WesWorld

In 1975 the BBC televised a little known event that happened in 1937. Based on the memoirs of a retired MI6 agent the TV series was a instant success with audiences of 16 million per episode. Shortly after in 1987 the archives were opened and the full tale was told. Here is that story.


It was a typical rainy evening in London; ‘N’ looked at his watch as he waited to go inside. He had made the phone call and muttered the password and got the all clear ten minutes ago. The black door opened and a well-suited man showed him in and escorted him upstairs without any words at all. At the top of the squeaky stairs the man knocked on one of the doors and gruff voice said, “Come in.” ‘N’ stepped inside and the escort closed the door behind him. The room was dark, only a lamp on the desk was on and then he noticed the hunched over man with grey hair slumped over reading some papers. So this was Control, the man who controlled the ‘Circus’, the London headquarters of MI6.
Control wasted no time, “Well sit down then! I’ve got a job for you; you’re to go to Iraq next week.” He looked up closely studying ‘N’ with his tired sunken eyes. “There has been some activity there, some arms have been found, no immediate suspects present themselves but you and your team are to go and investigate the problem. I want to know who brought those weapons and most importantly who supplied them. Any questions?” ‘N’ just sat there trying to think of something intelligent to say when Control waved his hand to the right in a gesture to follow him and both men got up, left the room heading across the landing.
Control took a key from his pocket, unlocked the door and flicked the light switch and beckoned ‘N’ inside. It was a small room not more than six foot long and three foot wide; the window at the end was blocked up. To the left was a desk and above that a large pin board. On it was a map of the world; at several locations were pins, from the pins led string which linked the pin to a source. A photograph, a letter, a newspaper cutting, almost any type of evidence that told a story about what the pin meant. Right now it all meant nothing to ‘N’.
Control turned to the pin board, “As you can see we have been tracking deliveries of arms across the Empire, in the Falklands in 1934 a shipment of Mauser rifles was impounded on a whaler, here in Burma we found some revolvers, last month a batch of guns heading to Northern Ireland from America, some empty crates in Suez from Solothurn, here some explosives, and then this shipment in Mosul. There are of course links to all of these events, patterns, clues and guesses. I hate guesses, I like facts and your job is to get facts. Your not in Iraq to capture a gang of smugglers, not to get yourself covered in glory in some shoot-out, I want you to follow the guns and the supply chain to see where it ends. Leave any capturing to the police; it’s what we pay them for. Any questions yet?” ‘N’ stood there trying to take in the big board, “Any idea who is behind all this Sir?” Control looked even dourer and turned to sit on the edge of the desk, “There are likely suspects everywhere, Hebco, Satsuma funded groups, Marxists or even D’Silva. I hate suspects as much as I hate guesses. You need to eliminate them. Look at this.” He opened the top draw and pulled out two fragments of wood, obviously once part of a packing case. “What can you tell from these fragments?” ‘N’ looked at them hard and offered an answer, “The stencilled letters look identical Sir.” Control muttered something under his breath and tutted, “Yes so do millions of other crates with stencils on, look closer.” ‘N’ then noticed the chalk marks on both pieces; they were ticks with a signature like some approval marking. Both were identical. “Well done you have spotted it, this piece of wood came from a crate taken off a suspect ship off the Falklands in 1934 and this one from a horde found in Cairo last month. Whoever checked these consignments of arms was the same man and in the same organisation. You need to find out who. I can’t give you much help where to start.” He put down the wood and opened one of the folders on the desktop and flicked through it standing beside ‘N’ so he could see the pages more clearly. “Your first contact is ZULU, he’s the head of the Iraqi police in Mosul, and he can get you started and show you the cache of arms. The only other man who may be of use is this man, DOLEFUL. A Turkish secret service agent posing as a Wagon-Lit attendant on the Taurus Express between Istanbul and Baghdad, he served in German Army in 1918. He was made available to us by the Turkish secret service but we don’t really trust him. He is sloppy, talkative and often lies when in a corner. You’ll need to use your own discretion with him.”

Exactly ten days after his meeting with Control ‘N’ found himself and his two sub agents, Paul Smith and George Poundbury, in the sweltering heat and hubbub of Mosul. ‘N’ was posing as an oilfield engineer, Norman McDowell, his Scouse accent seeming very out of place in this Oriental world. All three men had worked together for five years and this was their first mission outside Europe. As part of the lower echelons of the secret world they were expendable, if anything went wrong no one would miss the three men at all. Already he had heard rumours that the two of the last three men sent here had vanished and the third turned up chopped into little pieces inside a suitcase. It was not an act he wished to follow. With just £200 to live off they had managed to doss down inside the local MI6 safe house above a tea merchants shop near the marketplace. As they pushed their way towards the police headquarters through the market and the thrusting arms of the traders laden with every conceivable spice, pottery, perfume and food Norman began to get serious misgivings about the entire operation.

The head of the Iraqi Police, known the them as ZULU, was a small polite man with a thin moustache and a well pressed uniform seemed out of place in the heat. Indeed he seemed not to sweat at all. He beckoned the three men to sit down and he began his report using a little map out of a guide book as a reference. “Gentlemen, the first crate was found about ten miles to the south of the city. A farmer’s boy was out early milking the goats. He was distracted and went for a walk. He found a mound of fresh earth and when he, err, what’s the word, pawed at the earth he uncovered a crate beside the road. The local policeman was called and he then contacted us and when we did some more digging we found two more. All contained forty Czech rifles each, all wrapped in protective muslin covers, no ammunition was found. A truck was found burnt out six miles further up the road. We interrogated the boy’s father and the local peasants but they could not help.” He shrugged as he reached for his tea, “I guess like in your country the peasants are poor and stupid, they know nothing and even if they know something they know enough to keep their mouths shut. It’s likely they saw something. Do you wish me to arrange a visit to the site?” Norman didn’t fancy a ride out to a hole in the middle of nowhere in the midday sun and fanned himself and nudged George with his elbow to make him speak up, “Where are the guns now?” ZULU looked at his report, “We have the crates here Sir, we were told not to hand them over to the British Army until you had seen them.”
As they looked over the crates in an adjoining room Norman noticed the same tick mark and signature, the crates seemed to have been shipped from Genoa via Suez and through Basra. He was in no doubt he was on the right track, Control’s hunch was right; these crates all over the world were linked.

After radioing his first report to London via an old wind-up transmitter, which due to atmospheric conditions had to be repeated twice, Norman ordered Paul to track down their next contact DOLEFUL in Baghdad. Paul spent all the following day after his journey to the capital skulking around Baghdad station enquiring for the Turk and generally asking questions. He had no luck, nor on the second day, the third day led him to a girlfriend’s house but there was no sign of her or the Turk. By this time George had scoured the police archives in Mosul with no real concrete results other than lists of dissatisfied Iraqis, troublesome Persians, people with suspicious walks and the like. Norman managed to procure a car through the resident MI6 agent in the town and George and Norman were driven to Baghdad. Paul’s accommodation was not ideal for the three of them and they relocated to a run-down low-market hotel near the station where Paul and George kept a watchful eye.

Eventually the Taurus Express pulled in and Paul, who had acquired a porter’s uniform, got onto the platform and onto the train. He soon found DOLEFUL on the train and a meeting was arranged at the hotel room that evening. George, unknown to the Turkish agent, followed him but soon lost contact in a marketplace.

That evening DOLEFUL arrived at the hotel bar, George called Norman from the front desk telephone and then he joined the Turk at the bar. Paul came down and stood on the Turk’s opposite side, “Hello remember me? Here is my business partner Mr Poundbury.” The Turk looked at George and pushed himself back from the bar, “My boss is waiting upstairs his got a proposition to put to you.” At this the scruffy Turk in his crumpled grey suit shook his head and pointed to a table in the corner. “No Sir we talk here, I don’t trust your room upstairs. Come, you buy me a drink and we sit here and talk. I don’t know what you want from me.” He face froze and then a look of terror crept across it as George put his left arm inside his and Paul moved closer and spoke in a cool soft voice, “Don’t argue, upstairs is much better, no one can overhear us and we have booze upstairs.” Paul then grabbed his other arm and both men dragged him out of the bar without anyone noticing, if they did no-one moved, perhaps this often happened in such a low-rent place thought Paul as the Turk was dragged upstairs.

Near the top he began to plead and beg to be let free but Paul kicked open the door with his right foot as George let his grip go and then punched the Turk on the chin sending him flying into the room and sprawling into the couch. Norman sitting on the edge of the bed looked up, “Hello sunshine, dropped in to see us have you? We’ve some questions for you. Was he any trouble Paul” Paul locked the door as George took off his jacket and neatly folded it over the back of a chair and then rolled up his shirt sleeves ready to make the Turk comply with Norman’s demands. “He didn’t want to see us Norm, acting the swine he was. Looks like he’s got a touch of the swine fever anyway.” The Turk sat up and rubbed his chin, “You’ve no right to do this, I’m a Turk you can’t…” Norm snapped his fingers, “Do I have to raise my voice? Listen sunbeam we want some information about gun smuggling. You must know who is in the trade. We want to know names and places.” The Turk refused to talk but it did him no good, George slapped him a few times before Norman lost his patience and let George fly with his fists. Paul moved over the gramophone and put on a crackly old music hall record to drown out the noise. He moved over to the window to check on the street below.

Eventually the Turk bloodied from a cut to his lower lip and a broken nose, held up his left hand and agreed to talk, George put a foot on the man’s shoulder and pinned him to the floor as Norman moved to the sofa and sat down. “Ok, Ok, I talk, I talk! I’ll tell you want you want to know. I know an Armenian carpet merchant, he’s of Turkish nationality, he catches the Express sometimes on business. I was ordered to watch him. He is working for the Abwehr in Istanbul and offered his services to MI6 as courier. He’s a double agent. I was asked to watch him you see.” Norman looked unimpressed, “So you know a carpet salesman, so what’s that have to do with gun running? I need a name, come on, chatter on son.” The Turk attempted to get up but George kept him pinned. “I was ordered to check his background by my superiors; they don’t trust MI6 or the Abwehr. I slipped something into his drink and searched his private papers in his sleeper compartment. His codename is INFAMOUS. In the papers I found he had an address for a Dickie Metcalfe in Cairo.” Norman wrote down his notes and turned to look at the Turk, “Where is INFAMOUS now? The Turk shook his head and George pressed his foot down harder, “I don’t know Sir, really I don’t. There was a nightclub address. The Adelphi Club, Cairo. He uses the chorus girls for chickenfeed to send to Berlin. You know rich capitalist pigs and who is who in Cairo. They must know where he is.” Norman looked at George, “Ok that’ll do, chuck this joker into the alley. Now listen son, if you make a fuss London will jump all over your head, you’ve not enough friends as it is and if you’ve lied to us its curtains. Understand?”

As George dragged the beaten Turk outside Paul opened the shutters on the window again and Norman offered him a cigarette, “Norm, do you believe all that? Who’s Dickie Metcalfe?” Norman exhaled the smoke into the night air, “That’s why your not the boss, I have to know everything don’t I? Dickie Metcalfe was an officer in the Army; he was cashiered in 1930 and became an arms dealer popping up all over the place. He’s got a whole load of contacts and even more folk to keep him hidden. The address we’ve got is no use; he moves about too much, I’ll bet that carpet bloke was onto him for London. Once we find him he’ll lead us to Dickie. Pack the bags Paul we’re leavin’ tonight!”

Good read but could you divide the text into smaller blocks for easier reading?

The quickest way to Cairo from Baghdad was by air; Norman did not risk the usual commercial flights and got in contact with an aerial surveyor doing some work in Northern Iraq. He was a gentleman called Sidney Cotton, a man who knew more about aerial photography than most men and a man with enough shady connections to be secretive enough and efficient enough to get them to Cairo. The following day at a remote dirt strip Norman and his companions climbed aboard the sleek Lockheed 12 and roared off into dawn sky heading west. “Certainly Mr Cotton did not buy this aircraft himself”, thought Norman as they reached their cruising altitude, “Someone pays handsomely for his work!”

Cairo was exactly like Norman had read in the tourist brochures. Norman’s senses were assaulted by the sound of shouting vendors, taxi horns and loudspeakers, the smells of the marketplace and the scent of perfume and sweat, the throngs of Arabs, Greeks, French, British, Syrians, Coptic Christians, Egyptians, Maltese, Cypriots and Turks. The whole cosmopolitan scene came crashing into Norman’s eyes and ears. Getting from the airport to the hotel was not easy without a multitude of sign language and pidgin English and they travelled by an ancient taxi which boiled over at every obstruction and traffic jam on the way.

Stopping at Shepard’s Hotel was out, first the finances would not stretch that far and second they would be too conspicuous. Eventually the Hotel Cleopatra was chosen, mainly because of the extensive bar and the multi-cultural gatherings there. Another factor was that it was possible to cover the side and front entrances of the Adelphi Club from a front room. Norman left George to set up the room and begin a watch on who went in and out of the club. Paul cruised the bar playing the golf-loving Oxbridge clean-living Englishman he wasn’t, to loosen the tongues of the local bar crawlers for information. Norman headed for the local MI5 outpost, not the main intelligence offices hidden in the modern office block called ‘Grey Pillars’ in the area called the ‘Garden City’ but the local ‘Juju’ man who controlled a network of informers and spies across the city.

The location was unlikely, a small rented office above a brothel, not far from the ‘Garden City’ a small sign on the door simply said ‘Thessinger Import and Export Co’. The owner was also unlikely, Major ‘Tufty’ Thessinger, a retired Great War hero of Allenby’s Army, no war hero but also an understated talent in the intelligence world. Now he held the strings in a massive web of information across the city trying to outwit the French, the Germans, the Iberians, and the Indians, practically everyone. He had Egyptian policeman and concierges on the payroll, he had penetrated the Muslim Brotherhood by the means of a Welshman masquerading as a Syrian and controlled a hundred underworld mouthpieces and pairs of ears.

