10.The Tycoon
Asil Nadir didn’t exactly advertise his domain. The car had pulled up outside a lacklustre, anonymous grimy black gate. It guarded no more than a recess in an aging granite wall. It sure conferred no hint to the means of the man. As everyone climbed out of the Mercedes, the street deserted save for a little guy dressed like a penguin. As he headed uphill towards us, beaming, as she vigorously waved to him, Elizabeth told me that he was Nadir’s valet. Five-foot nothing and a bashful grin, as he joined our small party, pausing before a locked door set into the gate, the valet rang the bell. In response, like trying to break into a harem, amusing me, as a tiny niche slid back and dark eyes observed us, the door opened and everyone trailed the valet through it. Once beyond the gate, as three bodyguards confronted us, they compelled Elizabeth to whine
“Oh really, is it necessary to search me again.”
Minders tooled up and the Cook Reporters ready to pounce, no weapons on me save for my wits, I still aimed to slay them. Ignoring all protest, the bodyguards asked us to raise our arms and spread our feet, not forgetting to search our bags, a female frisked Elizabeth and me, while thickset men tackled Jim.
A steep flight of concrete steps led onto a paved terrace. Before I made my way down, pausing a moment to take in the scene. As I passed a Bond double, nifty shades and wearing a white Milan jacket, returning the compliment, he eyeballed me. No skirt today, even though Elizabeth had advised me that Nadir preferred it. He would have to have me on my terms. All in black, I had bought my jacket and stretchy bootcut pants from a good store in France. My blue tartan shirt came out of a charity shop. Admiring a pool and a lovely garden, as I paused once more to let the others catch me up. No swish modern palace, saving that for his plush hôtels, Nadir had excellent taste. A handsome traditional timber house in jade, a genuine Ottoman yali, it doubled as his office.
About to press on, then Elizabeth wished us to linger and say hello to Mine. The banker had told me so much about her, that it felt like I knew Nadir’s svelte private secretary. As she greeted Jim, wearing his dark blue Hungarian pinstripe, he had rescued it from a rack in another charity shop in Dover.
As we ventured into the house, busy shooting our entrance, Salk met us with his camera in the lobby. As the minders escorted us into an extensive boardroom, dazzled by the arc lamps, Peter had set up a studio opposite a French window. I had witnessed backcloths like this before, but only behind closed doors in Israel. Spread before us on a huge mahogany table, an infinite hotchpotch of blueprints, maps, and perceptibly important papers. Arranged about the room, a splendid display of exquisite
Asil Nadir didn’t exactly advertise his domain. The car had pulled up outside a lacklustre, anonymous grimy black gate. It guarded no more than a recess in an aging granite wall. It sure conferred no hint to the means of the man. As everyone climbed out of the Mercedes, the street deserted save for a little guy dressed like a penguin. As he headed uphill towards us, beaming, as she vigorously waved to him, Elizabeth told me that he was Nadir’s valet. Five-foot nothing and a bashful grin, as he joined our small party, pausing before a locked door set into the gate, the valet rang the bell. In response, like trying to break into a harem, amusing me, as a tiny niche slid back and dark eyes observed us, the door opened and everyone trailed the valet through it. Once beyond the gate, as three bodyguards confronted us, they compelled Elizabeth to whine
“Oh really, is it necessary to search me again.”
Minders tooled up and the Cook Reporters ready to pounce, no weapons on me save for my wits, I still aimed to slay them. Ignoring all protest, the bodyguards asked us to raise our arms and spread our feet, not forgetting to search our bags, a female frisked Elizabeth and me, while thickset men tackled Jim.
A steep flight of concrete steps led onto a paved terrace. Before I made my way down, pausing a moment to take in the scene. As I passed a Bond double, nifty shades and wearing a white Milan jacket, returning the compliment, he eyeballed me. No skirt today, even though Elizabeth had advised me that Nadir preferred it. He would have to have me on my terms. All in black, I had bought my jacket and stretchy bootcut pants from a good store in France. My blue tartan shirt came out of a charity shop. Admiring a pool and a lovely garden, as I paused once more to let the others catch me up. No swish modern palace, saving that for his plush hôtels, Nadir had excellent taste. A handsome traditional timber house in jade, a genuine Ottoman yali, it doubled as his office.
