Thread: Kiss Kiss, Bang Bang

PART 1: INTRODUCTION.

It was about seven o’clock in the morning when I left the house and the sun had failed in its attempts to penetrate though South East England’s backdrop of grey cloud. Wearing my black leather jacket, with open neck blue casual shirt, jeans, thick white socks and trainers, I was respectable in that I was washed, clean shaven and had not had a drink in twenty-four hours.

It was everything that I felt, a millionaire politician with intentions of an inconspicious nature ought to be and I was calling on the man in Brixton who was blackmailing me.

At the station, I stood on the platform remote from the other commuters and thought back to that occasion of the then Prime Minister, standing in the drizzle outside No 10, addressing the television crews. He had been earnest and engaging, deceptive and remote and, looked even more like a life insurance salesman than usual. It made me think seriously about going into politics. I’ve never had much in the way of a social conscience, but I remember thinking as I looked at the PM that day: “Well, if that’s one of the bright particular stars of English public life, Nobby my boy, you ought to be at Westminster yourself.”

The train, when it came made good progress into London’s Kings Cross Station, and although I stood throughout the journey it did not trouble me. I made my way by tube to Brixton Station in the southern half of the capital and looked around. It was now about eleven o’clock and a transient pause in normal city life was apparent, especially away from the High Street. I walked without hurrying down the long quiet avenues of three storey Victorian houses.

Number 7 Blenheim Crescent was the address that I eventually arrived at. Steps at the side led down to a basement flat, crouched behind a sloping derelict garden and waste bins. In the front of the house, broad grey stone steps led up to an outside porch and a heavy framed entrance door. At the side, six bells, some with names, others seeking anonymity. Flat 3 on the first floor was one of the latter.

I rang and a disinterred voice over the speaker said “Yes, come up.” Whoever it was must have seen me coming and the door lock buzzed briefly to grant access. The lobby inside was spacious, and a staircase ran up past the ground floor flat, from which came the soft noise of a radio and the smell of cooking with too much garlic.

He was there to meet me at Number 3, standing just to one side inside the half opened door. A short, thin man, sixty or a little past it. He was black, with remote blue eye that seemed at variance with his race, perhaps cosmetic contact lenses. His skin was smooth and bright and as he beckoned me in, he moved like a man with very sound muscles.

We sat in faded stiff backed armchairs opposite each other and he spoke:

“Let’s not waste time. You know what the business is, and that’s why you’re here. I’ve got something you want and you are rich enough to pay to get it back.”

This was all said with a lack of expression on the bland face. The daylight through the front window generated a glistening in the unnatural arctic blueness of his eyes.

I hit him first with two slightly curled fingers of my right hand, to just below the Adams apple of his throat. His breathing stopped and he struggled to inhale. Not a sound came, just visual shock on his face, the hands raised but useless to assist the trouble he was in. I moved quickly behind him, now standing up away from his chair, and grasped his neck in the crook of my arm, whilst pressing the forehead closely with the right hand, fingers splayed. I broke apart his upper spinal vertebrae with a loud crack and he slumped. Below one could just about discern the noise from the radio.

A set of photos I soon discovered in a side drawer, but no negatives. For the moment that was of no concern. They, (for I presumed that there was more than one person involved), had anticipated a long drawn out series of payments, but their bluff had been called swiftly and dramatically. Now let them consider if another excursion could be ventured upon.

I left the flat, closed the door gently behind me and proceeded at an unhurried pace back to Brixton Station. There had been no signs of other occupants at the flat and I was unsure as to when the body would be discovered.

The next day I stood in the House of Commons and the question directed to me was; “Can the Foreign Secretary assure the House that no innocent civilians will be harmed during RAF air strikes in the area of the Libyan conflict?”

I looked across at the supercilious clod that had mouthed these words, and leaning casually on the dispatch box replied “I would thank the honourable gentleman for his concern in such matters, and assure the honourable gentleman, and the House, that neither I nor Her Majesty’s armed forces will engage in any aggressive action that might cause harm to innocent civilians.”

With that I sat down and leaned back, crossing one leg over the other to shouts of “Hear, Hear!” from the benches behind.

A week later on a Sunday evening I was at home alone, engaged in cooking up some new recipe I’d come across, and the phone rang.

“Hello” I said.

“You’ve been a naughty boy Nobby.”

“Who is it?”

“It’s Claudine. We need to talk, but this time you’ve got to behave yourself and not be so rough.”

I don't know what it is about your stuff but I get half way thhrough and lose my concentration. It gets to the point where I'm reading but thinking about something entirely different and can't remember what I was just reading.
I suppose jokes and funny stories is the best place for this.