Norman sat in the bland office with the shutters wide open letting in the hustle of the street below, the ceiling fan whirred away as the flies buzzed round. ‘Tufty’ sat the other side of the battered ancient desk, atop which were piles of files and papers. ‘Tufty’ poured out the whiskeys, “What can I do for you old man? London told me to expect you.” Norman gulped the whiskey down, “It’s nice to know we’re invited guests. What do you know of the whereabouts of BALLOON?” ‘Tufty’ poured a second round of drinks, “Cheers old boy! Now let me see, BALLOON was last seen last month heading west on the coast train, he was seen at El Alamein. We had a man on his trail, a carpet merchant I believe of all things.” Norman took out his notes from the meeting with DOLEFUL, “Ah, yeah we know about him, codename INFAMOUS. Where do we find him?” “I haven’t a clue; he went underground some time ago.”

Norman emptied his glass again, “We had a tip-off about the Adelphi Club, some chorus girls. What can you tell me about them?” ‘Tufty’ shifted some files and found the right one and leafed through it leisurely. “Here we are old boy, there are four girls. INFAMOUS used them as informal sources, paid them a nominal fee etc, we found out about them and gave them codenames. The ringleader is GABBIE a Hungarian girl five foot six, black hair, black eyes, illegal immigrant but she agreed to work for us full time in return for us keeping her in Cairo. HELGA and TRUDI are her buxom blonde Austrian accomplices, both left when Germany took over and the fourth is MARIA, her Romanian accomplice, six foot tall, black hair and green eyes. Also tattooed I believe.” Norman took the file and flicked through, “A rum bunch of agents, interesting personal details though. I think we’ll start here.” ‘Tufty’ then got up and moved towards the cabinet to pull out another bottle of whiskey. “We normally use a postcard from Alexandria when we wish to arrange a meeting. Let me know when and where and we’ll set it up for you. Well then let’s seal the pact so to speak eh? If you need anything just ask, we can supply you with cameras, film, poisoned umbrella tips, exploding cigars, just ask. Now tell me what’s the latest gossip from London?”

Quoted

Originally posted by Hood
...If you need anything just ask, we can supply you with cameras, film, poisoned umbrella tips...

Bulgarian umbrellas, presumably?

...sounds like the start of a girl band to me!!

Norman played it safe for a day or so, Paul spent most of his time in the bar working up some notes on the regulars, some of them went to the Adelphi Club and managed to get him a membership card. George kept a watch on everyone who entered and left the club and got photos that matched the descriptions of the chorus girls. Paul made a thorough search of the club from the inside and managed to get backstage to slip the postcard under GABBIE’s dressing room door on his second visit.

The following night after the nightly performance Paul slipped in through the side door and disguised as a waiter got inside a storeroom, opening a window so Norman could climb in. George was watching from across the street. GABBIE was first to enter in a silk dress, she did not speak but studied both men; MARIA then knocked and entered and merely nodded at the two men. Norman nudged Paul to begin and he pulled out a bottle of wine. MARIA took it, smiled and then took a swig; she passed it to GABBIE who looked suspiciously before she tasted the wine. Paul gave a nervous smile and asked whether they knew where INFAMOUS was. Both women looked at each and shrugged. Without a name Norman knew it was a long shot but he felt the Hungarian was hiding something.

Eventually the two Austrian dancers knocked and entered and assured GABBIE the corridor was clear. TRUDI then spoke in broken English, “What do you want? Why the meeting? Where is Eduard?” Norman nudged Paul, “That must be the guy we’re after Paul.” GABBIE edged towards the door biting her lip, MARIA took another swig of the wine. Paul spoke to break the awkward silence, “We are friends of Eduard, we need to find him to take us to a friend of his. Do you know Dickie Metcalfe?” All four of the girls stood silently and shook their heads. Norman scratched his head, he knew they knew Dickie and who is was and where their precious Eduard was. “Look girls, we need to know he’s in danger. We can help him. We want Dickie. We are on the same side.” MARIA spoke in German to TRUDI and she translated for her, “Do you know Reanto Levi? He works for Dickie, he knows Eduard too.” Norman paced a bit before speaking, “Ok, where is Levi?” The girls shrugged, “Where is bloody Eduard then!” Norman felt his temper rising, Paul grabbed his arm and disarmed the situation with a cool smile. TRUDI sipped at the wine bottle and mumbled, “See Anna Agiraki, she knows Dickie very well and has seen Eduard recently. She works in Cairo.” TRUDI then wrote her name on a scrap of paper pulled off a crate and passed it to Norman. With no further words the four women left the room and Norman and Paul left via the window.

Norman the following morning went to see ‘Tufty’, he was early, so early that he caught him at the foot of the stairs walking into work in his neat white cotton suit, “Hello Tufty can I come and play with your toys?” he mischievously asked.
Following the usual small-talk and glass of whiskey Norman began asking his questions. “Well we didn’t find out much from our chorus girls. They were too scared to tell us anything of much use. They told us about a Renato Levi and an Anna Agiraki. Who are they?” ‘Tufty’ leaned back in his chair and took a sip of his whiskey, “Reanto Levi is a British national of Italian Jewish descent, we recruited him back in 33 and then he was recruited by the Italian SIM in 35, they sent him here last year. We run him as a double agent feeding them useless information. Unfortunately he’s into black market activities. That led him to BISCUIT, otherwise known as Sam McCarthy, an MI5 informant, former drug smuggler, petty thief and confidence man. He works for Dickie and has used Levi to get some stuff out of Egypt. With our consent of course. Anna Agiraki is the former mistress of the chief of the Italian SIM in Athens, she defected to MI6 when her life was in danger. It seems she became a nuisance and he wanted her bumped off. She notionally works as a high-level prostitute in Beirut but in fact works here helping us. Levi is known as CHEESE and Agiraki is GALA. You’ll find her most useful I think, she can be found out of town near Giza. I’ll have a car take you down there.

GALA was not at all what Norman expected. She was slim, dark and beautiful but she was hard. Her dark eyes were piercing, she paced round the little white room chain-smoking Marlboros. All the time she was watching, listening. She had a sixth sense, he could tell, she spat as she mentioned her former lover and regaled Norman with all her tribulations and stories. He knew most of it was lies to hide her true stories and confessions. He eventually asked the question, “Do you know where INFAMOUS is?” She spun round and made a little coarse laugh, “Wouldn’t you rather know where Dickie Metcalfe is? Huh, the honourable English gentleman, the puppet master! Don’t you want him?” Norman shifted in his seat to follow her pacing around the room, “Sure miss but where can I find him?” She laughed again, “Through INFAMOUS of course, you’ll find that rat at the Café D’ Orange, he hides there like the rat he is!” Norman jotted the address down and he half-mumbled the next question,” Do you know Reanto Levi?” Anna ignored him and carried on talking as she lit a fresh cigarette near the window, “Do you know Antonio D’Silva the Argentine arms dealer wanted all over South America with a price on his head? Dickie works for him. I know D’Silva. I knew him when he was in Italy a couple of years ago, we were lovers for a while.” She paused and gazed out the window, “I know Dickie works from him, I’ve seen his signature on D’Silva’s papers and they met in Greece when I was there.” Norman wrote everything down and paused, Anna noticed the puzzled expression on his face and softly laughed, “You don’t think the English rat brought his own weapons, manned his own boat do you? Huh he would make a mess of it. He needs backing, D’Silva has money. You see perfect partners. Only I know this, INFAMOUS is too stupid to see the truth, he’s a rude smelly carpet seller. Too stupid. Only I know this and I’m telling you because I want you to get both of them.”

All the while Norman was driven back to the hotel he felt that Anna would be dead. ‘Tufty’ had not been careful enough, driving him there and back with an English driver in a smart Austin car was not wise. He knew the house must be watched and that she would pay the price for her information. Sure enough the next morning she was found dead in her apartment, her head smashed open with a pickaxe. Someone very nasty wanted to stop anyone seeing Dickie or D’Silva. He knew he had to see INFAMOUS as soon as possible before he was silenced.

When Norman woke up Paul and George were arguing, “Do I snore?” “Yeah you’re a real window-rattler son.” “I don’t!” George shouted, Paul tutted in annoyance, “With a trombone hooter like yours it would be unnatural if you didn’t.” Norman was by now awake and annoyed at being woken up by the childish argument and shouted over the din in the front, “Paul don’t pick on George!” George turned his head to face Norman, “I don’t need you to defend me.” Norman rolled his eyes, “Well he shouldn’t mock the afflicted, it’s not your fault. You can help having a hideous great hooter and your poor little head trembling under the weight of it.” George looked into the rear-view mirror studying his nose and mumbling to himself as Norman carried on talking, “How far are we from Alex anyway?” Paul ignored him, “He’s a swine isn’t he George?” George laughed, “Yeah a swine!” Norman lay back down on the back seat, “Ta, just wake me up when we get there. And no more larking around!”

They did not reach Alexandria until that evening, Norman felt sure they had been followed; a kind of sixth sense altered him. They checked in to a small hotel on the outskirts of the city and took turns to watch the alleyway below for any signs of activity. The left the hotel the next morning and headed to a local café for breakfast before setting off for the docks. George hailed a taxi, a pony and trap, and in broken Arabic told the driver their destination, the Oriental Tea and Spice Co, he nodded and with a lurch they sped off into the dusty side streets. On arriving at the docks Norman asked where he could find Sam McCarthy, he tried several labourers who pointed to general directions and often the answers were contradictory.

A quick look around the outside of the company warehouse was fruitless but as they walked past some steps an English voice bellowed out, “You down there! Hey you skulking around! What do you want!” Paul and Norman looked up, at the top of the stairs stood BISCUIT. Norman shielded his eyes from the sun as he looked up, “Hello are you Mr McCarthy?” “Who wants to know?” the voice bellowed back Norman knew this would be tricky, he had to give a good answer quickly, “We’re inspectors we want to look over the books.” Sam stood still for a moment then came down the stairs and walked up to Norman, “Well in that case you’d better come into the office.” He led the way up to his office, in reality something that looked like a glorified garden shed on the quayside. He unlocked the door and beckoned the men inside and once inside they had to squeeze past boxes of goods piled up and filing cabinets. At the end of the shed was a small desk and three chairs. BISCUIT opened the conversation as he lit a small gas stove. “Tea gentlemen? Now what can I do for you?” Norman studied Sam’s face, his hair was shaved back, his face was scarred, and someone had smashed at least one bottle in his face, his thick stubby fingers had probably punched many a man’s face. On his arms were various tattoos. However much he tried to seem an honest trader and loyal MI5 informant he was a former drug smuggler, petty thief and confidence trickster.

Norman sat down, Paul took another chair and George, being a cautious man, lingered near the door sitting on a box of China tea. Norman reached for his notebook and opened the relevant page, “Tell us what you know of Dickie Metcalfe. Where can we find him?” Sam sat down in his chair and swivelled it slightly, “He’s not in Egypt whatever you’ve been told. He left for Oran two months ago and hasn’t been back for at least three weeks.” Norman scratched his chin and the kettle whistled and Sam got up to make the tea. “Well what is he up to?” asked Norman. Sam carried on stirring the teas, “On a job. He wanted me to stash some gear for him. You know false-bottomed boxes.” Paul picked up a manifest that was lying around, “What kind of gear?” Sam turned round and snatched the papers from him and threw them onto the desk, “Nosy aren’t you? Wouldn’t you like to know?” He turned to Norman, “Don’t worry you’ll soon find out for yourselves.” Norman sipped his tea, “Is the stuff here?” Sam shook his head. Norman knew he was stalling. He had to get tough. “Look where are the arms. We know that’s what it is because that’s what Dickie peddles, we know he uses you as courier, or manager, or supplier or what?” Sam smiled and his stubby brown teeth appeared, he chuckled to himself before he answered, “You think I handle the stuff? Don’t be daft, someone else does that. All I do is supply the false-bottom boxes and crates, I take them down to a small lock-up he has down at El Alamein on the coastal rail route. There’s not much there, nice and quiet, proper little place to stash some arms.” Norman sipped his tea and looked at Paul, “Yeah ok where do we find the stuff?” Sam got up and began clipping together some papers on his desk and he turned away from the three men, “You can’t miss it, it’s near the track, marked A. Pilkington and Sons. No guard. In there you’ll find the crates, the rifles and the shipping info for Oran. No need for me to tell you anything else.”

Norman wasn’t satisfied, “Who does Dickie work for? Who pulls the strings? Who tells him to go to Oran? Who tells him where to put the stuff?” Sam just stood there laughing and then he turned to face them, “I don’t know who pulls whose chain. I don’t know who the big man is, I get instructions over the phone from some Arab guy, it never comes from Dickie himself, he trusts no-one. It’s like a riddle with an enigma all wrapped up in puzzle. Who the hell knows who pulls whose strings out here? Can’t you see if I knew anything I’d be dead talking to you guys. I’m on the edge, I’ve done my time, I’m on my penance now, I’ve done my patriotic bit. I worked for intelligence, I settled down, found a legit business, and then some guy comes up and asks me if I want to make big money. Who says no to that? I know very little. You just be careful because I don’t want the wrong people on my back. You be damn careful who you talk to!”
Norman closed his notebook and got up, Paul looked up at Norman and got up to leave too, George moved his hand closer to the revolver in his jacket pocket. Norman dragged his hand through his hair, “You make me sick. You tell us a load of bull like that. Oh I’ve done my time, I’m in danger. Huh, I seem to remember you up at Liverpool docks a few years ago, you weren’t so scared then, peddling drugs to unsuspecting folk, fitting up people, dropping them into the Mersey. Then you work for MI5 to keep out of jail and you think everything’s rosy! Well it’s not! If you’ve helped Dickie kill even one innocent civilian, or had anything to do with Anna’s murder I swear I’ll see you hang!” Norman stormed out as Sam laughed; Paul then ripped the phone out of the socket and threw it across the shed as George slipped outside to start the car.
Norman knew they had to get out to the store at El Alamein quickly before Sam could have a reception party ready and took the next train from Alexandria station.