About to press on, then Elizabeth wished us to linger and say hello to Mine. The banker had told me so much about her, that it felt like I knew Nadir’s svelte private secretary. As she greeted Jim, wearing his dark blue Hungarian pinstripe, he had rescued it from a rack in another charity shop in Dover.
As we ventured into the house, busy shooting our entrance, Salk met us with his camera in the lobby. As the minders escorted us into an extensive boardroom, dazzled by the arc lamps, Peter had set up a studio opposite a French window. I had witnessed backcloths like this before, but only behind closed doors in Israel. Spread before us on a huge mahogany table, an infinite hotchpotch of blueprints, maps, and perceptibly important papers. Arranged about the room, a splendid display of exquisite
- 228 -
objects d’art and surely, the perfect setting for my meeting with The Sultan of Berkeley Square.
“I’d like you to take this chair, Olivia” fussed Salk “Mr Nadir will sit opposite you.”
Our stage matching ornate gilt thrones, Salk had positioned a couple of velvet-cushioned chairs close together in the centre of the room. As he directed me to take the seat by the left, Jim settled for one of a brace of sumptuous upholstered chaise longue flanking the chairs. In the square between them, too lavish to step foot on, a magnificent crimson and gold Turkish carpet lay upon the floor.
Laidback, as David appeared in the room, killing time, we shared small talk for a minute or two, then making his excuse, the Cook Reporter found his briefcase and taking it to the back of the chamber, he flopped into a big leather armchair and retrieving his file from the case, began to study his papers.
Succumbing to fatigue, if I remained in my comfortable chair a moment longer, they would never wake me. Raising myself from my seat, I strolled over to the French window. Built on the banks of the busy Bosphorus, the house enjoyed a pleasing aspect. Apart from a dishy heavy dressed in a black overcoat patrolling the pretty courtyard, mostly Russian, as ships sailed back and forth, an inspiring vista stretched to the mouth of the Black Sea. In a flurry, Elizabeth ripped into the room. Nadir’s elegant younger sister standing beside her, brunette and dressed in a chic black frock, attractive and graceful, I could picture Bilge Nevzat appearing on television in one of those elite hair shampoo ads. Smiling, she asked me
“Do you like the view?”
No airs like Elizabeth, likewise genial and warm. At once, Bilge placed Jim and me at our ease. Her revealing book, entitled The Turquoise Conspiracy, exposes Asil’s story. For now, forgetting about him, we enjoyed a good gossip before the minders re-emerged and Salk directed us to our seats.
As I reclaimed my throne, for a moment, back in prison with cockroaches like the PMO, who would have thought then, that I would be doing this now. As Jim took his place by my side, Elizabeth and Bilge opted for the chaise longue facing him. Nursing his camera on his knee like a dolly, Peter joined the ladies. David remained rapt in his armchair. As we waited, Nadir’s emergence prolonged, like the dramatic build-up before the star appears on stage. I needed no more hype. As one hefty minder sat directly behind me, guarding the tycoon‘s throne, his partner took the pew directly behind it. All seats taken, it heralded his entrance. Sharp black suit, divine silk tie, his shirt dazzling white, it matched his gleaming smile. A familiar bronze face, as Peter
“I’d like you to take this chair, Olivia” fussed Salk “Mr Nadir will sit opposite you.”
Our stage matching ornate gilt thrones, Salk had positioned a couple of velvet-cushioned chairs close together in the centre of the room. As he directed me to take the seat by the left, Jim settled for one of a brace of sumptuous upholstered chaise longue flanking the chairs. In the square between them, too lavish to step foot on, a magnificent crimson and gold Turkish carpet lay upon the floor.
Laidback, as David appeared in the room, killing time, we shared small talk for a minute or two, then making his excuse, the Cook Reporter found his briefcase and taking it to the back of the chamber, he flopped into a big leather armchair and retrieving his file from the case, began to study his papers.
Succumbing to fatigue, if I remained in my comfortable chair a moment longer, they would never wake me. Raising myself from my seat, I strolled over to the French window. Built on the banks of the busy Bosphorus, the house enjoyed a pleasing aspect. Apart from a dishy heavy dressed in a black overcoat patrolling the pretty courtyard, mostly Russian, as ships sailed back and forth, an inspiring vista stretched to the mouth of the Black Sea. In a flurry, Elizabeth ripped into the room. Nadir’s elegant younger sister standing beside her, brunette and dressed in a chic black frock, attractive and graceful, I could picture Bilge Nevzat appearing on television in one of those elite hair shampoo ads. Smiling, she asked me
“Do you like the view?”