But you keep coming back?

Originally Posted by MANICHAEAN

But you keep coming back?

No, I'll try a new one to see if you've improved but I won't be reading further installments. (Yawn)

Time for your nap then laddie.

PART 2: MI5.

There did not seem anything overtly special about the office of Dame Bullington Fuller. Functional with a clear desk and one phone, but then I suppose that was what you had to expect as appropriate for the head of MI5.

“Good morning Foreign Secretary and what can we do for you today?”

“I’ve been compromised,” I said."

“I see. And what has your honourable member been up to?”

“You’re aware of it?”

“We can guess. Your file is somewhat explicit regards your penchants.”

So I explained the recent phone call and the circumstances behind it at the recent NATO conference in Brussels.

“What do I do?”

“Nothing,” she said. “Attend whatever little rendezvous they arrange and we will be in the background, to tidy things up so to speak. You must have realised by now, that this is a bit bigger than the average attempt at blackmail considering your position?”

“Yes, that’s why I came.”

“Fine. We are now in the picture. By the way, if there is nothing else, you can’t help us by any chance can you, regards a recent case in Brixton where an individual we had on our radar for some time had his neck broken?”

“Sorry. Much too rough a part of London for me.”

She looked me in the eye, and it said it all.

PART 3: THE SAVOY TEAROOMS:

We’d had the “honey trap” in the Belgian capital and now it was to be the tea and scones “sting” at that epitome stage of respectable English indulgence, the Savoy Tearooms.

I guessed that whoever they were, sustained the belief that I would not be snapping any necks in such august surroundings.

The doorman in the thick bright green overcoat and top hat opened the door of the taxi and I alighted to a salute and the customary perfunctory welcome. I slipped him a fiver which disappeared at the speed of a Formula 1 on the straight and entered the hotel.

The Savoy is an establishment, which despite its location in central London, escaped any substantial damage from the ravages of the Blitz, and thus by the grace of Providence, retaining its initial Edwardian splendour and charm. The tea rooms were at the rear overlooking Green Park and the opulent atmosphere was already in full swing, as well groomed young waiters and waitresses plied the comfortable mixed cliental with the mysteries of the British afternoon tea ritual. Bone china to the fore combined effortlessly with substantial silverware of a superior quality, whilst adorned on each table the combined functional and decorative requisites of three layer cake stands; spotless white table cloths and starched, crisp napkins.

I was led to a table away from the windows and to one side. My contact rose to greet me. She was cool and tall with ash blond hair, Slavonic features and green eyes, dressed smart but not showy. “Russian,” screamed out at me. “So, that’s who we’re dealing with!”

Long fingers, cool to the touch were extended as a greeting, and we sat down.
“Thank you for coming,” she said, the English almost perfect. “Can I call you Nobby? I hope you don’t mind. I’m told that’s what your friends call you.”

“No not at all. Claudine, isn’t it? Is that what your associates call you? But let’s not be unpleasant with each other. You’ve obviously gone to a great deal of trouble to organise this, so at least lets indulge a bit before we get down to business.”

“I do so agree Nobby,” she said and smiled broadly. “I feel we can become friends in the time we are to work together. And I want you to like me. I don’t want any unpleasantness.”

I detected a hint of toughness in the last statement, and a small vein pulsed quietly on the pale skin just below her chin.

After a respectable period of about one hour, adequately replete with Earl Grey, scones and jam, I decided to proceed to the next step.

“Claudine, obviously we have a lot to discuss and this is not exactly the place to do it. My impression is that the blackmail attempt for money is but just a crude initial stage, and that we really are talking of something more long term. Am I correct in that assumption?”

She nodded coldly.

“Fine, then I took the liberty to book a room upstairs where it can be more private. Shall we go?”

She was hesitant. It was not in the script. She seemed to glance across the room to another table. Very likely she was wired.

“Yes, sure. That would perhaps be better.”

I was guessing her Control, seeing the prize in sight, was prepared for them to take the risk.

I paid the bill by credit card, the waiters slid back our chairs and we left through the double doors and out towards the lifts.

Behind in the tea room, a number of rather fit young waiters closed in quickly on the occupants of one table seating a man and a woman. Another man leaving was also quickly encompassed by two apparent hotel staff. Quickly hurried out via a side door, through the kitchens, hooded and bundled into a laundry van by the outside ramp, the sliding side door was closed and the personages apprehended driven away for processing.

PART 4: PERESTROIKA.