It was as Sam had told them. El Alamein was a nothing in the middle of nowhere. Just a few buildings and a few Arab travellers milling around. A. Pilkington and Sons was a simple shed with faded painted letters below the roof. There was no guard, George easily broke the lock and they slipped inside unseen while Paul kept watch outside. George picked up a crowbar and ripped off one lid. Inside were packets of tea. They threw them out and sure enough the bottom looked real. George smashed it with the crowbar and ripped up a plank and then another. In the bottom were canvas-wrapped rifles. Norman picked up one and took off the cover; it was an old Lee-Enfield with the breech still covered with protective grease. It was proof enough. A quick call to ‘Tufty’ in Cairo via the station telephone soon had a company of soldiers and officers on the scene with the police direct from Alexandria within hours.

[This is a big post but I don't want to drag the story out too much and bore you all. There's a bit of action in this section. I would post more often but I'm snowed under at work and it took me nearly two hours to get home tonight via good old English public transport!]

Now Norman needed to get to Oran and once back in Alexandria ‘Tufty’ was able to lay on some transport. After a relaxing evening at a British hotel, all expenses paid, Norman led his colleagues down to the docks having received visas for French North Africa via the Circus. They were looking for a yacht called ‘Arabian Sunrise’, which George quipped sounded more like a racehorse than a yacht. It was owned by a retired Royal Navy Captain who used the yacht for spy operations in the Med, he’d move from port to port following the social calendar and pretending to be the usual British gentleman but really he would take photos and track interesting warships and check order of battle information. Gleaming white it stood out at the quay and no sooner had George got the baggage aboard and Norman had made the introductions then the yacht slipped its moorings and headed out of the harbour sailing past the warships of the Royal Navy and the commerical steamers of many nations. The Captain, who remained anonymous, had a crew of two British ex-servicemen, also anonymous, and while George and Paul stowed away their gear Norman stood beside the Captain as they cleared the dock. As the harbour receded behind them the Captain turned to Norman and smiled, “You know old boy we can get you to French North Africa very quickly. The Arabian Sunrise has a special surprise below your feet.” Norman looked down, “What’s that then?” The Captain smiled and pushed a couple of buttons and a burbling-roaring sound came up through the deck and a vibration began. The Captain then pushed forward the throttle and the yacht surged forwards. “You see, we have two engine systems, the usual petrol motor and a Napier Lion. Modified for marine use of course. I can get 28 knots out of her.” With that he pushed the throttle down further and the boat raced along the waves along the shoreline.

The Captain did not take them directly to Oran but instead dropped them off at Tunis under the cover of darkness. There Norman and his men were met on the quayside by a French Arab who drove a black Citroen. He quickly ushered them into the back and at break-neck speed drove them to the aerodrome where on the tarmac was waiting Sidney Cotton beside his Lockheed. He beamed when he saw Norman getting out of the car and he rushed over to shake his hand, “Hello you again eh? Well get aboard we’ve got to fly you to Oran.” Paul and George grabbed the few pieces of luggage they had and ran up the steps to the aircraft door as the engines started. The pilot began to taxi as soon as Cotton closed the door and he moved up to take the co-pilot’s seat for the take-off.
When they reached cruising altitude Cotton came back to the small cabin and sat down beside Norman. Paul was asleep and George was reading a Penguin paperback, he looked up and nodded at Sidney. “Well we are to fly you direct to Oran, we shall make a detour over Algiers. We’re going to photograph some Roman ruins for some university types. It won’t affect your arrival time. Oh yes and there is a letter for you some chap asked me to give you.” He pulled out a brown envelope and handed it to Norman who gripped his seat as the plane hit slight turbulence, “Ta, I hope it’ll be smooth so we can get some sleep. We’ve been bobbing about on a yacht for three days.” With his index finger he tore open the envelope and took out the neatly folded paper. It was from London, probably from Control himself via some minion, thought Norman as he read it. It simply said, “Approve plan to travel to Oran. There you will meet with GUINEA. James Ponsonby, commercial attaché to the British Consul-General in Tangier, MI6 agent. He will guide you to next contact. Meet at the Hotel President, Room 46, 13:45. The password is ‘Have you reservations for supper’ he will reply ‘I’m skipping light meals.’ Proceed with caution, don’t attract suspicions of French intelligence.” Norman folded the letter and put it in his pocket and closed his eyes for some well-earned sleep.

Algiers looked lovely in the early morning sunshine as they flew over the city. Cotton rushed to the on-board darkroom with a canister of film and they flew on to Oran in perfect weather conditions. Paul winked at George, “I’ll but there’s more than Roman ruins on that film!” When they landed at Oran the cross-wind was stronger than forecast and the descent was bumpy. Norman, who hated flying, looked green while Paul and George just finishing their sandwiches seemed unaffected. As they disembarked from the Lockheed Cotton took the lead and led them to the small white brick-built terminal to the customs desk. He strode up to a tall young French official and whispered something to him. Norman looked round and George thought he noticed a gentleman in the lobby from the Hotel Cleopatra. Paul confirmed it was a German travelling salesman, “That’s Herr Max Brandli, said he sold cloth and silks. I reckon his game is something else.” They were going to have a closer look when Cotton waved the men over and they entered a side door, entered the customs office where their passports were stamped and then they left with a police escort to a waiting car. They got in and the French Arab driver merely said, “Hotel President I presume?” and drove off.

On time Norman knocked at the door of Room 46, the door opened a crack. “Yes what do you want?” Norman cleared his throat awkwardly, he felt so silly when he had to say passwords. It felt so conspicuous. “Have you reservations for supper,” the reply came “I’m skipping light meals.” The door chain dropped and the door opened. Behind it was a typical English bureaucrat, about five foot seven, dark slicked back hair, waistcoat and jacket and a bowtie. He looked like he’d stepped out of the pages of a history book. “Hullo, come in gentlemen.” He beckoned them into the room and Paul and George immediately began turning the room upside down looking under books and lamps, behind paintings and under the bed for microphones. GUINEA moved towards Norman, “There’s no need this is our permanent room for meetings.” Norman pushed him aside to take a close look behind the mirror, “Oh yeah? When did you last have the Ferrets in?” “About four weeks ago.” Norman rolled his eyes and was satisfied the mirror was genuine, “You can’t be too careful sunshine. Ok lads sit down.” Paul and George claimed the sofa before Norman could reach it and instead he sat in the armchair. Norman got out his letter. “So your James Ponsonby, 42 years old, commercial attaché to the British Consul-General in Tangier. What do you do here then?” James sat down and opened his cigarette case and offered them round. The first English cigarette they had smoked since leaving London. “I work for MI6, I pass false information to Iberians. You know false economic information, naval tittle-tattle, muddying pools that sort of thing. I’ve a wide range of contacts here in French North Africa. London haven’t told me much only that your after BALLOON. I’ve not been able to ascertain his whereabouts in Oran but I think I know a man who can help you.” He took a small printed card from his pocket and handed it to Norman, “Your having laugh! A hairdresser!” he exclaimed when he read it. James smiled, “No, his codename is EL GITANO. He’s an Iberian, works in the city as a hairdresser. It’s a perfect cover for his operations. He’s a smuggler and a pimp. He works for Iberian intelligence and sends them shipping information and material on the French Army via secret ink letters. We intercept some of these. We’ve found out lots of interesting things from his letters. BALLOON’s name cropped up more than once. We believe they met two weeks ago with another man. ARTHUR we call him. He’s an Iberian Jew, lives in Oran, he’s a financier on a fairly large scale with some shady dealings with the Iberian consul at Oudjda in French Morocco. He passes high grade material via letter to Iberian Intelligence. He’s big stuff and we don’t like rocking the boat too much with the French. We think he’s financing a deal with BALLOON. You boys will have to find out the rest that’s all I know.”
Norman got up and paced the room thinking it all over. “Seems to fit what we know, BALLOON is in Oran supplying arms to someone in the city. He’d need money, we thought it came from overseas. Maybe ARTHUR receives the money from mainland Europe?” James shrugged his shoulders. It was clear he knew nothing else, he offered them a suite on the floor above, expenses paid. Not only that but Paul succeeded in getting GUNIEA to give them £100 from the local fund to tide them over.

Finding EL GITANO was easy, his little shop was well signed with a vulgar flashing neon sign above the door. By day cutting hair and by night selling women. Norman hated such men and thought of Anna the whole day. The plan was for them to go in separately near closing time to avoid any bystanders. George needed a haircut anyway so it proved a convincing plan. At four-thirty George strode in and using his broken French ordered a trim and sat in the barber’s chair. All over the walls were photographs of women and men with stylish cuts, as the barber began preparing his equipment Paul walked in and said he’d wait and sat down by the window. Just as the barber took the first snip Norman walked in and closed the door. The barber looked up, spoke in French and got no reply so tried English, “Monsieur you’ll have to wait. I’m not closed yet.” Norman smiled, “You are now sunbeam.” George snatched the scissors out of the barber’s hand and flew out of the chair throwing the barber back into the chair and pinning him down as Paul picked up a razor and menacingly waved it around. “Who are you? Robbers? The money is over there. Don’t hurt me! Don’t hurt me I’ve a family and children!” Norman walked over and patted his head, “Oh sure. We’re not criminals we’re friends. Your up to all sorts of stuff I’m sure. You need friends like us and I’m sure you like talking to friends. If not my pal here will rearrange your hairstyle. Permanently.” He nodded and George grabbed his hair and the barber whimpered. Norman smiled and took two photographs out of his inside suit pocket. “Now then who is this man?” The barber looked at it briefly, “An Englishman, Dickie, did he send you? I promised I wouldn’t tell. I promised.” Norman ignored him, “Where is he?” The barber shook his head and Paul began sharpening the razor, “I know not Monsieur. I swear.” Norman then showed him the second photograph. It was of ARTHUR. “I know him. He’s a friend.” Norman smiled again, “Good sunbeam, where does he live? Better still you take us to him. We’d like to ask him some questions.” The barber agreed and George let him free. Norman took the barber’s coat off a peg near the back door and threw it at him. Paul chucked the razor down and took the barber by the arm and led him to the car outside.

George drove and the barber’s directions led them to a small villa just outside the city. George drove up the drive and parked outside the front door. He had a quick look around as Norman and Paul dragged the barber up the steps to the door. Norman knocked and an Arab butler answered. The barber explained he wished to see ARTHUR and they were shown inside.

ARTHUR was a short dark haired man with horn-rimmed spectacles. He looked puzzled as the barber and his two English ‘friends’ sat down. He offered them some tea and sat opposite Norman. Paul rested his hand on his revolver. ARTHUR looked up as George came into the room, “All clear outside.” Norman nodded and produced the photograph of Dickie and showed it to ARTHUR. “I believe this man is a mutual friend of yours and the barber? Where is he?” The man sat back into his chair. “Supposing I don’t tell you. I don’t know who you are? British intelligence perhaps? Policemen? I’m saying nothing.” George moved round behind the door and heard the butler on the telephone outside. Norman had his bad feeling something was up. “Listen we want to see him and your gonna’ tell us. Your barber friend can tell you we don’t play nice. We’re not afraid of financiers.”

George flung the door open, the butler whipped out a revolver and took a shot at George. With lightning reflexes he kicked the door shut as he dived for cover. Paul jumped up and knocked the barber unconscious with his revolver. Norman dived behind the chair as ARTHUR ran towards the desk. “Paul nail him!” shouted Norman just as the windows shattered and a rifle barked. Paul fired three shots killing ARTHUR who slumped over the desk and fell backwards onto the floor. Norman crawled to the window brandishing his Browning automatic, George kicked open the door and took a pot shot at the butler who was hiding behind a large earthen pot. George took another shot, the pot broke and the Butler fell down, he gun dropping from his hand. More rounds smacked into the room from the garden and Paul returned fire. The lights went out as the electricity was cut. The barber, still dazed, got up and was hit by crossfire in the head. He fell onto the floor. “Bloody hell this is a right bog up!” Shouted Norman as he crawled towards the door. Paul fired through the French doors and an Arab man crashed through them.
Meanwhile George was having a duel with two other Arabs covering the front door, “They’ve got the car Norm, we’re trapped!” The petrol tank exploded and the car went up in flames. Norman knew the police would soon be here. He turned as two more Arab gunmen dashed through the French doors. Paul was reloading and Norman fired six rounds into the two men who fell to the floor. He noticed they both had Lee-Enfield rifles. George seemed confident the front was clear and he moved to the window beside the front door just as a sub-machine gun sprayed the front of the house with bullets. Flying glass hit George’s nose and he fell, Paul thought he was dead and crawled over to drag him into the lounge. Another man climbed into the lounge and Norman popped up from behind the desk and shot him in the legs. A fierce looking European maid ran down the stairs with a revolver in her hands and Paul quickly took a snap-shot at her and she fell.

Norman noticed the firing outside had stopped. He could hear sirens in the distance. The police would soon be here, he didn’t want any trouble with them. “Control would not be pleased,” he thought as he stood up. The figure by the window groaned. He was still alive. He searched his pockets and found some documents. He called over Paul and they dragged him outside into the garden as George followed holding a hanky to his nose. They ran through the garden to the back wall, whoever the gunmen were they had fled. George leapt over the back wall and helped Paul lift the injured Arab over the wall. Norman spotted a car parked outside a nearby villa and he quickly broke into it and shoved the Arab inside as Norman started the engine and drove off down the little dirt track heading for the main road. The avoided the police cordon and headed for the Hotel President. They dumped the car in a nearby street and carried the Arab through the back staff entrance of the hotel and managed to get him inside the lift unseen. Paul mopped his brow, “Tell me Norm why are we lugging this Arab about?” Norman was in no mood for jokes, “Shut up Paul. He’s the leader I think.” As soon as they got him into their suite and got him onto the sofa George bandaged the bullet holes in his leg. Norman picked up the phone and called GUINEA to come over at once.

Paul managed to revive the Arab with whiskey by the time GUINEA arrived. Norman had all of the Arab’s papers on the desk and he was searching his jacket for secret messages. As he snipped open the seams of his collar he found some paper carefully folded inside. Opening it he shouted “Bingo! We have it lads!” GUINEA was not impressed, “What on earth is going on here! You’ve shot up a villa, got half the police down there, got two Iberian agents killed and dragged this chap here and blown our cover!” Norman thrust the passport under his nose, “Anyone you know? This letter has D’Silva’s signature on it. Its in French, seems to be some kind of bank draft. 450,000 Francs to be deposited in Dickie’s bank account, from a Swiss bank. That wraps up our little case.” James looked at the passport. He went to the telephone and spoke for a time to a French clerk. Paul tried to get the Arab man to talk but he wouldn’t.

