,000 into the making of the programme. Raising his eyebrows, it prompted Jim to remark that he thought Carlton was funding it. As he explained, Peter proclaimed
“We’re freelance, after making a show we hawk it around trying to attract a buyer, I'm not sure Roger will have it, trouble is, we’d have to tell him what’s in it before he can make a decision and Roger's got a big mouth!”
While Peter drove home to Gloucester, I reported the day’s events to Naylor. Like me, he knew that Salk was bluffing. Roger Cook clam-like when it came to an exclusive and Carlton had just commissioned him to make a batch of specials. Anyhow, Peter told us to deposit the money that MI6 had given us into a separate bank account. He asserted that it was vital to isolate the cash to show we never meant to spend it. Frankly, I thought Peter silly when he argued that it might help us when we lifted the lid on MI6, he claimed that we would need it when they hit us with their injunctions and launched a legal battle for breach of contract. Not their policy, the British secret services never confirm or deny their operations.
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In November, I began work on a fresh project. David had asked me to produce a diary, listing names, dates, and places. Without a word processor, it presented a hard task and once more, I called Naylor. In a very sour mood, he wondered why David couldn’t buy the machine, claiming it came out of his pocket and directing me to buy a second-hand computer, he pledged to give me £150. Next day, on 3rd November, Naylor paid us a surprise visit to the flat. Unlike our chat on the phone, amiable today, as he unwound on our sofa, a Monty Python fan, renaming Nadir ‘Mr Parrot’ had to be his doing. Maybe reading my mind, he began
“And now for something completely different, you know about the SFO being a smokescreen to mess up Alford. I want him mixed up a bit more, Wardle’s letter has given me an idea.”
In his letter, Wardle had mentioned Neil Smith a detective sergeant in the Fraud Squad, aiming to create another smokescreen; Naylor declared that we might use Smith. Before then, he wanted us to try to arrange a date with Special Branch. I’m sure that he made it up as he went along, he claimed
“It’s hard to predict where this case will lead. Special Branch must never know the SIS is involved” he added “When you call them, they have a chap there who does nothing else except take messages, tell him you can deliver information on Asil Nadir.”
“Have you got their number?” enquired Jim.
Jotting down New Scotland Yard’s number onto a scrap of paper, he passed it to Jim. About to end the briefing, Naylor admitted, just a long shot, he couldn’t guarantee Special Branch would bite, however recognising that he had to create more material for the Cook Reporters, he told us that if they showed no interest then we had to carry on with Wardle and for good measure, try to hook Smith. He knew I loved Python and alluding to a famous sketch, still smiling, Naylor joked
“I’m not flogging a dead parrot.”
“If we’ve to contact Smith, what should we tell him?” quizzed Jim.
“Dial the Yard, ask for Company Fraud and use the Wardle motive, tell them that Nadir’s thinking of coming back to Britain for a secret chat to the press. You never know,” concluded Naylor “It’s a theme we might develop – I’ve got to fly!”
Jim telephoned New Scotland Yard next day. When the switchboard put him through to Special Branch, briefly outlining that he possessed information, which related to Asil Nadir, Jim explained that he was going to work with his security staff, before declaring that the tycoon was coming back to Britain to whip up the media to cause trouble for the government.
Just before mid-day, our landline rang. DI John Franks from Special Branch. He began by asking Jim a series of questions to
“And now for something completely different, you know about the SFO being a smokescreen to mess up Alford. I want him mixed up a bit more, Wardle’s letter has given me an idea.”
In his letter, Wardle had mentioned Neil Smith a detective sergeant in the Fraud Squad, aiming to create another smokescreen; Naylor declared that we might use Smith. Before then, he wanted us to try to arrange a date with Special Branch. I’m sure that he made it up as he went along, he claimed
“It’s hard to predict where this case will lead. Special Branch must never know the SIS is involved” he added “When you call them, they have a chap there who does nothing else except take messages, tell him you can deliver information on Asil Nadir.”
“Have you got their number?” enquired Jim.
Jotting down New Scotland Yard’s number onto a scrap of paper, he passed it to Jim. About to end the briefing, Naylor admitted, just a long shot, he couldn’t guarantee Special Branch would bite, however recognising that he had to create more material for the Cook Reporters, he told us that if they showed no interest then we had to carry on with Wardle and for good measure, try to hook Smith. He knew I loved Python and alluding to a famous sketch, still smiling, Naylor joked
“I’m not flogging a dead parrot.”
“If we’ve to contact Smith, what should we tell him?” quizzed Jim.