In the meantime Claudine and I had reached our room up on the tenth floor. Heavy red drapes were drawn back and early afternoon sunshine shone on those walking in the park below.

Before she became acquainted with her surroundings, I threw her face first onto the bed, stuffed a handkerchief in her mouth and tied her hands behind her, my knee holding her down as she kicked wildly. I turned her over and looked in her eyes. “My, she was one angry young lady!”

“Claudine, let’s just have a little chat, although I’m afraid I will be doing most of the talking. Unfortunately, you, and what I presume are your Moscow masters, were bad mannered enough to take pictures of me with two young ladies back in Brussels. I’m now going to return the compliment, and you and I are going to make a little video which will be posted back to the aforesaid bosses. You know my dear Claudine, despite all your training and spy craft; you seem to be unaware of one very ancient tradition invented by the British called “playing silly buggers.” I won’t go into the intricacies of it, but one important specialised offshoot of this tradition, entirely relevant to our current situation, is that just when you think you are screwing us, we are screwing you! I hope you understand and that this does not over duly embarrass your Kremlin masters or reduce your career prospects in that establishment, but there you go. Nothing personal you understand. Shall we begin?”

About a month later Nobby rose in the House to respond to a question from his own party.

“Can the Foreign Secretary assure the House of the cooperative nature of Anglo Russian relations at the current time and does the Honourable Gentleman have any intention soon of visiting that country?”

I responded, “I thank my Honourable Friend for his enquiry, and I can assure both him and the House, that a most cooperative and equitable relationship exists between Great Britain and Russia, based upon mutual respect and a deep understanding of each other’s national needs. It may also interest the House, that I have in fact been invited by my opposite number in Moscow to make a visit, and it will be my earnest desire to accept such a generous invitation.”

That evening he relaxed with a double Grey Goose vodka and tonic, and cooked a ham hock in cider with leeks in a white sauce. He took a second drink out on to the balcony, and sat and looked out across the view. All his senses told him, that he was into a good tough situation again, and he knew he was up for it.

Far across and beyond Europe to the east, in an isolated dacha, surrounded by stark pine trees outside of St Petersburg, Vladimir Putin’s cold protruding eyes watched yet again the video on his TV screen. As an ex-KGB colonel and recent President, let’s just say that Nobby’s remake of “From Russia with Love,” was not exactly his cup of tea.

Originally Posted by MANICHAEAN

We sat in faded stiff backed armchairs opposite each other

Originally Posted by MANICHAEAN

I hit him first with two slightly curled fingers of my right hand

the long arm of the law

all a bit dated and florid

never mind, as long as you enjoyed doing it

Dr
Will be in Bangkok next month. Advice always welcome on how to be "hip & flip."

THE RUSSIAN DOLL GAMBIT.

Putin felt the awe that dwells on the edge of fear, having lived through a period of Russian history where he had been obliged to grasp the realities of political life with both hands and to hold fast if one was to survive, or even, perchance advance.

Not for him the lush lowlands of bourgeoisie indulgence, nor the sensitivity and chasm of the Russian soul. He had long ago as a young career KGB officer subdued all emotions to his will, such that even his imagination was constrained.

He knew that he had been outwitted in this instance, but the instinct of anger was reined in hard. In the profession of bluff and counter bluff he knew how difficult it is to con a con man, and his opponent in Great Britain had already proved that he was alternately; devious, ruthless, well positioned and a consummate actor.

He knew that to win, let alone to even the score, that he was obliged to play his initial bait with an extreme lightness of touch and his revenge with the finality of total closure.

Thus dispassionately over the weeks that followed, he researched along with a select and diverse KGB team, for the weakness that lies in every man, or in this case, the current British Foreign Secretary.

At night Putin did not return to his dacha but to a small apartment in the precincts of Leningrad, his home life being such that it had failed long ago to expound an alternate side of his nature, and it had been many years since his wife had given him any physical joy, either out of bed or in it.

On about the third week, the Russian team reviewing the material obtained came to a consensus on a common thread that appeared to run through the life of their subject.

It was once reckoned that human beings tend to imitate the nick names given them in an idle moment. Call a man "Butch" and he will swagger; call him "Killer" and he will walk around with narrowed eyes and try to talk like The Godfather. Nigel Floyd was just eighteen years old when a boy at school who had seen him in the showers after PT laughingly called him “Nobby”, and after that he was doomed.

It was an attribute he realised both in early manhood and in his later political career that was appreciated, (though for different reasons) by the two mainstream genders and his success with the ladies at all levels of society was discreetly acknowledged. There was, it appeared, almost recklessness in the manner in which the females he was associated with at any one time were designed not for display or ostentation, but for usage.