James rang off and turned to Norman. “I’ve just been onto my French counterpart. He confirms this man is Mohammed Charrad, Tunisian, known to us as LITIGANT, an Arab nationalist and fanatical hater of France. He’s currently active in Arab propaganda and is an arms smuggler. He probably leads some kind of Arab terrorist organisation here in Oran. BALLOON must have been supplying arms. That letter is counter-signed by ARTHUR. It implicates them all.” Norman beamed with pride and gave a little leap and victory dance, “See boys I was right. The leader and the proof we need. We’ll soon be home!”

It was not to be. First Norman made his report to the Circus. They replied back and Control issued a brief telegram.

Situation delicate. French confirm BALLOON escaped to Europe. Stop
You have exceeded original brief. Stop
You are to go to Switzerland immediately and await further instructions. Stop
Only your team knows enough background to conclude the investigation. Stop
You will be met in Switzerland. Stop
New identities arriving via courier to get you into Europe. Stop

It was faint praise, Norman could guess the rest, he would have to go to Switzerland and dismantle the rest of the arms smuggling network to North Africa from the centre. The French were suspicious of Norman and his team. After doing the necessary GUINEA slipped back to Tangiers, Norman and his team were moved to Tunis with police escort and the French authorities formally handed the bodies of EL GITANO and ARTHUR to the Iberian consulate with the story both had been killed by disgruntled nationalist elements. LITIGANT was arrested and undoing surgery lost one leg to amputation and stood trial in Toulon later that month and was hanged. Around ten supporters were also arrested and hanged. Norman was thanked by the Governor-General by letter for exposing the organisation but added, “Both of our governments feel the matter is delicate and so will keep it a secret for the foreseeable future.”

Within a week the French, on behalf of the Circus, arranged passage on a steamer from Algiers to Toulon for Norman and his team. They were escorted from the harbour with French military intelligence escort, to the railway station and there caught a train to Lyon where they caught an Air France flight to Geneva. They were met by a small group of British dignitaries as part of the cover story that they were part of an economic delegation. They were whisked through customs and driven to the Hotel Crimson, a small little-known hotel well out of the way.

Norman met the local MI6 head at the embassy the following morning while Paul and George took the opportunity to do some shopping and relax in the bars and hot spots of Geneva.
The local ‘Juju’ man was unlike old ‘Tufty’ in Cairo. For a start he was in MI6, a much closer comrade than the MI5 types who were a separate breed. The man in Geneva was Richard Tarr-Robertson, a former Major in the Army, Great War hero, winner of the DSO and a high-ranker in the intelligence world since the 1920s. He could speak six continental languages and knew almost all the opposition personally in Geneva. Even so his style was by the book and peace; he had no Welshmen infiltrating bankers meetings. It was just not his style. He was five foot nine, slim built with dark hair and piercing blue eyes with a typical clipped British accent. It was clear from his manner he did not enjoy Norman’s presence on his patch. Without any small talk he launched into the briefing. “London has sent me all the details by personal courier,” he handed over the file in its brown envelope which Norman ripped open, “you’ll see it contains all the plans for this operation. You are to snatch D’Silva and close down the operation here. When he arrived in Switzerland he became Senor Sanchez, a typical low-rate commercial traveller. The Argentine intelligence here kept a close eye on him but got sidetracked with D’Silva’s cronies who shield him. He moves around a lot to avoid attention. You are to get in contact with two men who can help you. The first is RUDLOFF. Real name Jorge Jose Mosquera, an Argentine leather merchant in Hamburg since the early 1930s, he has spent some time in America, in 1934 he set up a trading company in New York with FBI funds as a cover organisation, he is an FBI agent and works for them, notionally a friend of D’Silva he is our inside man. Naturally we want to get at what he knows before our American cousins do. The other man is DREADNOUGHT, name Ivo Popov, Yugoslav, a doctor, works for Yugoslav intelligence and is our MI6 channel inside that organization. He too may know where D’Silva spends his time. The only other person of note is BRONYX. She is Elvira Chaudoir, the daughter of a Peruvian diplomat she has befriended D’Silva recently. She may prove useful.” Norman leafed through the file and remembered an old colleague, “Is Esterhase still around?” Richard pulled a face and picked up his tea, stirring it, “Oh him. He’s now running a bogus art dealership in the city. He goes under the name of Benardi now. Why do you want him involved? I wouldn’t recommend it.” Norman knew he was tricky but he was a firm friend and he operated like no other agent. He knew only he could arrange a snatch and get away with it without any suspicions.

While Norman was at the local MI6 headquarters George spotted the German gentleman from the Hotel Cleopatra in the lobby of the Hotel Crimson. George kept hidden behind a pillar and used an internal phone to warn Paul. George kept a watch on Herr Brandli in the bar until he left the hotel. When Norman got back to the hotel George confirmed to him it was the same man. Norman paced around agitated, “What does he want? He crops up in Cairo, then Oran and now here. He’s no salesman for sure. He must work for intelligence. But whose?” Paul moved to the cocktail cabinet and began mixing drinks, suddenly he spoke up. “I’ve an idea Norm. What if George hangs around the lobby near the reception desk, then when he comes back and asks for his key he’ll say the room number. Then when he leaves to go out tomorrow I can pretend to be him or get the key somehow and we can have a peep in Max’s lair. See what makes him tick.” Norman thought a moment and nodded in agreement. Without any further words George slipped on his jacket and headed downstairs. Within the hour he returned with the room number, and Paul prepared his camera and Norman wrote out a brief report to send to London.

The following morning Herr Brandli left early after breakfast and George phoned from the lobby as soon as he was sure the German had left. Paul had locked himself in the bathroom for most of the morning and now he knew why. As he came down the stairs he was the spitting image of the German with his slicked down dyed blonde hair and a small stuck-on beard. In his perfect German he made some excuse for coming back so soon and managed the get the key without any questions from the pretty young blonde on the reception desk. George followed him up and they made a through search of the room careful not to disturb anything. A search of the man’s suits revealed no traces, all were from German tailors, the suitcase was German, no false bottom was found. In an envelope was 400 Swiss Francs, another contained a Swiss passport in the name of Hermann Mueller, in his trousers was a wallet with German documents for a man called Maximilian Schroeder. No passport was found for this other identity. A small tube of antiseptic cream proved to contain some microfilm, Paul thought it may have contained pictures of handguns but George was not so sure. Eventually they left the room as the cleaner reached the next room. Paul went downstairs and handed in the key and left via the main entrance only to sneak back inside the goods entrance.
Norman was not particularly happy, on one hand they knew Herr Brandli was a fake and that he was up to something but on the other hand they knew nothing of who he worked for or whose side he was on. Norman decided to ignore him for the moment and instead took George to meet RUDLOFF. Paul was to keep his eyes open in the hotel for Brandli.

RUDLOFF, better known as Jorge Jose Mosquera had flown in from Hamburg only the previous night at the request of the Circus via his FBI masters. They seemed suspicious but agreed to send him to meet what they thought was an MI6 agent recruiting some Argentine contacts. RUDLOFF had agreed to meet in a small café near an outdoor skating rink. Norman went in first and spotted Mosquera sitting outside, Norman went to a public telephone at the back of the café and called a local phone box in which George was waiting for the all-clear. Norman went outside and sat on the table behind, a young waitress came out, “I’ll have black coffee in a glass please.” Mosquera caught his English accent and turned round but said nothing. Norman opened his paper and pretended to ignore him. He wanted to sweat him out first and to check he was alone. He noticed George strolling along in his usual stooping gait. He walked straight past Norman and went inside. Norman turned his head to look and noticed Mosquera was also looking.

George soon emerged with a glass of black tea and a chocolate éclair. He stopped by Mosquera’s table and put his glass and plate down and took out a cigarette and asked Mosquera for a light. The Argentine man obliged and as he flicked his lighter Norman silently got up and pulled out the chair next to Mosquera and sat down. George smiled and also sat down taking a big bite out of his éclair. Norman gave George a sharp look and then turned to Mosquera. “Hello my name is McDowell; this is my associate Mr Poundberry. We work for an English employment agency and we are trying to trace a countryman of yours. A friend of yours in fact, a certain Senor D’Silva. We have an offer for him to consider.” Mosquera drank the last of his tea as George finished his éclair licking his fingers; Norman rubbed his stomach waiting for an answer. In nearly-perfect English the Argentine spoke softly, “Mr McDowell, D’Silva is a countryman of mine but not a friend. It is men like him that tried to destroy our nation and attempted to force tyranny on others. He still does that today. I take it you wish to apprehend him?” Norman nodded, “Well how do you expect to do it? What makes you think the FBI aren’t just as interested in him?” Norman smiled and chuckled to himself as he ringed his glass with his forefinger, “It’s like this Senor; he has been upsetting our government in our Empire. Also the French. That forces us to act. We want to know where he is. We’ll sort the rest.” Mosquera pulled out a small address book from his pocket and flicked to the appropriate page, “In the winter he lives in town, a townhouse not far from the diplomatic quarter. In summer he lives in his Alpine lodge. Here are the addresses of both.” He handed over the notebook and Norman copied the entries. George thought he got sight of Herr Brandli but convinced it was someone else kept a watch on the road. Mosquera continued, “You know of Ivo Poppov of course, as an agent of your ‘employment bureau’ I got word from him in Hamburg that D’Silva has recently fled to his lodge. You know where to find him?” Norman shook his head and handed back the notebook, “I’ll take you there now.” The three men got up and strolled down the road, George kept turning round to check if Brandli was behind them. Round the corner they hailed a taxi and soon arrived at the apartment block where DREADNOUGHT lived. Norman and George went inside and Mosquera bid them farewell and drove off in the taxi.

Popov was a short man, rotund and with glasses he looked the typical doctor type. Once he was satisfied with their identities he let Norman and George into his flat. He walked with a limp and headed to the kitchen to make some coffee as George went to the window to watch the street below. Norman rustled a few papers on Popov’s desk, they were all medical notes.

Popov returned and sat down at the big table in the corner. He switched on the lamp and Norman and George joined him. Popov went to the desk, opened the middle draw and pulled out a thick file and returned to the table. Removing the elastic band he spoke, “I take it you’ve come about D’Silva. Our mutual contact Mr Tarr-Robertson called last night. When I saw you with Jorge in the street I knew he had sent you. This is the file I have on D’Silva. I’m his doctor. We form a four-some at cards sometimes with another man, Dr. Friedrich Wilhelm Hack. Your people know him as HANS. He is German by birth but is currently stateless. He holds a Nansen passport and lives in Bern. He is the former economic advisor to the Japanese Navy, is very pro-SATSUMA and a close friend of D’Silva. Jorge as you know works for the FBI and has penetrated D’Silva’s organisation back home. I’m your inside man. Tell me what you need to know.” Norman cheered up at the sudden helpfulness, at last he could see the strands coming together, “Thanks, we need to know exactly where D’Silva is with a few hours notice, a layout of his alpine lodge and details of staff employed there.” George looked thoughtful and stroked his chin as Norman spoke and when he had finished spoke up himself, “Does HANS have a local agent called Brandli? He may be known here as Mueller or Schroeder?” Popov shook his head and double-checked the file, “No-one of that name, HANS seems to work alone. Here you’d better have this file. It will tell you everything. It’s taken me three years to amass that material.” Norman took the file and thanked Popov for the tea.

As Popov got the men’s coats George had another look at the street below. “Come ‘ed George, you’ll wear you eyes out lookin’ for that Jerry!” said Norman dragging George away from the window. As they left and got to the next landing down on the stairs they heard three shots ring out above them. Norman looked at George and both men dashed up the stairs, guns out and ready. A neighbour appeared sticking their head out of the door; George shouldered them out of the way and caught a glimpse of a man slipping through the fire escape door at the end of the corridor on Popov’s floor. Norman crashed through Popov’s door, it was unlocked. On the floor lay Popov face down, the floor slippery with blood. Norman turned on his heel and followed George. George had dashed down the fire escape stairs but was unable to catch the man who jumped into a waiting Mercedes and roared off nearly knocking an old lady down further up the road. Norman met George at the bottom of the stairs. George was out of breath, “It’s, it’s the Jerry from the hotel. He’s the man.” Norman put away his pistol, “Come ‘ed, let’s scarper before the police get here!” They ran down a side alley and got to a phone box. Norman rang Paul who confirmed Herr Brandli was still out. Norman put the receiver down and stepped out of the box, he spoke menacingly, “Let’s get that Jerry bastard in the hotel. I’d love to shoot him. I bet it was him who killed Anna.” George shook him by the shoulder, “We can’t blow the mission now. We must think of the mission. Let’s get back to the hotel.”

By the time they got back Paul had seen Brandli return and he checked out just minutes before Norman and George returned. He was unable to catch what he said to the taxi driver and Norman looked at his watch and in the other hand gripped the file Popov had handed him. “He must know he have this now. I’m going to see Esterhase. I’ve got to get this file away somewhere safe.” With that he left the hotel alone leaving Paul and George to decide what was best to do next.

Standing outside the shop it certainly looked grand. The window was packed with antiques and works of art. No-one else was inside. Holding his breath Norman stepped inside. The receptionist ignored him and carried on reading her book. He went up to the desk and cleared his throat, “I’d like to look around if I may?” The woman looked up and handed him a brochure, “Here is a catalogue, everything marked with a red label is sold.” Norman smiled and had a brief look at the works of art. The prices seemed to equal a year’s wage for Norman. He managed to work his way to the back of the shop and noticed a flight of stairs leading upstairs. He returned to the reception desk and cleared his throat again. “May I see Mr Benardi?” The woman looked up and shook her head, “He’s seeing no-one today. I could make an appointment for you but…” Norman smiled, “I’m a close friend, tell him it’s Mr Bond.” The woman sighed and picked up the telephone and explained a friend had arrived to see him, “Its ok, go straight in. Up the stairs turn left, first on the right.”