No airs like Elizabeth, likewise genial and warm. At once, Bilge placed Jim and me at our ease. Her revealing book, entitled The Turquoise Conspiracy, exposes Asil’s story. For now, forgetting about him, we enjoyed a good gossip before the minders re-emerged and Salk directed us to our seats.
As I reclaimed my throne, for a moment, back in prison with cockroaches like the PMO, who would have thought then, that I would be doing this now. As Jim took his place by my side, Elizabeth and Bilge opted for the chaise longue facing him. Nursing his camera on his knee like a dolly, Peter joined the ladies. David remained rapt in his armchair. As we waited, Nadir’s emergence prolonged, like the dramatic build-up before the star appears on stage. I needed no more hype. As one hefty minder sat directly behind me, guarding the tycoon‘s throne, his partner took the pew directly behind it. All seats taken, it heralded his entrance. Sharp black suit, divine silk tie, his shirt dazzling white, it matched his gleaming smile. A familiar bronze face, as Peter
- 229 -
captured Asil Nadir’s materialisation on camera, taking my hand as he welcomed us
“I’m very happy to meet you” he greeted us, warmly.
Spellbound, as I watched Nadir offer Jim his hand, a long way from sparking clogs on Stockport streets, I had warned him that life with me would be different. Nadir marked for us a milestone. It’s fair to say that we had endured the best and the worst of times on our mad journey from Ordsall to Istanbul. Born the same era as Jim, then in his 50s, flashing more smiles and charismatic, Nadir still the playboy. An untamed mane in his younger days, today his hair thinning, he still made an impression. As Peter filmed us, taking our seats, silence in court, Nadir began by enquiring if we cared for coffee. Standing beside him, as his attendant valet set it deftly before us, opening a fresh packet of Silk Cut for him and Nadir commenced
“I can give you cigarettes. Tell me, do you smoke?”
As Jim and I renounced the harmful vice, a considerable stockpile of cigarettes dwelt on top of a lovely polished table by Nadir’s elbow. Courteous, he enquired
“Do you mind if I smoke?”
“Not at all” we agreed.
“Do you know, Olivia” he began, making a confession “I didn’t smoke until I was 40, now look at me” pulling a face, he recognised, ”I chain-smoke!”
As he lit his second smoke in as many minutes, I believed him. My heart going all pitter-patter, yet he looked more anxious than me. Impossible not to notice his nervous tic, I knew well what he meant and responded
“I started smoking when MI5 put me in gaol on fake charges and quit when they planted me inside to meet Elizabeth, they said she doesn’t like smokers.”
On his third cigarette already, bringing our summit into focus, as Naylor’s not so secret passion for Python enjoyed a bit more mileage, always the daft things that attract most attention, a deliberate ploy, it hid the truth. Polly Peck might be dead, but not this bird. Alive and curious, Nadir probed
“Who is Mr Parrot?”
“You are!” I unveiled, explaining, “It’s a code name that MI6 use for you.”
“But why Parrot” quizzed Nadir, puzzled, “Can you explain that?”
Aware that Naylor’s wit might affront him and tactful, I professed uncertainty. On the spot and I suggested that MI6 wished me to use the moniker for him for he was the man behind Polly Peck.
“I’m very happy to meet you” he greeted us, warmly.
Spellbound, as I watched Nadir offer Jim his hand, a long way from sparking clogs on Stockport streets, I had warned him that life with me would be different. Nadir marked for us a milestone. It’s fair to say that we had endured the best and the worst of times on our mad journey from Ordsall to Istanbul. Born the same era as Jim, then in his 50s, flashing more smiles and charismatic, Nadir still the playboy. An untamed mane in his younger days, today his hair thinning, he still made an impression. As Peter filmed us, taking our seats, silence in court, Nadir began by enquiring if we cared for coffee. Standing beside him, as his attendant valet set it deftly before us, opening a fresh packet of Silk Cut for him and Nadir commenced
“I can give you cigarettes. Tell me, do you smoke?”