To Putin therefore & his cohorts, this was the main weakness of the focus of their attention; Nobby’s love of women.

But as a strategy evolved, it was apparent from the very outset that a gaudy Russian fly, cast upon a hook appertaining in any manner to themselves would not attain the desired result. It had to come with a freshness and a simplicity, almost from an alternate source.

Much later that evening Putin put through a call to Peking. It was time to call in a few favours from the past, when hegemony between the two Communist super powers was on a more equitable basis.

Outside the snow fell on hard deserted Leningrad streets in a manner almost in union with what was being planned inside; light and delicate, cold and foreboding.

THE FOREIGN OFFICE.

Nigel Floyd, alias “Nobby” and current British Foreign Secretary landed late that evening at Heathrow on the British Airways flight from Kingston. He had for five days liaised with his Jamaican opposite number regards concerns by both countries on drug smuggling & the adverse influence of yardie gangs in both domains.

At the end of it he’d managed the weekend off with an old girl friend up in the Blue Mountains to the east of the capital, and even now he could recollect how he had buried his face against her and felt her warmth and the gentle scent of her body. It was so sweet to have found himself between Miss Ottey’s thighs again.

Nobby held back on the plane as disembarkation commenced, knowing full well that Heathrow’s Customs and Excise staff reserved their closest scrutiny for travellers from Jamaica.

He lifted his briefcase onto his lap and then twisted it about so that the gold indented E II R insignia was hidden against his chest.

The stewardesses had their backs to the door as they sought to retrieve their coats from the lockers, prior to experiencing the cold night air, and so they did not see the entrance of the British Airways ground crew official into the cabin.

“It’s Mr Floyd, isn’t it?”

“That’s right.”

“There’s a car and driver waiting.”

“Thank you.”

They stepped onto the platform that had been manoeuvred to hug the aircraft fuselage, but avoided the tunnel stretching ahead and went through the open doorway and out into the night air and down the steps to the apron. A light wind blustered off the concrete and the engine sounds of taxiing aircraft bludgeoned their ears.

Nobby looked around him until he saw the maroon Rover parked in the dense evening shadow of a petrol tanker. A rear door was open, the engine was idling. Nobby slipped in and the car pulled away, skirting the Terminal buildings heading for the Underpass and the Staines Road.


The next morning he was back at work and he stood at the end of the mahogany table on the third floor room of the Foreign and Commonwealth Office that overlooked Horse Guards.

The Joint Intelligence Committee met every fortnight. The Deputy-Under-Secretary who headed the Service, the Major General who commanded the Directorate of Service Intelligence, the Permanent-Under-Secretary who chaired the Joint Intelligence Committee, and the Director of the Security Service who gazed out of the window.

Nobby reflected that nothing changes in the Civil Service. There are princes and there are the carriers of pitchers of water, and the exalted company would have deterred a less confident man.

After the initial preliminaries the topic commenced regards Rossow’s debrief of Liang tai Tai in Vietnam, and as was to be expected it was met by a variety of monosyllables, grunts and face pulling, all reflecting derision.

However the Director of Security Service was not exactly known as either a “light touch” or alternately for his sense of humour, and as he proceeded, the extent of the potential damage common to them all became increasingly apparent.

The Permanent-Under-Secretary piped in, “I think the PM should know. I think the PM should sanction what’s to be done. That’s my advice anyway.”

The Director of the Security Service shot back, “I’ll not lose this to a politician with a weak stomach and a short future.”

“That’s your decision then,” the Permanent-Under-Secretary being visibly upset by the brutality of the expression used by his colleague.

“So be it. If the PM knows, his clerical staff will know & God only knows what will happen if it gets leaked to the Press. Tell the Prime Mnister and you tell how many? Which aides see a memorandum, which personal secretaries? How many learn the contents of a file over cocktails and during weekends in the country.”

The Major General attempted to sooth the frayed nerves by diverting to another angle. “Anyone come up with a code name for this case yet?”

Nobby intervened for the first time.

“Not a bloody Greek god, please don’t give me one of them!”

The group laughed and the tension dissipated somewhat.

Nobby realised that the case, being so relevant to his department, it was in his interests to pick up the ball and run with it. Best foot forward. Career men don’t retreat, career men push ahead. Couldn’t have delegated this one, could he? Couldn’t have parcelled it off on a junior. This one was for Nobby and he had to a large extent go on his own and to stay on his own. Realise that and you can win, accept the isolation and you’ll be fine.