At the top of the stairs Mr Benardi met Norman and spoke very theatrically, “Ah hello James, nice to see you again! It’s been a long time!” Making sure his receptionist heard he ushered in Norman and offered him a seat in his sparse office. “Hello Norman what brings you to Geneva? You look like you need a Scotch.” Norman slumped into the chair still gripping onto the file, “Ta, I’ve had a rough few days. Nice place you have here. You’ve done well, new name and a new career.” Esterhase smiled as he passed Norman his drink. “I make around 15,000 a year; last summer was good, this year not so good. Still I’m afraid of my bank manager. You know at a certain age a man's got to be what he deserves. I spent fifteen years at the Circus trying to be an English gentleman. You know what I am now? A cheap Austro-Hungarian in expensive clothes. I've come home.” Norman picked up a Degas statue on the table beside him and looked at the base, “Tell me shouldn’t this be numbered if it’s genuine?” Esterhase laughed, “Put it down, it costs you your yearly salary. Besides Degas is a grey area if you don’t know what your looking for. You still haven’t told me what brings you here.” Norman sipped his drink and placed the file on the table between them, “I’ve come about this file. Well what’s inside it really. It was given to me by a Yugoslav doctor this morning. He died just a few minutes later.” Esterhase choked on his drink spilling it down his beige suit, “Christ you put a price on friendship. You mess with dodgy Slavs and expect me to help you get out of it? Wait, you didn’t kill him did you?” Norman rolled his eyes and emptied his glass.

Esterhase got up to fetch another drink and some serviettes. “No you fool I didn’t shoot him. Listen I’m here to kidnap the Argentine criminal Antonio D’Silva and take him to London.” Esterhase laughed, “Just like that eh?” snapping this fingers to prove a point, “listen you don’t buy files from strange Slavs and you don’t buy Degas from Signor Benardi, you follow me?” Norman thumped his thigh, “Don’t be a burke! I didn’t buy it from some bloke, he was one of us! Now I’ve got to get D’Silva and you’re the best Lamplighter I never knew. You got that bloke out of Wilno; you’ve bugged more embassies, turned more agents and opened more diplomatic mail than any man alive. The ‘Juju’ man here said I should steer clear of you but if anyone can organise this you can.” Esterhase sat down, “You’re crazy. You know his Alpine lodge is like a fort, he has about twenty gunmen up there, in town he never goes without a bodyguard. He is fireproof, he can’t be brought, and you can’t get near him.” Norman thought a moment, “What about if we got him to come back to town? There’s a woman he’s involved with. Maybe we could use her as bait?” Esterhase shook his head. Norman pushed the file over the table, “I need you to keep this safe for me. It contains full details of the lodge, who works there, everything we need. You read it and come up with a plan I can sell to London.” Esterhase picked up the file and opened it. “Is this an order Norman?” Norman remained silent. Esterhase read a few pages and agreed it might be possible.

Norman opened his notebook, “What do you know about a Dr. Friedrich Wilhelm Hack?” “He’s rich!” Norman laughed, “How do you know that?” Esterhase tapped his nose and smirked, “He came in a month ago, I sold him two fake Turner’s. He paid cash too. He’s a German, a Prussian, an educated sort of swine. An artist is someone who can hold two opposing views and still function. Tell me who dreamt that up.” Norman scribbled in his notebook, “Scott Fitzgerald.” Esterhase smiled, “Well that describes Hack exactly. He’s a typical arrogant German but loves the Orientals. Fawns all over them. He has some theory that Aryan Germans and the Japanese are destined to rule the world or some such thing. The Germans threw him out in 1929. Then he showed up in Bern.” Norman hadn’t learnt anything new from Esterhase but decided to see if George’s theory was correct, “Does have contacts here? Henchmen?” Esterhase sat back and thought for a moment recalling some distant information in his mind. “He had a partner, yes that comes back to me. An immigrant, an East German. Hmm! Worse than East German. Saxon. Name of Kretzschmar. First name Claus, with a ‘C’. Don't ask me why. I mean these guys have no logic at all. Claus Kretzschmar was also a blonde creep, lot of muscles.” He shuddered and went on reading the file. He’d already made up his mind, “I’ll do it as a favour just for you. I’ll need money, lots of it. A safe house, I’ll see to transport myself and I get to employ my own team. If you want a job done Esterhase does it with style!” Norman laughed and got up to leave, “Ta mate, we’ll meet Mr Tarr-Robertson in two days time to get the all-clear. Let’s hope this turns out well.” With those parting words he left the room heading down the stairs, giving the receptionist a polite smile as he left.

The meeting with Richard Tarr-Robertson was frosty. He seemed to resent Norman and his team causing trouble on his patch, he resented Esterhase being there, he resented London keeping him in the dark. Norman peered into his teacup, the tea was too sweet, Esterhase didn’t touch his either while Paul was idly doodling on a pad of paper. Esterhase hadn’t spoken at all and Tarr had been spouting a monologue for over ten minutes, eventually he turned to the Austrian, “Well let’s hear this plan then!” Esterhase gave a polite smile and opened his folder. “D’Silva is in his Alpine retreat near the delightful town of Thun. I have arranged a safe house near the town centre, I know the landlady and for Esterhase she gives us the whole top floor for a special price.” Norman looked at the floor plan, “What about the lack of an easterly view?” Esterhase smiled, “Don’t worry I’ve got it covered. I’ve a team of ten, mostly Europeans who are posing as tourists. BRONYX has a small house at Arnsoldlingen just outside Thun where D’Silva likes to go every Sunday afternoon. There he always has one henchman with him. A Russian called Krusky. We’ll set up a drive-by watch of the house, three cars, six agents should do it. The Swiss are cautious and the police are a nuisance.” Norman had been reading his notes and interrupted with a question, “Erm, reading this I think we can’t rely on stealing Swiss postal vans, economical as it may be.” Esterhase flicked back a page in his notes, “Sure, ok, I’ve six cars, any more and I’ll get embarrassed. On Sunday we wait until D’Silva goes to see Elvira. Then they go out alone sometimes to town for a walk in the park before they go home. Krusky stays home. We snatch them nice and quietly in broad daylight in the park, we then drive them out of town and into Bern. There a waiting plane will fly us to Lille. We only have a few hours so speed is essential.” Norman seemed satisfied, “So how will D’Silva react when we hit him?” Esterhase made a face and shrugged his shoulders, “Burning, Norman, that's always a hazard, know what I mean? Some guys get heroic and want to die for their countries suddenly. Other guys roll over and lie still the moment you put an arm on them. Burning, that touches the stubbornness in certain people.”

A knock at the door interrupted his speech, a well-dressed man entered and handed Tarr-Robertson a top secret message. He opened it and inside was an envelope for Norman. He passed the envelope over and Norman ripped it open and read the message inside. He read it twice before turning to Esterhase, “Yesterday London received a coded letter from their agent in Montevideo, LODGE. In it he outlined a plan to break General Diaz from his Uruguayan prison and get him to Europe. London thinks D’Silva may be behind it. A cheque from the Bank of Thun was discovered. It may be from D’Silva.” Tarr-Robertson took the message and inspected it and picked up the telephone and asked the clerk for a file. “Gentlemen, we have an agent who checks all D’Silva’s transactions, he normally uses American Express. DRAGOMAN, his name is Juan Frutos, is an Iberian interpreter for the American Express office in Cherbourg. He can get us full details of D’Silva’s money. We probably haven’t got much time. I’ll get in touch with London and recommend they approve your plan. Just don’t muck it up. Remember I have to live here!”

Very, very interesting. Looking forward to seeing the end of this!

Definitely amusing to see the comparison between Norman and British intelligence and my story with Ensign Kelly and the INS intelligence wing!

[Heh, my boys ain't afraid of some action nor of using "methods" to get information. These are low-grade hoods normally snooping around docks and pubs. Control wants a team who is expendable but tough.]


Events quickly took a turn. Esterhase relocated to Thun with his hand-picked team of Lamplighters (agents who act as couriers, spiking embassies, covert survellience etc), some of whom had only just flown in from Britain. Paul had driven out the next day to man the safe house and to begin covert surveillance of BRONYX’s house in town. Norman had to await the last instructions from London. While he was at the embassy DRAGOMAN confirmed that the money had been transferred from D’Silva’s American Express account to a Bank of Thun account and then transferred to the Grand Uruguayan National Bank.

George was seen off in the lobby to make any enemy agent think he too was leaving after Paul but in fact he returned that night and snuck back into the hotel under another name, using some of Paul’s disguises to make himself look different. That night Norman was packing in the hotel room while George was enjoying himself in the bar keeping a lookout for Brandli. He was brushing his teeth looking in the mirror at his recent worry-lines on his face when he heard a noise outside the bathroom door.

It was a soft sound, not like a door catch but similar. He turned off the tap. Maybe it was room service? No. He felt the hairs on his neck stand up. He put his toothbrush down on the shelf and decided to confront whoever was outside. “Who’s there? Come on stop larking about!” Suddenly the room spun round, the door ripped open as five holes tore through the wood, the bullets smashing the tiles sending shards of ceramic around the room. He must have subconsciously dived for cover beside the bath. Two more rounds ripped into the room, one piercing the toilet cistern which began to leak all over Norman’s feet. He noticed the lack of gunshots, whoever was outside was using a silenced weapon. He stretched his arm out and grabbed his toiletry bag lying on the floor. In it was his trusty Browning, he was never parted from it, not since Popov had met his demise. He could hear two Germans talking outside the room; from the gist of it one of them was too scared to enter the room. In a flash he picked himself up, flung the door open and before him stood Herr Brandli and HANS. Norman waved his gun at the gunman; he was just as Esterhase had described him. “Drop the gun son! Herr Brandli, or should that be Herr Kretzschmar?”

Dr. Hack laughed, “I think it is you who drop your gun. That is if you wish to leave here alive.” He paused, “which you won’t!” Kretzschmar decided to take a chance and lunged at Norman with a flying kick; Norman jumped sideways but took the full force of his punch in the stomach. Norman doubled over as the German kicked him in the abdomen. Norman whirled round and elbowed the German and then smashed the butt of his pistol in his face. He heard Dr. Hack cock his Luger automatic but Norman took no notice and smashed his fist into the German’s face. Kretzschmar rolled over holding his face with both hands. However, he jumped up and managed to wrestle Norman to the floor and with several blows knocked him out.

When he came to on the couch Dr. Hack was grinning over him. “Well you are a tough man for an Englander. I myself do not like pain. Any sane man does not. I’m a man who likes to talk. Talking is a good thing. I like a man who likes to talk and I’m sure you like to talk too. If not we will make you like it.” Norman’s head spun and he propped himself up on a cushion. He was in no mood for talking, “Get lost you lousy Hun!” Dr. Hack just laughed and Kretzschmar slapped his face. “You see not talking is not good. Now I want the file Popov gave you. We know you’re all alone, we know he gave you the file and I want it. Now where is it Mr Metcalfe? That is your real name is it not?” Norman knew he had to stall them or warn George downstairs somehow. He decided to talk to keep the doctor quiet, “Do you think I’d keep the file here? I know you would look here first. We Brits are not stupid.” Dr. Hack laughed, a low menacing laugh and then he sat down in the chair opposite, “No, not stupid but perhaps foolish. Either you tell us or we kill you. It’s a simple choice.”

Norman sat up and rubbed his head as Kretzschmar hovered near the window. He needed a plan of action to escape or to tackle the two men. He noticed the fire extinguisher on the wall; if he could reach that it might even the odds and allow him to escape. Maybe if he feigned sickness Kretzschmar might come close enough to catch his fist! “We’re waiting Sir.” The doctor’s tone had changed, he was becoming inpatient. Norman had to stall; he had no choice, “Suppose I told you what’s in it for me? Maybe we could do a deal?” The doctor laughed, “Yes you’re a remarkable man. Hmm, I like a man like you. You say what’s on your mind and you look out for number one. It’s a quality I admire in all men. Perhaps we say 10,000 Swiss Francs for the file?” Norman leaned forward, “Pounds or no deal.” The doctor laughed again, Norman hated his silly musical hall laugh, he just wanted to put his fist in his mouth. “Pounds it is then. But you have not yet said where it is.” Norman leant closer; Kretzschmar took notice and moved to the left as Norman spoke. “It’s very near, very near indeed. The file, the file is…” with a dash he leapt up and ran across the room catching the side of the doctor’s head with his fist, “…up your ass!” Kretzschmar drew his silenced pistol; Norman picked up a vase and threw it. Kretzschmar stumbled and Norman reached the fire extinguisher just as Dr. Hack got his Luger free, “You Jerries need a wash up!” shouted Norman as he let the foam loose. The doctor caught a face full and he slipped over and Kretzschmar seeing a chance ran towards the door. He just reached it as George stepped in, Kretzschmar bowled him over as he ran past and George lost his balance as he tried to grab his coat. Dr. Hack managed to get up off the floor but Norman kicked his gun away and gave another squirt of foam in his face. The doctor was no pushover and he kicked out with both legs and sent Norman flying. George managed to connect a punch as the doctor rose from the floor covered in foam. The doctor then shoved George aside, he refused to let go and the doctor whirled round and kicked him in the shin. George’s hand slipped and the doctor escaped down the hall.
Both Norman and George looked at each other and burst out laughing, they had discovered a new spy weapon: foam. Quickly they packed the last few items into the suitcases and quickly slipped down the fire escape. They could not afford to risk police interference nor the bill for the serious damage in the hotel room.


Norman and George arrived in Thun late the next day, and the following day, the Saturday, Esterhase gave Norman a run through. He picked up from the safe house in a rusty second-hand Renault, in the back was a woman and her daughter. Esterhase nodded his head, “They cost a little but offer good protection from the police. Elvira got herself a driving license two months ago. And she's terrible! Terrible, like lousy. You know what Paul says to me? He says, I need danger money just to follow that woman!” He laughs, “They go a small restaurant for Sunday lunch; D’Silva has a salad. She has steak and chips, glass of beer, and a slice of cake. Norman, the guy will fold, believe me! No-one ever had a girlfriend like that. You think he wants to be locked up in a two-room flat in Peru with that bitch for the rest of his life? Ha hah, don't worry!”