As Jim and I renounced the harmful vice, a considerable stockpile of cigarettes dwelt on top of a lovely polished table by Nadir’s elbow. Courteous, he enquired
“Do you mind if I smoke?”
“Not at all” we agreed.
“Do you know, Olivia” he began, making a confession “I didn’t smoke until I was 40, now look at me” pulling a face, he recognised, ”I chain-smoke!”
As he lit his second smoke in as many minutes, I believed him. My heart going all pitter-patter, yet he looked more anxious than me. Impossible not to notice his nervous tic, I knew well what he meant and responded
“I started smoking when MI5 put me in gaol on fake charges and quit when they planted me inside to meet Elizabeth, they said she doesn’t like smokers.”
On his third cigarette already, bringing our summit into focus, as Naylor’s not so secret passion for Python enjoyed a bit more mileage, always the daft things that attract most attention, a deliberate ploy, it hid the truth. Polly Peck might be dead, but not this bird. Alive and curious, Nadir probed
“Who is Mr Parrot?”
“You are!” I unveiled, explaining, “It’s a code name that MI6 use for you.”
“But why Parrot” quizzed Nadir, puzzled, “Can you explain that?”
Aware that Naylor’s wit might affront him and tactful, I professed uncertainty. On the spot and I suggested that MI6 wished me to use the moniker for him for he was the man behind Polly Peck.
- 230 -
Polly a popular name for pet parrots, I explained that from an operational point of view, it made Mr Parrot easy to memorise. Still not happy, Nadir probed
“What’s the purpose behind this, eh, this code name?”
“I must use it instead of your real name whenever referring directly to you.”
“Why did you write to Roger Cook?” he demanded.
”It was after watching his programme, you know, The Cook Report, the one you appeared in last year, it was dangerous to send him the letter.”
“How do you mean, dangerous?” enquired Nadir.
“Brown wouldn’t be pleased if he knew I was talking to you about him in front of a television camera” I outlined.
Our date turning into a general knowledge quiz and a super prize, an extended holiday in Turkey, losers went home early in this game. Before it got any colder, we sipped our coffee. Avidly evaluating my every response, Nadir probed
“How did Brown persuade you to assist him?”
Hiding my agenda, I told him that we had no other option, stressing that Brown would send us back to prison if he knew that we had contacted The Cook Report. Beyond dispute, I asserted that such an outcome was for him simple to arrange. Making my point, I cited not only Elizabeth’s, but also my own gaoling, before reminding him
“They’re desperate to get you in prison.”
Aware that Nadir’s health would never survive a long term in gaol, it made for the British government an avenue to conceal their skulduggery. When Jack Straw was still Home Secretary, he warned Nadir that if he ever returned to Britain to stand trial, he must rot in prison until a date was fixed for his hearing. How long would that take, how long is a piece of string? Unless any future Home Secretary relented, or Serious Fraud Office Director Robert Wardle changed his mind and accepted that Nadir should be permitted to return to Britain, without remand in prison, impossible to wrestle a complex fraud trial from a prison cell, the proviso prevented Nadir from fighting his corner. Alas, it seemed that no matter, which political party formed a government in Britain; fearful of Nadir winning his case, no help from them, it would cost them dear. It is equally likely that if his devious scam came to light, Robert Wardle would be facing a trip to his local Jobcentre.
Unlike disgraced Tory, Jeffrey Archer, no soft prison, gourmet food and booze parties for him, Nadir could expect to be banged up with murderers and terrorists at top security prison Belmarsh.
“What’s the purpose behind this, eh, this code name?”
“I must use it instead of your real name whenever referring directly to you.”
“Why did you write to Roger Cook?” he demanded.
”It was after watching his programme, you know, The Cook Report, the one you appeared in last year, it was dangerous to send him the letter.”
“How do you mean, dangerous?” enquired Nadir.
“Brown wouldn’t be pleased if he knew I was talking to you about him in front of a television camera” I outlined.
Our date turning into a general knowledge quiz and a super prize, an extended holiday in Turkey, losers went home early in this game. Before it got any colder, we sipped our coffee. Avidly evaluating my every response, Nadir probed
“How did Brown persuade you to assist him?”