“Dial the Yard, ask for Company Fraud and use the Wardle motive, tell them that Nadir’s thinking of coming back to Britain for a secret chat to the press. You never know,” concluded Naylor “It’s a theme we might develop – I’ve got to fly!”
Jim telephoned New Scotland Yard next day. When the switchboard put him through to Special Branch, briefly outlining that he possessed information, which related to Asil Nadir, Jim explained that he was going to work with his security staff, before declaring that the tycoon was coming back to Britain to whip up the media to cause trouble for the government.
Just before mid-day, our landline rang. DI John Franks from Special Branch. He began by asking Jim a series of questions to
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verify his ID, ending with a promise to call him back. Two hours passed before the landline rang, when Jim answered, arrogant, Franks warned him
“Mr Frank, yes, my department’s very interested in the information you have to offer, we’ll call you back within the next two weeks, meanwhile you must wait.”
Franks refused to fix a date and we needed something more substantial to keep the Cook Reporters hooked. On 6th November, Jim phoned the Fraud Squad, leaving a message with DS Smith on his voicemail, the detective called next day. We arranged to meet seven days later at Holborn police station. Meaning to keep the inspector sweet on the off chance that he might still see us, Jim called back Franks and informed him that DS Smith of the Fraud Squad wished to see us the following week. The DI went berserk.
“Mr Frank, you’re creating a hot potato nobody will want to handle, I’ll call Smith myself and tell him Special Branch have expressed an interest, I’ve been in touch with another organisation in regard to this matter I’ve set wheels in motion – you don’t even know if you've got the job yet!”
“Don’t worry about that.” Jim assured him.
“Sit tight and wait,” ordered Franks, yelling, “I'm in charge of this case!”
Another week more, we received a polite call from Neil Smith asking us why we had failed to turn up for our summit. Jim told him that Franks had vowed to call the Fraud Squad to cancel our date. Smith insisted that Franks hadn’t phoned him. Exasperated, Jim called Special Branch, a big sulk, Franks screamed
“I did call Smith, I’m no longer interested. Too many agencies are involved.”
A fine mess soon sorted. Jim got back to Smith, fixing a date with him for the following week. On 14th November and my turn to feel irked, I didn’t like being disturbed on Friday nights. As we answered our front door, cold and rainy tonight and always turning up when you least expect him. Waggling it about in his hand, Naylor held out an envelope and passing it to Jim, insistent, he whispered
“It’s your latest brief – take it seriously, tell Alford, Brown’s Assistant fixed your date with Smith – bye!”
Swallowed up in the wintry gloom, Naylor swiftly vanished. Returning indoors, Jim watched me slit open the envelope. Inside it, we found two sheets of paper and upon perusing them, the first one bold, headed ‘Assignment Brief’. Another dodgy dossier, it ran ‘You must cause Mr Parrot to want to make a return to the United Kingdom. Should he decide to return you must report this to us.
“Mr Frank, yes, my department’s very interested in the information you have to offer, we’ll call you back within the next two weeks, meanwhile you must wait.”
Franks refused to fix a date and we needed something more substantial to keep the Cook Reporters hooked. On 6th November, Jim phoned the Fraud Squad, leaving a message with DS Smith on his voicemail, the detective called next day. We arranged to meet seven days later at Holborn police station. Meaning to keep the inspector sweet on the off chance that he might still see us, Jim called back Franks and informed him that DS Smith of the Fraud Squad wished to see us the following week. The DI went berserk.
“Mr Frank, you’re creating a hot potato nobody will want to handle, I’ll call Smith myself and tell him Special Branch have expressed an interest, I’ve been in touch with another organisation in regard to this matter I’ve set wheels in motion – you don’t even know if you've got the job yet!”
“Don’t worry about that.” Jim assured him.
“Sit tight and wait,” ordered Franks, yelling, “I'm in charge of this case!”
Another week more, we received a polite call from Neil Smith asking us why we had failed to turn up for our summit. Jim told him that Franks had vowed to call the Fraud Squad to cancel our date. Smith insisted that Franks hadn’t phoned him. Exasperated, Jim called Special Branch, a big sulk, Franks screamed
“I did call Smith, I’m no longer interested. Too many agencies are involved.”
A fine mess soon sorted. Jim got back to Smith, fixing a date with him for the following week. On 14th November and my turn to feel irked, I didn’t like being disturbed on Friday nights. As we answered our front door, cold and rainy tonight and always turning up when you least expect him. Waggling it about in his hand, Naylor held out an envelope and passing it to Jim, insistent, he whispered
“It’s your latest brief – take it seriously, tell Alford, Brown’s Assistant fixed your date with Smith – bye!”