Norman couldn’t help but chuckle at the thought of it. Ideally he wanted to get D’Silva alone. BRONYX, Elvira Chaudoir, as the daughter of a Peruvian diplomat would create a diplomatic incident if they were forced to kidnap her too. Esterhase drove round a corner, “So, how conscious is he?” asked Norman. Esterhase laughed as he turned another corner and began to leave town, “Norman, he’s paranoid, he thinks the butterflies spy on him! He thinks that going out alone on a Sunday is safe. He has totally mistaken quiet for safety. He's so conspicuous he's embarrassing to follow.” Norman still felt worried; they would not get a second chance, “What happened last week?” Esterhase stopped to let a tractor out of a side road, “Damn farmers! Relax Norman. Last week was a model of the week before. Everything is timed. We have two men watching the house, they tell us when they leave and where Krusky is. Two more at the restaurant, they will let us know when they leave for the park. We have one in the park and us three as the snatch team. Two backups in town in case anything goes wrong. Two near the lodge in the mountains, they can block the road and stop any of his hoods getting on our tail.” Norman was still worried, “What if he doesn’t come? What if HANS gets here and warns him.” Esterhase waved his hand dismissively, “Don’t worry he came last week, he feels safe. It’s a state of mind. He thinks his safe and that is his biggest mistake. All will go well. HANS doesn’t know where we are anyway, Ah, we are coming up to the house, third on the right, big driveway, Mercedes on the drive, hers. Here it is, the next house. Look! Look! Did you see that? Did you see her in the window? Shall I turn round for another pass?” Norman looked green and didn’t want to take any further risks and instead they headed back to town dropping off the passengers and then heading to the park to select the final position to make the snatch.

The following day would be the operation, what had begun as an investigation in the sands of Iraq had now ended as a kidnap of a foreign national and the apprehension of an international criminal arms smuggling gang in the snowy hills of Switzerland. Many allies had perished along the way but many of the opposition were already behind bars. It is fair to say even at this moment of trepidation thoughts of success and promotion flashed through Norman’s mind. Only the outcome of tomorrow’s events could answer his questions.

When Norman awoke at 06:30 it was snowing. The room was cold and the bathroom was like ice as he washed in the chipped sink. Trying to shave was awkward with a smeary, dirty mirror and George burst in and began brushing his teeth, “Put yer tongue away, it looks disgustin’ hangin’ out all pink and naked. One slip of the razor and kerrch!” He said as he elbowed Norman out the way.

After a quick breakfast he went outside on the balcony. It was still snowing, this was bad, D’Silva might not arrive in town if it snowed or if the roads became impassable. Esterhase knew Norman’s state of mind and kept him busy to distract him. There was so much to do, checking equipment, making sure the cars were in perfect condition, getting the team in its positions ready across the town and making sure that HANS did not show up near the safe house. A careful watch was started around the whole block. Around mid morning the snow stopped and after lunch the skies cleared and Norman’s mood improved.

Paul and George were agitated and itching to get going, or at least get out of the dingy top floor apartment. Norman spotted them, “Now you’ve got about an hour but don’t leave the flat. Where are you going Paul?” “George is going to show me his stamp collection!” “Paul, I’m talking to you. This final run through is important understand? Important.” Paul turned and snorted like a pig and left, George followed laughing as Norman let out a sigh and threw his hands in the high in surrender. “This is a battle of nerves between Paul and me.” Esterhase put his hand on Norman’s shoulder, “Has he got any?” “Any what?” Esterhase smiled, “Nerves.” Norman rolled his eyes, “That’s the trouble. I’ve toyed with the idea of a ball and chain but he’d only rattle the chains, and in public too, sometimes I think he enjoys seeing me suffer.”

Half an hour later Norman went to a little café in town designated as their starting base. Esterhase was already there and had just ordered Schnapps; Norman saw him sitting at the back table and went over to join him. A pretty young blonde waitress, who Norman guessed Esterhase knew quite well from his manner and her blushing, came over to take his order. Esterhase smiled, “All is going well, he arrived at Elvira’s house twelve minutes ago, Francois and Pauli are watching the house, when they leave we will move.” A few minutes later as Esterhase began talking about Belgian miniatures the phone rang and the pretty blonde answered it. She put the receiver down and called over Esterhase, he went up and put his arm around her waist and gave her a little peck on the cheek as he picked up the phone. She moved away, giving him a longing look, he said nothing and put the telephone down and handed her some money for the drinks and collected his coat from the hangers near the door. Norman got up and followed him outside; they walked to a phone box just across the street.

Now Esterhase spoke up, “It’s on; they left the house five minutes ago. She’s driving. Most likely they die before they get here.” Norman opened the door of the booth, “Did she drive last week?” Esterhase clapped his hands together to warm them, “Also the week before. She insists. Norman that woman is a monster! Well do we go? Well?” Norman smiled as he picked up the telephone, “We’ve no choice, we’re committed. We go.” Esterhase gave a little jump and Norman rang a pre-arranged number, a nearby phone box, then put the phone down on the fourth ring. That was the sign to George who brought the blue Citroen car from the next street. They drove past the restaurant where D’Silva and BRONYX would dine and stopped at a small bookshop further up the road where Paul was waiting for them. As Elvira’s car arrived, clipping the curb as she stopped, they drove on to the park. Getting out they took up position in a small community hall that Esterhase had rented for the afternoon at a very reasonable rate from an art dealer friend.

At 13:57 the team watching the restaurant from opposite the street telephoned the hall as D’Silva and BRONYX left. At 14:11 they arrived at the park in her car and parked up. They went into the park for a stroll and the agent watching them from the bandstand, pretending to walk a dog, lit a cigarette, Esterhase saw the sign from the window and Paul, George, Norman and Esterhase left the hall individually taking different routes across the park looking like innocent people. They were ready to move on Norman’s word.

Then fate took a turn, BRONYX went into the ladies public toilets and D’Silva was waiting for her looking at some advertisements on a nearby pillar. Norman and the team casually walked across the park taking up stations behind D’Silva. The fourth member of the team with the dog disabled their car by puncturing the back tyres. Paul and George grabbed D’Silva’s arms while Esterhase gagged his mouth with a cloth. Norman led them back to the hall behind the public toilets and dragging D’Silva the last few feet into the hall. Once inside he was tied up by George and properly gagged. Paul fetched the car from the car park and reversed it right up to the back door of the hall. George opened it and Norman and Esterhase put D’Silva in the car. Paul and George left in the car, keeping a steady pace under the speed limit to avoid any suspicions.

Esterhase and Norman walked a few blocks and picked up a small van they had pre-parked and set off on their own route to Bern. The rest of the team broke up, the two men watching the D’Silva lodge stayed for an hour and when a car load of bodyguards headed into town to meet the distressed Elvira they succeeded in causing a small rock fall which blocked the road for an hour. The remaining men cleared out the safe house and left Thun for Geneva on the train.

Norman and the snatch team, with D’Silva, pulled into a small lay-by on a side road just off the main road to Bern. Norman stuck his pistol into D’Silva’s back and leant over to whisper in his ear, “Listen son, we’ve got you covered when we take the gag off you keep your mouth shut. If you make any attempt to make a break for it, or to shout out I’ll blow a hole in yer’ back. Ok sunbeam?” D’Silva nodded his head; under the circumstances he could do little else. Norman and George got out and put on Swiss police uniforms hidden in the boot of the car while Paul and Esterhase, as the best French speakers, disguised themselves as police inspectors. Their cover story to get into Bern airport was that they were taking a French escaped prisoner back to France. Some fake documents made by an MI6 outpost somewhere in France would ease any difficulties they might get into. It was a shaky plan but under the circumstances the best they could do to get D’Silva out of the country before the inevitable net closed around them.
Esterhase went off into a small wood about 200 metres further up the road and came back with another car, a large saloon that he had pre-hidden for the getaway. They climbed in and removed D’Silva’s gag but kept him tied up. He was hidden under a blanket for most of the short drive to Bern.

They got to the airport without mishap and untied D’Silva’s hands and put handcuffs on instead as Norman repeated his stern warning. D’Silva was no fool, he would play along until the right moment came and in any case was a gentleman. He would not do anything foolhardy or risky. It was as much his desire as theirs to keep away from the Swiss police. They got out the car and headed to the customs office. Esterhase and Paul did all the talking; using their smooth natures they soon managed to fool the customs officer on the desk and managed to persuade the chief customs official not to call police headquarters for a confirmation. A porter, unbeknown to them an MI6 agent, came up to Esterhase and handed him an envelope and told them their plane had arrived on the far side of the airport. Esterhase ripped open the envelope with his forefinger; it was the usual cryptic passwords and codenames. Esterhase blustered his way past the customs officials and went through the exit door and stepped onto the airport pan.

On the far side Norman could see a little D.H. Dragon Rapide taxiing into place. It was silver overall with no airline markings but French registered. They wasted no time in walking over to the plane with D’Silva between Norman and George securely gripped on both sides to prevent his escape. As they neared the plane a face emerged from the door and waved the men in as he lowered some steps. Having bundled D’Silva in Esterhase had just enough time to get aboard before the steward grabbed the steps and slammed the door shut. The pilot opened his throttles and took position behind a Lufthansa Junkers 52 lining up for take-off. The pilot turned round as he juggled the throttles, “I say old boy who is Norman among you fellows?” Norman spoke up above the engine noise, “Me. You English?” The pilot made a radio call to the tower to get clearance to take-off and then turned round, “Yes, Sorry old boy I haven’t got the password yet.” Esterhase flashed the paper in front of Norman’s face, “The password is Bagatelle.” The pilot nodded and opened the throttles and the little biplane began picking up speed and then with a bump was airborne, the lovely snow-covered scenery of Switzerland flashing past below as they headed north-west to Lille.

The steward mid-way through the flight produced some sleeping pills for D’Silva, “Beg me pardon guv’nor but I was instructed to ‘and you these pills for the foreign geezer. Might make ‘im more quiet like.” George rolled his eyes at Paul, “Crikey a scouser and a cockney on the same plane!” D’Silva looked at the tablets and shifted uneasily in his seat, “You can’t make me take those, you can’t…” Norman took the pills off the steward and wagged a finger at D’Silva, “Listen you if you don’t you’ll get a punch up yer nose!” The steward produced a flask of tea and D’Silva took the sleeping pills. He soon fell asleep and as they landed at dusk at Lille Norman and the others discarded their Swiss uniforms and disguises and got back into more suitable clothes.

As the plane taxied into Lille airport a small black car drove up to meet them. As the plane stopped the car pulled alongside the plane and the steward opened the door and jumped out with the steps. Norman and George carried the still sleeping D’Silva into the car as Paul jumped in the front seat. Before Norman got in he turned to Esterhase who would be heading back to Switzerland under yet another false identity. “Thanks for everything, without you we wouldn’t have got this far. Your still the master of snatch jobs. Thanks old friend.” Esterhase coughed in embarrassment and shuffled a bit from side to side, “Well it turned out fantastic! Just like I said. You ever need a babysitter again just call me. Until we meet again.” They shook hands and Norman got into the car, as it drove away both men waved at each other. George looked at Norman, “Not a bad bloke that Austrian. Knows his field craft better than most of us.” Norman smiled, “He’s the best man we have in Europe. Let’s hope he gets home safely.”
The car drove them to the station to catch the night train to Calais. As they reached the station the driver pulled out a large brown package from the glove box and passed it back to Norman. It contained false English passports for all them plus train tickets and simple message from Control; “Well done. Hope to see you day after tomorrow. Chelsea.” They boarded the train without any problems, when the porter asked about D’Silva being dragged along between Paul and George Norman explained he was a friend who had too much to drink that night.

A compartment had been reserved for Norman and his men by the Embassy via a middleman in the tourist industry and with the blinds drawn they had enough privacy. The train journey went well and all were able to get some sleep for the first time since the operation. Already since lunchtime they had carried out a flawless operation and were well on the way home. Even if BRONYX had informed D’Silva’s henchmen they could never catch them now thought Norman as he drifted off to sleep in the noisy carriage.


[No, the mission ain't over yet!]

...hm... way too easy!

Quoted

Originally posted by Brockpaine
...hm... way too easy!

I agree!!

....it just means though, that when the excrement comes into contact with the air circulation device, that the resultant disarray will be that much more spectacular!!

P.S. Excellent so far, keep it coming!!

George hated the sea and wasn’t looking forwards to the Channel crossing but disguised as innocent tourists was the better option than the likely attention from foreign agents at Croydon or from HANS and his brutal assistant. A cabin on the SS. Ramsgate, a converted Flower Class minesweeper of the Great War, was secured by MI6 via a tourist agency in Dover which was a cover organisation for infiltrating agents into Europe. The now awake and seasick D’Silva was kept in the cabin and Paul and George, also seasick, took turns in watching him while Norman went round the ship satisfying himself that neither HANS nor Kretzschmar were aboard. They were two men he wanted to meet one day, to avenge Anna’s death. Even now her face haunted his thoughts as he rested on the rails looking at the choppy grey waters of the Channel as the white cliffs of Dover caught the morning sun and shone like a ribbon calling Norman home to safety and security and doubtless either a promotion or a new assignment.

Once they arrived at Dover Norman went to see the local Transport Police and once he had established his credentials, and London had confirmed them, customs let them through and Paul hailed a taxi to take them to the station to catch the express to London. Norman had to pay for the tickets himself, now they were back in Britain the Circus had no intention of paying out any more money. Paul disappeared and George insisted on stopping at the magazine stand to buy a paper. They just made it to board the 11:15 train with D’Silva to take back to London for questioning. Norman re-read the message from Control, Chelsea was where they would hide D’Silva. Paul knew the safe house well in Chelsea. Everything seemed to be going to plan as they boarded the train as the guard blew his whistle.