Hiding my agenda, I told him that we had no other option, stressing that Brown would send us back to prison if he knew that we had contacted The Cook Report. Beyond dispute, I asserted that such an outcome was for him simple to arrange. Making my point, I cited not only Elizabeth’s, but also my own gaoling, before reminding him
“They’re desperate to get you in prison.”
Aware that Nadir’s health would never survive a long term in gaol, it made for the British government an avenue to conceal their skulduggery. When Jack Straw was still Home Secretary, he warned Nadir that if he ever returned to Britain to stand trial, he must rot in prison until a date was fixed for his hearing. How long would that take, how long is a piece of string? Unless any future Home Secretary relented, or Serious Fraud Office Director Robert Wardle changed his mind and accepted that Nadir should be permitted to return to Britain, without remand in prison, impossible to wrestle a complex fraud trial from a prison cell, the proviso prevented Nadir from fighting his corner. Alas, it seemed that no matter, which political party formed a government in Britain; fearful of Nadir winning his case, no help from them, it would cost them dear. It is equally likely that if his devious scam came to light, Robert Wardle would be facing a trip to his local Jobcentre.
Unlike disgraced Tory, Jeffrey Archer, no soft prison, gourmet food and booze parties for him, Nadir could expect to be banged up with murderers and terrorists at top security prison Belmarsh.
- 231 -
Yet Nadir is no danger to the public, no matter what some bizarre rumours claim, he’s not going to bomb or stab anybody.
As made apparent in a preceding chapter, Nadir didn’t do a runner when he left Britain. Forced to leave by the devious design of Wardle, stressed out, his nerves bad he was suffering depression. Unless common sense prevailed, spending who knows how long, living like a con in prison would kill or worse, drive him crazy. He would be a target for hard cons and face real physical danger. Nadir had already spent three nights in the Scrubs. They held Bilge in a police cell without reason. Still not yet sure about each other, Nadir quizzed
“Did you sabotage the conspiracy?”
“Yes, well at least I tried. You see, when I was released from Cookham Wood, Elizabeth was still inside and Brown wanted me to pursue our friendship by me writing to her. Unknown to him” I claimed “In one of my first letters, I requested Elizabeth to provide me with Polly Peck stationery, suspicious of my motive, it resulted in our correspondence drying up.”
As I recalled Pelham’s ruse, taking undue credit for it, a risky stunt, its singular purpose then to convince Nadir of my allegiance now. Evidently impressed and apparently ready to trust me, troubled by my welfare the tycoon probed
“Olivia, tell me, eh, how do you feel, are you, are you happy to take part in the proposed television programme?”
“I’ve had my misgivings, in my job, I’ve had to avoid such events.” I explained, offering him a knowing smile. “Although it’s different now,” I warned him, “We mustn’t get too greedy. It’s still a risky business.”
“You don’t want to kill the goose that lays the golden egg,” warned Jim.
“Are you a murderer?” exploded Nadir, aghast, his face registering disbelief.
Bloody hell, what had Jim done? As we stared at each other, like the good the bad and the ugly, squirming, not sure which rôles we played, finding it hilarious, as our audience fell about, only teasing, Nadir revealed
“I keep geese as pets, in fact I also have ninety-five ducks.”
”What – to eat?” I asked him feeling let down.
“Now you’re calling me a murderer!” cried Nadir, grinning, he swiftly added, “I keep them as pets, they give me a lot of pleasure.”
More seriously, deeply inquisitive about my background, he was still puzzled why I appeared so willing to help him. I maintained that we had more in common than he might imagine. Revealing that my troubles began with MI5 when they stitched me up and
As made apparent in a preceding chapter, Nadir didn’t do a runner when he left Britain. Forced to leave by the devious design of Wardle, stressed out, his nerves bad he was suffering depression. Unless common sense prevailed, spending who knows how long, living like a con in prison would kill or worse, drive him crazy. He would be a target for hard cons and face real physical danger. Nadir had already spent three nights in the Scrubs. They held Bilge in a police cell without reason. Still not yet sure about each other, Nadir quizzed
“Did you sabotage the conspiracy?”
“Yes, well at least I tried. You see, when I was released from Cookham Wood, Elizabeth was still inside and Brown wanted me to pursue our friendship by me writing to her. Unknown to him” I claimed “In one of my first letters, I requested Elizabeth to provide me with Polly Peck stationery, suspicious of my motive, it resulted in our correspondence drying up.”