Swallowed up in the wintry gloom, Naylor swiftly vanished. Returning indoors, Jim watched me slit open the envelope. Inside it, we found two sheets of paper and upon perusing them, the first one bold, headed ‘Assignment Brief’. Another dodgy dossier, it ran ‘You must cause Mr Parrot to want to make a return to the United Kingdom. Should he decide to return you must report this to us.
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Inform Mr Parrot's banker that you have retained contact with the Mossad. ‘Its senior members remain sympathetic and are prepared to offer assistance by organising a covert publicity event in London designed to shame the British Government.
Say that the Mossad are unable to interfere within the British criminal justice system, but it remains possible to bring pressure to bear on the Home Office. This could result in Mr Parrot eventually returning to Britain overtly, without fear of arrest, or imprisonment.
Use the information to excite interest. It is preparation to provide a platform for discussion when you meet Mr Parrot, proposed for December. It is a tactic to substantially increase your standing to enhance your employment prospects. Wait until the meeting before revealing the full extent of the Mossad's strategy, do not discuss tactics beforehand with the banker. At the meeting, explain to Mr Parrot the publicity event must take place in Britain, causing embarrassment to that country.
Tell him he must be photographed, where proof of his return will be known only to journalists carefully chosen by the Mossad. He should prepare a short speech for Press release. Excite Mr Parrot's imagination; by telling him, he will be photographed in Berkeley Square and in Elm Street. When these pictures appear in the press, he will be safely home.
Explain he will remain entirely safe at all times, the operation will be a matter of only a few hours duration. At the meeting, explain to Mr Parrot the Mossad’s offer of assistance will stand for thirty days. If he accepts the offer, it must be executed within 60 days of his acceptance. Tell Mr Parrot that the Mossad will understand should he decline the offer, but do point out that his decision could influence the Mossad's original arrangement to send a delegation, when trade and other matters may also be discussed.
Remind Mr Parrot, this must be his decision alone, equally, he is free to choose his own date, time and location with restriction to within 50 miles of London for logistical reasons, which he must reveal to you with at least three days advance warning. He may arrange his own transport, and route to Britain. The Mossad will provide transport in Britain with security provisions of the highest standard.’
Naylor had to be joking, a daft hoax it surely must be – what return to Britain? Nadir faced arrest on sight. He would never trust total strangers with his security, no matter who they might claim to be. What’s more, his standing with the press had plunged into the gutter in the UK when he escaped to Northern Cyprus. Nadir would be mad to take up the offer. Unable to resist, some hack must seek to steal glory and blow the whistle.
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Say that the Mossad are unable to interfere within the British criminal justice system, but it remains possible to bring pressure to bear on the Home Office. This could result in Mr Parrot eventually returning to Britain overtly, without fear of arrest, or imprisonment.
Use the information to excite interest. It is preparation to provide a platform for discussion when you meet Mr Parrot, proposed for December. It is a tactic to substantially increase your standing to enhance your employment prospects. Wait until the meeting before revealing the full extent of the Mossad's strategy, do not discuss tactics beforehand with the banker. At the meeting, explain to Mr Parrot the publicity event must take place in Britain, causing embarrassment to that country.
Tell him he must be photographed, where proof of his return will be known only to journalists carefully chosen by the Mossad. He should prepare a short speech for Press release. Excite Mr Parrot's imagination; by telling him, he will be photographed in Berkeley Square and in Elm Street. When these pictures appear in the press, he will be safely home.
Explain he will remain entirely safe at all times, the operation will be a matter of only a few hours duration. At the meeting, explain to Mr Parrot the Mossad’s offer of assistance will stand for thirty days. If he accepts the offer, it must be executed within 60 days of his acceptance. Tell Mr Parrot that the Mossad will understand should he decline the offer, but do point out that his decision could influence the Mossad's original arrangement to send a delegation, when trade and other matters may also be discussed.
Remind Mr Parrot, this must be his decision alone, equally, he is free to choose his own date, time and location with restriction to within 50 miles of London for logistical reasons, which he must reveal to you with at least three days advance warning. He may arrange his own transport, and route to Britain. The Mossad will provide transport in Britain with security provisions of the highest standard.’
Naylor had to be joking, a daft hoax it surely must be – what return to Britain? Nadir faced arrest on sight. He would never trust total strangers with his security, no matter who they might claim to be. What’s more, his standing with the press had plunged into the gutter in the UK when he escaped to Northern Cyprus. Nadir would be mad to take up the offer. Unable to resist, some hack must seek to steal glory and blow the whistle.