Paul and George hurried down the aisle with D’Silva between them as the train picked up speed, they enter an empty compartment and sit down. Paul opens his black jacket and pulls out a small parcel and gives D’Silva a menacing smile. He places it on his lap and then opens it carefully. As he slowly opens the brown paper its clear it contains nothing more exciting than a cheese sandwich. As he takes the first bite Norman slides open the door and gives both men a steely look before he smiles and begins to talk. “Now look lads, I've had a marvellous idea. Just for once, now we are back in England let's try to behave like ordinary, respectable citizens. Let's not cause any trouble, pull any strokes, or do anything I'm gonna be sorry for. Especially now when we have an important job, because...” he looks at Paul, who is holding up a bottle of milk to his nose sniffing it for freshness, “Are you listening to me Smith? Paul calmly replies, “You're a swine. Isn't he, George?” before taking another bite of is sandwich. “Yeah a swine.” Norman then turned to check the corridor and then turned the other way to look down the passage, “Thanks. Now listen your job is to get him safely to the safe house. Right I’m going for a coffee in the restaurant car. Don’t mess up!” With that he slid the door back, did a quick look behind him and then strode up the corridor.

George settled into his seat facing D’Silva, “And we’re looking after him are we?” D’Silva looked up from his paper that he had brought at the kiosk, “I’ll look after myself.” “Yeah that’s what I’m afraid of,” George turns to face Paul, “He’s got you worried then?” “Him? He’s a villain, a real mixer. And he costs you a fortune in Breach of Promise cases.” Both men laugh as D’Silva scowls and continues reading his paper. George looks out of the window but gets bored with rural Kent flashing past the window and instead studies D’Silva closely for the first time since they kidnapped him. He is tall, about six foot two; thin with a pencil moustache and wearing a pungent oriental aftershave. He is sat on the seat opposite and opened his copy of the Times and opened it to cover his face. George gets up to open the window. Not only does this vent the strong perfume but also allows him to get a good look at the man’s face over his paper. Calmly George sits down beside him; he winks at him, “Having a nice morning?” D’Silva flicks the corner of his paper down and looks over at Paul, still eating, and then turns to George beside him and scowls. He closes the paper and then gets up and closes the window and then sits down re-opening his paper. Paul makes a disapproving noise as George speaks, “We’d like that open if it’s all the same to you.” D’Silva in his best English accent brushes the complaint aside, “I’m perfectly within my rights.” Paul then dropped the remains of his sandwich into the brown paper, “Yeah, but we want it open and there’s more of us than you. We’re a community, like, a majority vote. Up the workers and all that stuff!” “Then I suggest you both go to some other part of the train where you obviously belong.” George reaches into his inside pocket as D’Silva carries on talking, “I shall call the guard!” George leans over, “Ah, but what? They don’t take kindly to insults you know.” With that in a flash George flicks out his new Beretta automatic pistol (acquired in Geneva), D’Silva tries to jump up too late and Paul leaps up and pushes him back into the seat. “You should keep quiet. We don’t want any accidents. You heard the man, no strokes, no messing about, understand? Paul you’d better find Norm,” Paul gets up and shrugs as he turns to light a cigarette, “What’s the matter with you?” Paul takes a drag, “It’s Norm, I can tell he doesn’t like me. It’s because I’m little.” George stops waving his pistol around menacingly and puts it back into his pocket, “Ah, you’ve got an inferiority complex, you have.” “Yeah, I know, that’s why I’m a secret agent; it’s my active compensatory factor.”

Forty minutes later Norman and George were sitting in the compartment alone. Paul went to the restaurant carriage to get some coffee for George and to stretch his legs. D’Silva complains of feeling sick and they let him go to the toilet just yards away from the compartment. George gave up watching the corridor and sat down next to the door so he could cover the passageway and began reading his tatty Penguin paperback novel. Norm looks at his watch. “D’Silva’s been a long time. Where’s he gone?” George points his thumb backwards, “Down the err”, Norm looks over, “Oh, down the err” “Yeah down the err” Norm settles back into his seat “Well in that case we’d better give him a couple of minutes.” Five minutes later he still does not reappear and both men leave the compartment to search the train. They find the toilet empty and head towards the mail carriage. On the way they meet Paul. Norman grabs him and pulls him aside, “Hey, have you seen D’Silva?” “Of course. He’s concealed about my person.” Norm rolls his eyes, “He must have slipped off somewhere.” Paul moves closer, “You’ve lost him?” Norm snaps back, “Don’t exaggerate!” George now peers into another compartment full of passengers, “Put is this way Paul, he’s mislaid him.” Norman then looks in the next compartment, “If you two have lost him I’ll cripple you!”

They search the next compartment, inside is a young very attractive blonde woman who gives George a warm smile and beckons him to come in patting the seat beside her. Paul nudges George’s back with is elbow, “Going in then?” Paul shakes his head, “Nah she’ll only reject me in the end and I’ll be frustrated. I know the psychological pattern. It plays havoc with me shooting.” Norman headed back up the train as Paul and George headed for the mail compartment. As they reached the last compartment they noticed the blinds were drawn. “Probably a honeymoon couple or a company director or something” George shrugged as the train guard passed by giving the two men a sideways glace due to their suspicious actions but Paul smiled back in his usual disarming way, “I don’t care I’m going to broaden my outlook.” He knocked and briskly slid the door open. He stepped in briefly losing his balance as the train rocked. He reached into his left pocket then took a punch to the jaw as a chunky built man jumped out of the door only to run straight into George’s fist and he reeled back into the compartment falling over Paul’s slumped body on the floor. Both men ended up in a heap entangled with each other’s limbs. George turned round as another man emerged in the corridor and both men had a quick display of martial arts until George found himself on the floor blood streaming from his mouth. A boot in the face made things worse and D’Silva lent his weight to the fight by punching Paul in the ribs.

The two unknown assailants and D’Silva headed up the train as Norman returned to find George and Paul staggering out of the compartment. Norman headed towards the back of the train just as the train entered a small station and stopped. Norman dashed into the mail car to find the side door open and no sign of D’Silva. Paul followed Norman off the train and George jumped out just as the train left the station. He ran after Norman who had got off the platform and got into the little gravel car park just in time to see a small Austin driving away. Norman stood there as Paul, out of breath, panted and wipes the blood from his chin. “Bleedin’ hell! We’ve cocked this right up. Christ the Circus is gonna love this!” George patted Norman on the back, “Was this the ‘strokes’ you were talking about!”

Norman got to a phone box and dialled a number that put him in contact with a local firm who supplied hire cars. Half an hour later a taxi arrived. Only this was no ordinary taxi but another undercover front company that worked for the secret service car which took them to a secure flat on the top floor of a slightly sleazy East End hotel, the Islay Hotel. Norman decided to stay here overnight and in the morning report to the Circus about what had happened. They would soon realise they were missing then they failed to turn up at the Chelsea safe house. It was breaking the rules but Norman needed time to try and find D’Silva and he despatched Paul to watch over BALLOON’s disused London home while George went to see some local underworld contacts in the smuggling trade for any leads on any attempts to get D’Silva out of the country. Without any luck at 4pm Norman hailed a cab and went to see Control’s minder to give him a personal report.

That evening Paul and George were relaxing the best they could in the tatty room with George occupying the threadbare sofa opposite the ugly stone fireplace with an old hideous gas fire inserted into it. The whole room felt like a Victorian black and white photograph, it was dreary and damp, the sort of cold damp that insidiously creeps into your bones. It was the kind of place Paul preferred but an environment he often found himself in. Paul came into the room from the little en-suite toilet and bathroom. His face was covered in little squares of toilet paper covering many nicks and cuts from shaving. George looked up and laughed, “Honestly! The mind boggles at the very idea, a grown man and you haven’t shaved with a safety razor.” It’s not my fault, I come from a long line of electricians.” George chuckled to himself, “Who shaves at night anyway?” Paul walked over to the cupboard, “I always do. It helps my complexion, it pulls the girls. Besides then I don’t need to shave as much in the morning.” There was a knock at the door. Both men ignored it, the second knock was louder. Paul tutted to himself, “Suppose I’ll get it then!” He opened the door and was surprised to see his grandfather at the door. “What are you doing here?”

Of course most people’s grandfathers like to stay at home and like to have some peace at the final stretch of life. Pipe and slippers described most provincial grandfathers of 1937. John Smith was not such a man, born in 1873 just outside Cork his parents moved to Liverpool in 1881 and the young John joined the Army and spent ten years overseas. In the Great War he was recalled as a reservist and spent 1916-1918 training tender recruits. In 1919 he was approached by MI5 to do work in Ireland and never looked back. He had talents for forgery and trickery but always remained a loyal law abiding man. One of the first generation of Circus hands it was natural his son, and grand son would follow into the secret services.
“Hello Paulie. I thought I saw you earlier downstairs. Mind if I come in.” George got up off the sofa, “How do. Hey that’s not your grandfather! I’ve seen your grandfather.” Paul closed the door and offered granddad a chair, “Oh that’s my other grandfather, but he’s my grandfather as well.” George looked puzzled, “How do you work that one out?” “Well everyone’s entitled to two aren’t they? Well this is the other one.” George nodded and sat down. Grandfather got comfy in the chair and Paul poured out some whiskey, “Well Paulie what are you doing here? I thought you were in Basingstoke or some such easy going place. Not like me running networks of dodgy foreign chaps down at the docks.” Paul and George spent the next hour recalling their adventures across continents and grandfather offered a few sage tips and promised to ask questions at the docks on their behalf. Norman came back from his very terse meeting and opened the door holding a portion of fish and chips in greasy newspaper. Paul, George and grandfather all turned to look at Norman as he came in. “Hey! Who’s that little old man!” George picked up his battered Penguin book, “He belongs to Paul it seems.” Norman shrugged and opened his chips and slowly chewed one as he sat down on the sofa. George leant over and took a couple and Norman didn’t move. “Hey Norm what’s up,” asked a concerned Paul. Norman shook his head and ate another chip. “They threw the book at us. They said it wasn’t entirely our fault for losing him on the train. A Colonel Dalby is coming down to see us or somethin’. They told me BALLOON has him without a doubt. I was told to speak to an assistant press attaché in the Argentine Embassy; he sends information via diplomatic bag to Argentine military intelligence. He may know where D’Silva is. He’s name is Jose Brugada Wood codename PEPPERMINT. Paul, you’d better go down there tomorrow morning.” He paused thoughtfully chewing on another chip, “Well who is the old man?” Paul got up from his chair, “He’s me grandfather.” Norman made no response and went on chewing, “Oh I see.”

After breakfast Paul and his grandfather met in the lobby and exchanged notes and left in separate directions. Paul headed for the Argentine Embassy and grandfather for Stepney. Norman left to call on the concealed base of the Lamplighters to catch up on operational news and any latest discoveries they may have had tapping phones, opening mail and following people. George was left to his own devices in the hotel room typing up reports.

Around eleven o’clock grandfather came back with some information for Norman. He had found out BISCUIT had been seen around the docks the previous day and a man matching a description of D’Silva had been seen near a West End theatre last night. George was pleased but decided not to act without instructions from Norman which made Grand father pace the room moodily. George made him some tea but otherwise ignored him and carried on reading his Penguin novel. Grandfather across the little table began to get annoyed. “Would you look at that? Sittin’ there with his hooter scrapin’ away at that book!” George didn’t look up, “Well what’s the matter with that?” “Have you no resources of your own? Have they even robbed you of that?” George eager to carry on reading tired to brush off grandfather’s criticism, “You can learn from books.” Grandfather spooned sugar into his tea, “You can, can you? Pahh! Sheep’s’ heads! You could learn more by getting’ out there and living!” George put his book down, his right forefinger keeping his place, “Out where?” “Any old where! But not you. Oh no! When your not sulking around beating up fellas your tormenting your eyes with that rubbish.” George by now was getting a little edgy, no one had ever quite challenged him like this, “Books are good.” Grandfather rolled his eyes and thumped the table rattling the teacups, “Parading’s better.” George looked even more puzzled, “Parading?” Grandfather nodded eagerly, “Parading the streets! Trailing your coat! Bowling Along! Living!” Grandfather waved his fist for emphasis. George closed his book and held it in his left hand as he took a sip of tea, “Well, I am living.” Grandfather thumped the table again, “You? Living? When was the last time you gave a girl a pink-edged daisy? When did you last embarrass a girl with your cool, appraising stare? George nearly choked on his tea and the cup clattered on the saucer, “You’re a bit old for that kind of chat aren’t you?” Grandfather waved his hand, “Well at least I’ve got a backlog of memories! All you’ve got is that book!” George threw his book onto the table, by now he was annoyed, “Oh stop picking on me your as bad as the rest of them!” Grandfather mischievously smiled, “So you’re a man after all!” George looked round as grandfather got up from the table and went to the mantelpiece to fetch a packet of matches, “What do you mean!” Grandfather stood beside the fireplace, picked up the matches and walked back, “You think I’m not aware of the drift? Driving you into books with their cruel unnatural punishment. Ordering you around all day, givin’ you bum jobs while they go out living life. And where would they be without your steady fists?” George thought a moment, “Yeah! What’s in it for me?” Grandfather smiled again, “A book. If you had initiative you’d get down there and grab that bloke and then get yourself some glory while you still can.” George thought a moment without a word and then threw his book onto the floor and picked up a camera hanging on the hat stand and opened the door. Grandfather got up unsteadily, “Where are you going? Wait for me!”

Paul met Norman in a nearby pub and discussed what PEPPERMINT had said. His information had been sketchy but he confirmed that D’Silva had committed money and men to breaking General Diaz from prison and helping him escape to Europe. Norman had found out D’Silva was probably in a West End theatre run by a group of left-wing socialist actors who managed to secure some contracts with the BBC for radio plays. The Mogador, a former 19th century music hall was taken over by young drama school actors in 1903 and by the Great War was a showcase of young talent. By 1926 it had fallen under the control of a left-wing group of actors committed to radical plays and social commentary. However a more radical element of Marxists had used the theatre as a base until it was broken up in 1929 by MI5. Even so illicit dealings had been traced their and a close childhood friend of Dickie Metcalfe worked there as a producer. Norman and Paul headed back to the hotel room only to find it empty and rough note in grandfather’s handwriting that they had gone to the Mogador. Norman swore and dashed down stairs with Paul trailing behind, “That old man’s a real mixer. A trouble maker!”