As I recalled Pelham’s ruse, taking undue credit for it, a risky stunt, its singular purpose then to convince Nadir of my allegiance now. Evidently impressed and apparently ready to trust me, troubled by my welfare the tycoon probed
“Olivia, tell me, eh, how do you feel, are you, are you happy to take part in the proposed television programme?”
“I’ve had my misgivings, in my job, I’ve had to avoid such events.” I explained, offering him a knowing smile. “Although it’s different now,” I warned him, “We mustn’t get too greedy. It’s still a risky business.”
“You don’t want to kill the goose that lays the golden egg,” warned Jim.
“Are you a murderer?” exploded Nadir, aghast, his face registering disbelief.
Bloody hell, what had Jim done? As we stared at each other, like the good the bad and the ugly, squirming, not sure which rôles we played, finding it hilarious, as our audience fell about, only teasing, Nadir revealed
“I keep geese as pets, in fact I also have ninety-five ducks.”
”What – to eat?” I asked him feeling let down.
“Now you’re calling me a murderer!” cried Nadir, grinning, he swiftly added, “I keep them as pets, they give me a lot of pleasure.”
More seriously, deeply inquisitive about my background, he was still puzzled why I appeared so willing to help him. I maintained that we had more in common than he might imagine. Revealing that my troubles began with MI5 when they stitched me up and
- 232 -
had me incarcerated in a men’s prison. I outlined to him that the shock had killed Mum and Dad, nearly finishing me too. As I related to him more of my experiences, asserting that they had made me more ready to believe his claims of SFO wrongdoing, compassionate and Nadir murmured that he was sorry.
“MI5 ripped my life apart” I told him, on my soapbox now “I didn’t want to aid them, it means helping them do to you that which they had previously done to me”. I confessed, “I was afraid of them…I still am.”
“What do you mean?”
“Don’t ever think that I want to help them send innocent people to prison” I revealed “Only by appearing to help them can I hope to expose them. Five and Six roped me into their plot to ambush you just after Peter Dimond flew you to Northern Cyprus.”
Recalling the chapter when Pelham and Naylor cornered me in the supermarket car park, I revealed that even though that was three years before her trial, they promised me that Elizabeth would go to prison. In view of that, I predicted that if they ever knew that I was helping him now, they must set me up again and put me back in prison.
“I need more film, David!” bawled Peter.
As David raced to the rescue, Nadir started on a fresh packet of cigarettes and the valet fetched more coffee. As soon as Peter had snapped a new cassette into his camera, David snatched up the used film, and retreated out of shot.
Nadir enquired how did MI5 plant me in prison to meet Elizabeth. I explained to him that they feared that unless Jim and me committed a real crime, then their so-called ‘deniable operation’ risked exposure by leaks. I revealed that Brown had claimed that he didn’t trust the police, let alone prison officers, to keep a secret, therefore it made sense to do it for real. Nadir demanded
“What did you do?”
I told him how we transferred money from Graham Hill’s company account and dropped it into the PG Morris deposit account. I expanded that as the Company Accountant, it offered me the simplest solution. Nadir wanted more. He quizzed
“What took place during your interview with Wardle at the SFO?”
Adhering to Naylor’s script, I asserted that Wardle had portrayed the tycoon as a Mafia Don and had stated that he had seized a mass of evidence to support his otherwise fruitless raids on Nadir’s companies.
As his face registered disdain, Nadir gave me the impression that he was about to explode. Swiftly pressing on with my brief, sprinkling more salt in his wounds, I told him that Robert Nelson
“MI5 ripped my life apart” I told him, on my soapbox now “I didn’t want to aid them, it means helping them do to you that which they had previously done to me”. I confessed, “I was afraid of them…I still am.”
“What do you mean?”
“Don’t ever think that I want to help them send innocent people to prison” I revealed “Only by appearing to help them can I hope to expose them. Five and Six roped me into their plot to ambush you just after Peter Dimond flew you to Northern Cyprus.”
Recalling the chapter when Pelham and Naylor cornered me in the supermarket car park, I revealed that even though that was three years before her trial, they promised me that Elizabeth would go to prison. In view of that, I predicted that if they ever knew that I was helping him now, they must set me up again and put me back in prison.