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Disgusted by the silly brief and meaning to obtain a far better pitch if he ever wanted me to grab Asil Nadir, I called Naylor’s number, of course, unavailable. Trying several times more and still the MI6 telephonist claimed that she couldn’t raise him.
Next day, making several attempts to reach him, transparent, Naylor had gone to ground. Unable to put it off any longer and taking a deep breath, I dialled Peter’s number and doing my best to sell it and giving him a broad outline of the brief. Taking it better than expected, who could blame him, well suspicious, Salk started with his pet phrase
“Very strange…hmm send a copy to my home address will you. Call me again on Wednesday, I might have news for you about the mobile phone.”
I couldn’t get hold of Naylor until much later. Reporting to him Peter’s doubtful response, untroubled, bloody unreal, as ever, oozing confidence and urging me to give it time. Like the parrot sketch, his plot getting very silly and incredulous, I whined
“Will anyone believe it? Would Nadir place himself at such risk?”
“Give it time,” he insisted, getting annoyed with me now.
On 19th November, calling Peter again, he unveiled that David wanted to meet me in London before I met Neil Smith. Salk claimed that his partner would have something for me. Anticipating a trap, I made sure of it, asking him if it was the mobile phone. Catching the slight falter in his voice, Peter assured me that my guess right.
Next morning, as Jim trailed me, off we went to London to meet David outside Victoria bus station. In mufti today or maybe just plain scruffy, both of them looking like tramps. David’s friend sporting jet-black lank hair, tall, portly, in his 40s, as he introduced us to Graham Ball, you would have thought David might have chosen a better opening gambit.
“You can trust Graham – he’s a journalist, he knows more about the case than I do, he researched the Cook Report we did on AN – Graham’s been to Cyprus!”
Offering us a lift, Graham tagged along behind, as David led us towards his car. As I took a front seat beside him, Jim settled down next to Graham in the rear. As expected, no mobile, David asked me to remind him how come Smith wished to meet me. Recalling Naylor’s recent visit, I explained
“When Brown’s Assistant visited the flat with the Assignment Brief, he told us about today’s appointment.”
As David braked the car by a red traffic light, springing his trap, he claimed that he wanted me to do for him a favour. He meant
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Next day, making several attempts to reach him, transparent, Naylor had gone to ground. Unable to put it off any longer and taking a deep breath, I dialled Peter’s number and doing my best to sell it and giving him a broad outline of the brief. Taking it better than expected, who could blame him, well suspicious, Salk started with his pet phrase
“Very strange…hmm send a copy to my home address will you. Call me again on Wednesday, I might have news for you about the mobile phone.”
I couldn’t get hold of Naylor until much later. Reporting to him Peter’s doubtful response, untroubled, bloody unreal, as ever, oozing confidence and urging me to give it time. Like the parrot sketch, his plot getting very silly and incredulous, I whined
“Will anyone believe it? Would Nadir place himself at such risk?”
“Give it time,” he insisted, getting annoyed with me now.
On 19th November, calling Peter again, he unveiled that David wanted to meet me in London before I met Neil Smith. Salk claimed that his partner would have something for me. Anticipating a trap, I made sure of it, asking him if it was the mobile phone. Catching the slight falter in his voice, Peter assured me that my guess right.
Next morning, as Jim trailed me, off we went to London to meet David outside Victoria bus station. In mufti today or maybe just plain scruffy, both of them looking like tramps. David’s friend sporting jet-black lank hair, tall, portly, in his 40s, as he introduced us to Graham Ball, you would have thought David might have chosen a better opening gambit.
“You can trust Graham – he’s a journalist, he knows more about the case than I do, he researched the Cook Report we did on AN – Graham’s been to Cyprus!”
Offering us a lift, Graham tagged along behind, as David led us towards his car. As I took a front seat beside him, Jim settled down next to Graham in the rear. As expected, no mobile, David asked me to remind him how come Smith wished to meet me. Recalling Naylor’s recent visit, I explained
“When Brown’s Assistant visited the flat with the Assignment Brief, he told us about today’s appointment.”
As David braked the car by a red traffic light, springing his trap, he claimed that he wanted me to do for him a favour. He meant
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me to hear him out. As the lights turned green, setting the car in motion again, the journalist grumbled
“I’ve nothing, only film of you going in and out of buildings and bits of scraps of paper, I need more – you’ve got to record today’s meeting!”
Blaming Naylor’s dodgy dossier for alerting David’s qualms, I promised him that what he wanted was impossible. Prepared for my stand and firmly abiding no protest, as he pushed on, assuring me that I would like his machine, declaring it the latest thing. He told me that I had to carry it into the building.