Already things had gone wrong. George had decided to head across London by bus and instead got sidetracked and went into town taking pictures with his camera in a park and generally walking along the Thames thinking about life and enjoying the crisp, cold day. However, things went wrong for him. Not only was he thrown out of pub for smashing a glass and nearly impaling a budge with a stray dart but he knocked a dustbin over near a tatty market stall and was arrested for chucking a huge brick off an embankment. He was taken to the local police station by the tall, young police constable and on entering the small station had to face the older looked moustached Sergeant behind the desk. “Well what’s this one done then?” asked the Sergeant, the constable got out his black notebook and began reading the list of charges. George spoke up, “I want to call my solicitor.” The Sergeant looked over his glasses at him, “What’s his name?” George shrugged “Well if you’re going to get technical.”

Behind him he was aware of shouting and a confrontation; the constable sat him down on the bench opposite the desk as Grandfather appeared between two policemen fighting them all the way. “Well, you got me here so do your worst, but by God I’ll take one of you with me! I know your game. Get me into that tiled room and then out come the rubber hoses!” George lay down on the bench shaking his head as the Sergeant opened his charge book onto a fresh page, “oh there’s a fire is there?” Grandfather was hauled over to the desk and he was as defiant as ever, “I’ll go on hunger strike! I know your caper. The kidney punch and the rabbit clout. The third degree and the size twelve boot ankle tap.” Quickly the Sergeant ordered the constables to sit him down beside George and as they made their report Grandfather noticed George beside him. “George me old scout so they’ve press ganged you too?” George seemed quite laid back about the whole affair, “Well I’m not exactly a volunteer.” Grandfather hushed him and moved closer to speak much quieter, “Have they roughed you up yet? Oh, they’re a desperate crew of drippings, and they’ve fists like mature hams for pounding poor defenceless lads like you. One of us has got to escape. I’ll get the others. Hold on son I’ll be back. And if they get you on the floor, watch out for your brisket.” George shook his head and half laughed not taking him seriously, “They seem all right to me.” Grandfather glanced an evil look at the three conferring policemen, “Ah, sure, that’s what they want you to think. All coppers are villains.” The Sergeant then peered over the two constable’s shoulders in front of him, “Would you two like a cup of tea?” Grandfather turned his head, “See, sly villains.” George ignored the increasingly paranoid old man and shook his head, “No please don’t Sir, none for me thanks.” Before he could talk grandfather out of any silly action the old man was up and poised to run, “Ok you paid assassins, I’ll give you a run for your money!” He then took off with the two constables trailing behind.

George shook his head and got up and walked over to the desk, “Look Sir I’m working undercover for the Secret Service.” The Sergeant looked unimpressed, “Sure, they all say that these days.” George pulled out his wallet and showed him the pass he had and his identity papers. Suitably impressed the sergeant dropped the charges and George was just beginning to explain about the old man when Norman stormed in looking red faced with grandfather trailing behind with Paul dragging him along by the arm. Norman wasn’t in a good mood and ripped into George and then turned on the sergeant who was forced to release the old man too.

In the car heading towards the Mogador grandfather explained he had been apprehended trying to force a side window into the Mogador thinking George was in there alone. Norman was unimpressed but eventually saw the funny side of the story. He ordered Paul to pull up and they parked in a side road not far from the Mogador. “Right listen lads, the place is packed with actors and backstage guys. We’ll not break in but walk in disguised as normal folk and once inside we mingle and find out where D’Silva is. We’ll meet up in the canteen; they’re bound to have one. No rough stuff mind. Right Paul park the car a couple of roads down, we’ll walk there from here. Nice and relaxed like normal folk. Granddad, you stay in the car, you’ve caused enough trouble for one day.” Paul agreed and they got out and taking different routes entered the Mogador from different directions and doors. Leaving grandad to sulk in the car.

HAHA! High commedy, that!

[The Final Installment. I thought it needed a bit of comedy to lighten the mood, being a spy is not all cocktails and microfilm!]

Norman outside the main entrance of the Mogador looked up at the tatty sign, lit a cigar and walked in pretending to be a director or some important theatre critic and he soon made his way backstage undisturbed where he found George chatting up some dancing girls who were on a break between sets. George caught sight of Norman made an excuse to the dancers and scurried up a nearby staircase where he bumped into a secretary coming out of an office on the first landing.

As he caught her arm she smiled and spoke in a lovely soft voice, “Hello.” George repeated the greeting grinning thanking his luck, the woman carried on, “Oh wait a minute, don’t tell me who you are.” “No I’m not,” was George’s quick reply, “Oh you are.” “I’m not,” he protested, “Oh you are, I know you are. You look just like him.” George leaned against the wall trying to look casual, “Do I? You’re the first one that’s said that ever.” She reached into her handbag and pulled out a compact mirror and held it to his face, “Yes you do, look.” He peered into the mirror and smiled, “No my eyes are lighter. The nose.” The woman looked at his face again, “Oh yes your nose is very.” George frowned, he was conscious of his recently scarred nose since Oran, “You know him better though,” he coolly replied. She stood back a bit, “I do not. He’s only a casual acquaintance.” George whispered, “That’s what you say, it’s all over the place.” She smiled in a mysterious way, almost like the Mona Lisa he thought, “Is it? Really?” George spoke a bit louder and leaned against the wall again, “But I wouldn’t have it I stuck up for you.” She smiled at him, “Thanks, I knew I could rely on you.” She then put her glasses on that were hanging around her neck and she took another look, “You don’t look like him at all.” With that she walked down the stairs, George shrugged and walked up the stairs muttering to himself, “She looks more like him than I do!” He walked up a couple of steps and nearly collided with Norman coming down the stairs. “Find out anything from her besides her address and measurements?” asked Norman. George shook his head and opened his mouth to speak but Norman cut him off, “Never mind, you look up there. I’m going under the stage.” George shrugged and carried on as Norman went down the steps carefully watching the landing to see if anyone came out.

Paul was last in and made his entrance through the back door and managed to gain entry by claiming he was an actor. He went straight for the canteen but got lost in the warren of corridors and by mistake entered a small office. He was about to walk out when his eye caught an attractive blonde secretary behind a desk who called him back, “We’re expecting you.” Paul pointed at himself as he stepped back into the room, “Sorry you must be mistaken miss.” She laughed and picked up the telephone, “Its ok, it’s not a mistake you’re just late.” She spoke briefly on the telephone giving Paul a cool appraising stare and Paul decided to switch on the charm which he did so well when he wanted to. He was a man of many characters; he could be upper class, a gentleman, a cad, an officer, a French official, a German banker, a mechanic or a docker. Yes he thoguht to himself, he was probably more of an actor than a spy. “Follow me, come on,” she softly said moving her shapely hips. Paul had never understood Norman’s sixth sense but right then he felt it, his hairs crept up his neck, he felt a trap about to close, “Come on!” she insisted.

As he entered the white-walled office he first noticed the walls covered with pictures of actors and performances, framed newspaper cuttings and awards. In the middle of the room was a large desk and behind it were three men. Two were obviously strongmen; the one beside the leader looked remarkably like the man who had punched him on the train. By now he knew the leader, a middle aged effeminate looking man with a shirt and dapper waistcoat, was called Simon. At least that’s what the secretary called him. The first strongman realised who he was and moved closer to Simon. “Don’t breathe on me Adrian!” Simon shouted as he moved away. Ah, now he knew the man who punched him was called Adrian. His thoughts changed; did they know who he was? Simon moved round the desk as the two tough guys stood around looking awkward. The secretary perched on the edge of the desk. Simon spoke first, “Have a seat.” Paul saw a comfy chair behind him and sat down, “Ta.” Simon looked relived, “Well at least he’s polite. Give him a drink.” Adrian smartly moved across the room in his imported Italian suit and moved behind him to the drinks cabinet. Simon folded one arm and put other under hand under his chin as he walked about, “We’d like you to give us your opinion on where Dickie Metcalfe is.” Paul took his drink but declined to drink any fearing it might be drugged. He decided to play the game a little, “Oh, by all means. I’d be quite prepared for that eventuality.” Simon turned round, “Well, not your real opinion, obviously but your organisation’s opinion. Could you say where he is?” Paul played along, playing the simple fall-guy character, “Of course.” Simon was pleased and beamed ear to ear, “Good. Adrian get the photographs. Now you’ll like these.” Adrian smiled as he handed over the photographs of Dickie and D’Silva in the very same office he was sat in, he noticed his picture had been superimposed to make it look like he was in the room. He recognised his clothes as the ones he wore in Cairo, probably they had taken his picture in the hotel lobby. It was blackmail, he knew if he didn't play along they would attempt to frame him or at least bargain for his silence. “You see you’ll be our intermediary between us and your organisation. We might consider a trade.” Paul tried to figure out Simon's approach, he knew Simon had D’Silva but why was he offering him on a plate? He decided to refuse. Simon laughed and paced the room, “It’s quite touching, really. Here’s this man giving me his utterly useless opinion when I know for a fact within a month he’ll be suffering from unemployment and loss of freedom because he didn’t take our offer. Of course we have D’Silva and we could make a lot of money selling him back to the authorities with your help. You will take our offer to the Circus.” Paul gripped the arms of his chair, “No, I won’t.” Simon laughed and moved over the window and suddenly turned round, “You can be killed.” Paul shrugged and got ready to make a break if things got nasty, “I don’t care!” Simon smiled, “That pose it out too sonny Jim, the thing now is to care passionately and be right wing. Anyway if you don’t cooperate you won’t meet Dickie.” Paul shrugged and got out of the chair, “I don’t care. You can’t buy me with dodgy pictures, you can’t flog that stuff to the Circus cos’ they won’t buy it and they know both men are here. You’re going under!”

Simon snapped his fingers, in a flash Paul threw the contents of his glass into the secretary’s face, she squealed rubbing her eyes and she slipped off the desk onto the floor. Adrian moved around the desk and Paul noticed a bronze art deco statue on a table behind him and he picked it up and threw it at him. Adrian went down with a loud oomph; Simon ducked to take cover under the desk as the second man threw a lamp at Paul. It missed and Paul grabbed a producer’s folding chair standing against the wall and using like a club knocked the other man out cold. Paul grabbed the photographs on the desk as the secretary screamed for help on the floor. He dashed out and tore into the corridor knocking some actors in Wagnerian costumes over like skittles. George searching an empty dressing room heard the commotion downstairs and ran down the stairs and once he reached the first floor saw Paul fighting off a stagehand. He grabbed Paul’s shoulder and pushed him through the fire escape while pushing the stagehand over with his other hand and both men ran down the stairs to the alleyway below.

While all this was going on Norman had managed to slip underneath the stage without being seen, the noise of the rehearsal above masking his movements. In the gloom he saw a movement in the corner of his eye. He moved across the room using some discarded scenery to cover his movements. The man, whoever he was, stumbled knocking over something. Norman managed to work up behind him and jumped on the man knocking him over and after a short tussle he had D’Silva handcuffed. He pulled him to his feet and noticing a hatch with a ramp on the wall he kicked it open and dragged D’Silva out onto the alleyway just in time to see Paul and George tearing up the alleyway. “Come ‘ead lads this way", Paul grabbed Norman's arm, "Get to the car quick.”

As they ran towards the end of the alley, being chased by two men, a car pulled up with the brakes screeching. Norman felt his heart sink but in it was grandfather jeering out of the window revving the engine, “Hurry up! You’re holdin’ up the parade!” Norman flung open the door and pushed D’Silva in, banging his head in the process, George leapt in after Norman and Paul ran round the car getting in the front passenger seat. Just as the two pursuers caught up grandfather let the handbrake off and the car surged forwards swerving into the traffic and forcing a baker’s boy on his bicycle to swerve out of the way, crashing onto the pavement.

Norman let out a sigh of relief, “Thanks granddad, you saved the day there. Phew!” Grandfather swerved into a side road, “Ahh, it’s always the old boys that pull the fat out of the fire. It’s my considered opinion you’re a bunch of sissies.” George, pinning D’Silva into the seat, shouted out above the screeching of tyres, “You’re just jealous.” Norman, struggling to get his right shoulder free from under D’Silva, had to regain command of the situation, “Leave him alone Poundberry, or I’ll tell them all the truth about you. Get this bloke off me! Right then you old devil get us to the Chelsea safe house. In one piece if you don’t mind!”

Well it seemed as though the nightmare was over. As Norman sat back in the leather armchair enjoying one of Control’s own cigars it all seemed worthwhile. Across the plush room Paul was checking his tie in the mirror above the fireplace before he headed out to hit the nightclubs. George was sprawled over the sofa reading his Penguin paperback. Grandfather had gone back to the Islay Hotel to continue his work with a recommendation for an award in the bag. Control himself had promised Norman the position of head of Scalp Hunters. A safe seat in the Brixton camp despatching the thugs once in a while and disposing as seemed best. Earlier in the day looked like the opposite, failure, retribution and pensioning off. D’Silva was immediately taken into custody of the Scalp Hunters and they bundled him into a car and took him to a secure country house for questioning until a team of Argentine intelligence officers could arrive and take him back to Argentina under secure arrest. The police descended on the Mogador but Simon and his gang had fled and BALLOON was still unaccounted for. He may have been in England but it seemed more likely he was not. Another source of information, BROMO, otherwise known as Jose Laradogoita, was an Argentine who had lived in Idaho in 1930s, deported for passing bad cheques then recruited by Argentine military intelligence. He was sent to Rio de Janeiro in 1936 and there uncovered the group who were planning the jail break in Grand Uruguay to free General Diaz. A team of Argentine intelligence men would be descending on them very shortly.
Control insisted Norman and his team take six weeks leave and he planned a European holiday while mixing in some unofficial moonlighting. He had unfinished business on the continent with HANS and Kretzschmar and a murder to avenge…