“No, David” I objected, “You don’t understand – I’ll be searched!”
“Can’t you throw a wobbly?" butted in Graham.
“C’mon, Smith knows I’ve worked for the Mossad, I don’t throw wobblies!”
Stopping the car and for a moment our heated argument as David backed into a rare vacant spot and parked the car, he informed me that the Fraud Squad was just around the corner. Not giving up, before I could make my escape, promising to show me how his machine worked, as he asked Graham to pass it to him. David enthused
“Look this is it!”
I insisted that he was wasting time. Too soon to end the assignment now, alert to the spy game and fearful that, just to make sure, Naylor might even pull a fast one and really have me searched. Still needing to get to Nadir, adamant, no way was I taking his machine into the building. Matching my resolve, as he refused to back off, David suggested that Jim could carry his machine. Distraught, I told him
“C’mon, David, they’ll search him too.”
“If Smith finds it, tell him it's your Walkman.” He countered.
“But it’s not a Walkman! Where’s the tapes, CDs whatever it uses, if Smith asks me how it works I’m finished.”
“Tell him you’ve just bought it” not giving up, David pleaded, “Tell him you don’t know how to use it.”
“It won’t do” I persisted “Where's the receipt?”
“Say you threw it away.”
“Okay; where did I buy it?”
“Eh…Dixon’s on Tottenham Court Road!”
“It won’t work, I’d never discard the guarantee too. Look, you don’t know these people they’re ruthless” expressing genuine fear. “One mistake we go to gaol” I argued, “You simply find another story.”
“I’ve nothing, only film of you going in and out of buildings and bits of scraps of paper, I need more – you’ve got to record today’s meeting!”
Blaming Naylor’s dodgy dossier for alerting David’s qualms, I promised him that what he wanted was impossible. Prepared for my stand and firmly abiding no protest, as he pushed on, assuring me that I would like his machine, declaring it the latest thing. He told me that I had to carry it into the building.
“No, David” I objected, “You don’t understand – I’ll be searched!”
“Can’t you throw a wobbly?" butted in Graham.
“C’mon, Smith knows I’ve worked for the Mossad, I don’t throw wobblies!”
Stopping the car and for a moment our heated argument as David backed into a rare vacant spot and parked the car, he informed me that the Fraud Squad was just around the corner. Not giving up, before I could make my escape, promising to show me how his machine worked, as he asked Graham to pass it to him. David enthused
“Look this is it!”
I insisted that he was wasting time. Too soon to end the assignment now, alert to the spy game and fearful that, just to make sure, Naylor might even pull a fast one and really have me searched. Still needing to get to Nadir, adamant, no way was I taking his machine into the building. Matching my resolve, as he refused to back off, David suggested that Jim could carry his machine. Distraught, I told him
“C’mon, David, they’ll search him too.”
“If Smith finds it, tell him it's your Walkman.” He countered.
“But it’s not a Walkman! Where’s the tapes, CDs whatever it uses, if Smith asks me how it works I’m finished.”
“Tell him you’ve just bought it” not giving up, David pleaded, “Tell him you don’t know how to use it.”
“It won’t do” I persisted “Where's the receipt?”
“Say you threw it away.”
“Okay; where did I buy it?”
“Eh…Dixon’s on Tottenham Court Road!”
“It won’t work, I’d never discard the guarantee too. Look, you don’t know these people they’re ruthless” expressing genuine fear. “One mistake we go to gaol” I argued, “You simply find another story.”
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Keeping open minds, the Cook Reporters still suspected that I could be an MI6 agent leading them into a trap. Alas, David had no idea how much I yearned to help him. As Jim joined me, climbing out of the car, David promised to meet us in a café at the coach station. My head in turmoil and leaving behind a dreadful atmosphere, as we headed for the Fraud Squad, glum, Jim disclosed
“Graham said it's going to get a lot tougher yet.”
Couldn’t be helped, determined to soldier on and cursing Naylor’s must be a joke brief, it had caused all the grief. Jumping to conclusions, the Cook Reporters must have feared the whole thing was a hoax. As we strolled into Holborn police station and reported to a security chap at the desk, once he had checked out our details, he asked us to sign a book. In return, presenting us with visitor passes, as we clipped them to our lapels, looking more like a middle-aged accountant than he did a cop, dressed in a smart double-breasted grey suit, Neil Smith popped out of a lift. As he held the door, we joined him and ascending to the eleventh floor, candid, Smith told us that we would be meeting another chap upstairs.
“I'm not sure what he does, I think he’s something to do with the SFO.”
As the lift door opened, Smith led us along a dull corridor into a crowded room. The dreary décor didn’t matter, his back to us, wearing an expensive pinstripe suit and apparently engrossed by the view, standing by a window, as the mystery man turned and faced us, young, attractive, a shock of luxurious blond hair, short of a name, nonetheless charming as he greeted us. Apologetic about it coming out of a vending machine as Smith fetched in a tray of coffee, everyone took seats by the long table. Ready to take notes No Name clutched a clipboard, paper, and pen. In no hurry, leisurely, Smith began the interview by asking how could he help us.
“I believe Robert Wardle’s been in touch about us?” I ventured.
“He said you’d paid him a visit,” admitted Smith, cagey.
“Much has taken place since then” I told him “Did you know that Asil Nadir’s planning a comeback to Britain. He’s angry with the government and means to stir trouble.”
“How does he propose to do that?” probed Smith.
“Nadir has loads of media muscle,” I claimed, “Many journalists are beginning to feel sorry for him and some want to help him.”
“What are they planning?” Burst in No Name, all ears.
Sticking to Naylor’s script, I alleged that Nadir had set his heart on a jaunt to London to stage a clandestine press conference
“Graham said it's going to get a lot tougher yet.”
Couldn’t be helped, determined to soldier on and cursing Naylor’s must be a joke brief, it had caused all the grief. Jumping to conclusions, the Cook Reporters must have feared the whole thing was a hoax. As we strolled into Holborn police station and reported to a security chap at the desk, once he had checked out our details, he asked us to sign a book. In return, presenting us with visitor passes, as we clipped them to our lapels, looking more like a middle-aged accountant than he did a cop, dressed in a smart double-breasted grey suit, Neil Smith popped out of a lift. As he held the door, we joined him and ascending to the eleventh floor, candid, Smith told us that we would be meeting another chap upstairs.
“I'm not sure what he does, I think he’s something to do with the SFO.”
As the lift door opened, Smith led us along a dull corridor into a crowded room. The dreary décor didn’t matter, his back to us, wearing an expensive pinstripe suit and apparently engrossed by the view, standing by a window, as the mystery man turned and faced us, young, attractive, a shock of luxurious blond hair, short of a name, nonetheless charming as he greeted us. Apologetic about it coming out of a vending machine as Smith fetched in a tray of coffee, everyone took seats by the long table. Ready to take notes No Name clutched a clipboard, paper, and pen. In no hurry, leisurely, Smith began the interview by asking how could he help us.
“I believe Robert Wardle’s been in touch about us?” I ventured.
“He said you’d paid him a visit,” admitted Smith, cagey.
“Much has taken place since then” I told him “Did you know that Asil Nadir’s planning a comeback to Britain. He’s angry with the government and means to stir trouble.”
“How does he propose to do that?” probed Smith.
“Nadir has loads of media muscle,” I claimed, “Many journalists are beginning to feel sorry for him and some want to help him.”
“What are they planning?” Burst in No Name, all ears.
Sticking to Naylor’s script, I alleged that Nadir had set his heart on a jaunt to London to stage a clandestine press conference
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where he proposed to have his picture taken to provide proof of his visit. I claimed that the full story would end up in the papers the next day when Nadir was safe back in Turkey.
“How come you know all this?” demanded Smith, intrigued.
“I’ve won the friendship of Nadir’s banker, Elizabeth Forsyth, she keeps me posted.”
“Why did she tell you this?” quizzed Smith, ostensibly sceptical.
“Mrs Forsyth believes I work for the Mossad” I responded.
“Is that true?” he queried, arching his brows.
“Well, I’d like to tell you…” I replied.
Noting my apparent discomfort, changing his mind about me and deciding not to push the issue. As we approached the crux of our meeting, I told him that Nadir was about to offer Jim and me security posts on his staff and claiming we needed a phone number to pass on our information, a let down, Smith told us
“Regrettably, I don’t have a special number, you have to call Scotland Yard and ask switchboard to put you through.”
Recommending that we could do better, as Jim intervened, asking Smith for the extension number of his office and obliging, he gave us the number at once. Ever helpful, as he promised to put him in the picture, Smith also provided the number of his chief, Bob Redmond. As No Name asked us for our full names and birth dates, diligently jotting them down, he added the data to his growing notes. As Smith observed that we must lead interesting lives, Jim suggested
“The same might be said for yourself.”
“Occasionally,” he owned up.
Cottoning on to Jim’s strong regional accent and Smith admitted that he hailed from up North too. Fans and as we chatted about football and Eric Cantona’s sad decision to end his career at Manchester United, I’m sure that no Name felt left out. After a bit, returning to duty, a lovely bloke, I asked Smith if he had ever met Elizabeth or Nadir. He said that he had never met the tycoon, but confessed
“Yes, I’ve met Elizabeth – does she still live in Essex?”
“She sure does,” I told him, “She lives with her mum. I have a few letters from her in my bag, plus one from Nadir himself, would you like to see them?”
“Indeed I would!” enthused Smith, keen.
“Would you mind if I took copies?” solicited No Name.
When No Name returned the letters, I replaced them in my bag. Our meeting over, it had lasted some fifty minutes. As Smith led
“How come you know all this?” demanded Smith, intrigued.
“I’ve won the friendship of Nadir’s banker, Elizabeth Forsyth, she keeps me posted.”
“Why did she tell you this?” quizzed Smith, ostensibly sceptical.
“Mrs Forsyth believes I work for the Mossad” I responded.
“Is that true?” he queried, arching his brows.
“Well, I’d like to tell you…” I replied.
Noting my apparent discomfort, changing his mind about me and deciding not to push the issue. As we approached the crux of our meeting, I told him that Nadir was about to offer Jim and me security posts on his staff and claiming we needed a phone number to pass on our information, a let down, Smith told us
“Regrettably, I don’t have a special number, you have to call Scotland Yard and ask switchboard to put you through.”
Recommending that we could do better, as Jim intervened, asking Smith for the extension number of his office and obliging, he gave us the number at once. Ever helpful, as he promised to put him in the picture, Smith also provided the number of his chief, Bob Redmond. As No Name asked us for our full names and birth dates, diligently jotting them down, he added the data to his growing notes. As Smith observed that we must lead interesting lives, Jim suggested
“The same might be said for yourself.”
“Occasionally,” he owned up.
Cottoning on to Jim’s strong regional accent and Smith admitted that he hailed from up North too. Fans and as we chatted about football and Eric Cantona’s sad decision to end his career at Manchester United, I’m sure that no Name felt left out. After a bit, returning to duty, a lovely bloke, I asked Smith if he had ever met Elizabeth or Nadir. He said that he had never met the tycoon, but confessed
“Yes, I’ve met Elizabeth – does she still live in Essex?”
“She sure does,” I told him, “She lives with her mum. I have a few letters from her in my bag, plus one from Nadir himself, would you like to see them?”
“Indeed I would!” enthused Smith, keen.
“Would you mind if I took copies?” solicited No Name.
When No Name returned the letters, I replaced them in my bag. Our meeting over, it had lasted some fifty minutes. As Smith led
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us outside into the corridor, about to escort us back down to the ground floor. What was it with London lifts? Suggesting it far quicker than waiting for one, Smith advised us to take the stairs. As we traipsed down the fire exit and chatted, this cop I liked. Off the record, he suggested that we must know Elizabeth really well, claiming that it had shocked him when she went to prison, he asserted that he had not expected that and told us that he had believed Elizabeth would win her case.
Though I possessed hard evidence that Pelham could manipulate government agencies for the profit of clandestine MI5 operations. As I found myself thinking about the guarantee that he had boasted about to me in my car, when he pledged that Elizabeth would definitely go to prison. It was hard to accept that MI5 could fix the incorruptible judiciary. Suddenly, deep in thought, as I pondered upon how he had managed it. Only human, perhaps Pelham reckoned that Wardle’s bizarre bribery scam would later, unconsciously, influence Mr Justice Tucker to misdirect the jury to find Elizabeth guilty in the belief that it might distance him from the perverse allegations that he had accepted a bribe from her employer, Asil Nadir.
It was feasible, based upon my inside knowledge of secret service ‘dirty tricks’ which operate on the principle that ‘all is fair in love and war’ and no matter how repugnant they may be, ‘the means justifies the end’, that somehow, MI5 found a devious subterfuge to manoeuvre the judge into a position where he believed that sending Elizabeth to prison was for the greater good. As it continued to trouble me, I recalled my meetings in the car park with Pelham. As he sat beside Naylor, he seemed so confident about the outcome. It irked me to recognise that he knew something that I didn’t, but there again, he didn’t know about my hidden agenda. Anyhow, who knows, mine mere speculation, I do not claim to know all their side of the conspiracy and unprofessional, I certainly refuse to guess.
Keeping Pelham’s car park guarantee a secret from him, as we neared the exit, I concurred with Smith that Elizabeth should never have gone to prison and cited that her Court of Appeal acquittal only confirmed it.
“I’m glad about that,” he admitted. “On what grounds did the court release her?”
“The appeal judges found that her trial judge had misdirected the jury to find her guilty.”
“I see, of course, some folk like to think that Mrs Forsyth’s romantically caught up with Nadir,” observed Smith “I reckon that's nonsense.”
“So do we,” I agreed.
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Though I possessed hard evidence that Pelham could manipulate government agencies for the profit of clandestine MI5 operations. As I found myself thinking about the guarantee that he had boasted about to me in my car, when he pledged that Elizabeth would definitely go to prison. It was hard to accept that MI5 could fix the incorruptible judiciary. Suddenly, deep in thought, as I pondered upon how he had managed it. Only human, perhaps Pelham reckoned that Wardle’s bizarre bribery scam would later, unconsciously, influence Mr Justice Tucker to misdirect the jury to find Elizabeth guilty in the belief that it might distance him from the perverse allegations that he had accepted a bribe from her employer, Asil Nadir.
It was feasible, based upon my inside knowledge of secret service ‘dirty tricks’ which operate on the principle that ‘all is fair in love and war’ and no matter how repugnant they may be, ‘the means justifies the end’, that somehow, MI5 found a devious subterfuge to manoeuvre the judge into a position where he believed that sending Elizabeth to prison was for the greater good. As it continued to trouble me, I recalled my meetings in the car park with Pelham. As he sat beside Naylor, he seemed so confident about the outcome. It irked me to recognise that he knew something that I didn’t, but there again, he didn’t know about my hidden agenda. Anyhow, who knows, mine mere speculation, I do not claim to know all their side of the conspiracy and unprofessional, I certainly refuse to guess.
Keeping Pelham’s car park guarantee a secret from him, as we neared the exit, I concurred with Smith that Elizabeth should never have gone to prison and cited that her Court of Appeal acquittal only confirmed it.
“I’m glad about that,” he admitted. “On what grounds did the court release her?”
“The appeal judges found that her trial judge had misdirected the jury to find her guilty.”
“I see, of course, some folk like to think that Mrs Forsyth’s romantically caught up with Nadir,” observed Smith “I reckon that's nonsense.”
“So do we,” I agreed.
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After we had bid him goodbye, once outside the police station, Jim revealed that he still had his visitor pass. Another nice trophy and saving it for David’s collection, the Metropolitan Police badge printed in blue on the face of it and on the obverse, the security chap had noted the date and time of our meeting. When we returned to Victoria, while I waited by the stop for Dover, Jim made for the café to seek out the Cook Reporters. Shortly returning, Jim told me that he couldn’t find them and searching instead for a telephone, he disappeared to call David. Upon his return, Jim’s glum face told the story.
“David said he’s pulling the plug” not easy to say, Jim added, “He told me that Peter’s pulled out already.”
It had to be his stupid brief, but knowing him, I feared Naylor would think that we had sabotaged his precious plot. As memories of past events caught up with me, afraid that even now, we might end up back in prison. What with persistent flashbacks, severe stress still a big problem, somehow, as I pulled myself together and called David, claiming that he was sorry, but unless I gave him something he could use, then he would be forced pull the plug. Aware it could be a wind up, just in case this time it was no bluff, I appealed to him
“What do you want, David?”
“We’ve no conversations, no faces, how can we make a programme – can you get a date with an MI6 officer, Olivia?” he beseeched me.
”You don’t ask for much do you, David” stalling, I loved his idea, but best to appear reticent, I suggested “I’m not sure if I can get what you want.”
“I’m sorry to do this to you, Olivia” claimed the Cook Reporter. Yeah, I’ll bet.
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“David said he’s pulling the plug” not easy to say, Jim added, “He told me that Peter’s pulled out already.”
It had to be his stupid brief, but knowing him, I feared Naylor would think that we had sabotaged his precious plot. As memories of past events caught up with me, afraid that even now, we might end up back in prison. What with persistent flashbacks, severe stress still a big problem, somehow, as I pulled myself together and called David, claiming that he was sorry, but unless I gave him something he could use, then he would be forced pull the plug. Aware it could be a wind up, just in case this time it was no bluff, I appealed to him
“What do you want, David?”
“We’ve no conversations, no faces, how can we make a programme – can you get a date with an MI6 officer, Olivia?” he beseeched me.
”You don’t ask for much do you, David” stalling, I loved his idea, but best to appear reticent, I suggested “I’m not sure if I can get what you want.”
“I’m sorry to do this to you, Olivia” claimed the Cook Reporter. Yeah, I’ll bet.
© COPYRIGHT OLIVIA FRANK ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