“I need more film, David!” bawled Peter.
As David raced to the rescue, Nadir started on a fresh packet of cigarettes and the valet fetched more coffee. As soon as Peter had snapped a new cassette into his camera, David snatched up the used film, and retreated out of shot.
Nadir enquired how did MI5 plant me in prison to meet Elizabeth. I explained to him that they feared that unless Jim and me committed a real crime, then their so-called ‘deniable operation’ risked exposure by leaks. I revealed that Brown had claimed that he didn’t trust the police, let alone prison officers, to keep a secret, therefore it made sense to do it for real. Nadir demanded
“What did you do?”
I told him how we transferred money from Graham Hill’s company account and dropped it into the PG Morris deposit account. I expanded that as the Company Accountant, it offered me the simplest solution. Nadir wanted more. He quizzed
“What took place during your interview with Wardle at the SFO?”
Adhering to Naylor’s script, I asserted that Wardle had portrayed the tycoon as a Mafia Don and had stated that he had seized a mass of evidence to support his otherwise fruitless raids on Nadir’s companies.
As his face registered disdain, Nadir gave me the impression that he was about to explode. Swiftly pressing on with my brief, sprinkling more salt in his wounds, I told him that Robert Nelson
- 233 -
had promised me that he possessed sufficient proof to link him to corrupt deals vis-à-vis Swiss companies. Unable to contain himself, enraged, Nadir stormed
“Nelson’s a dickhead…Olivia, I’ve been accused of many bad things” his face black as thunder, he ranted “They’ve put me down as a secret arms trader, a drugs dealer and, and, oh, much more, when I tell them, produce the evidence – they can’t!”
Unlike mine, Nadir’s passionate performance no act, as he paused to light his umpteenth cigarette, he told me that there seemed no end to it. I could only agree, as Wardle fed spurious rumours to the media, they had demonised him. Not at all like a gangster, he seemed to me an earthy sort, they say it takes one to know one, I measured him a genuine victim.
As he accused Wardle of dismissing the facts and dealing in lies, a compelling claim, their bizarre bribery junk tended to prove it. Hopping mad, Nadir’s anguish boiling, he had told his story many times and convincing, as he kept banging on about his innocence. Striking a chord with me, he declared that he wished to gain justice and move on. As he stopped to light another fag, eloquently reminding me of his Muslim faith, at that moment, by the table, I saw his Koran. Imagine no religion would stop me from helping this man.
As he gave me a good example of British injustice, Nadir recalled the case of his old chum, Wyn Jones. A former Metropolitan Police Assistant Commissioner, no bent cop, but he was sacked when they discovered that he knew Nadir. Part of the smear campaign, I’m not repeating them here; an official investigation found all the rumours lies. I had heard most of it from Elizabeth, she had told me about the taxman, Michael Allcock. Celebrated as a crack Inland Revenue investigator, he had been among the first to cast stones at Nadir, next thing, Allcock’s in gaol for scamming the Tax Office. Expecting a judgment, it recalled a time when I had done that too, Nadir enquired
“What do you believe?”
“Its all talk” I admitted “The SFO never offered me any evidence.”
“When you visited Wardle, you met Brown your MI5 controller there,” asserted Nadir, quizzing “What did he say?
“Not true!” I put him right. “I didn’t meet Brown at the SFO, we met later at MI6 when he told me the Israeli delegation was dead, that’s when he told Jim and me our new objective was to get jobs on your security staff.”
A sneaky question meant to trip me up, as I won his tacit approval, it earned me a faint smile. Nadir was unaware that ‘Brown’ was only a cover name for Pelham, but he knew that a
- 234 -
“Nelson’s a dickhead…Olivia, I’ve been accused of many bad things” his face black as thunder, he ranted “They’ve put me down as a secret arms trader, a drugs dealer and, and, oh, much more, when I tell them, produce the evidence – they can’t!”
Unlike mine, Nadir’s passionate performance no act, as he paused to light his umpteenth cigarette, he told me that there seemed no end to it. I could only agree, as Wardle fed spurious rumours to the media, they had demonised him. Not at all like a gangster, he seemed to me an earthy sort, they say it takes one to know one, I measured him a genuine victim.
As he accused Wardle of dismissing the facts and dealing in lies, a compelling claim, their bizarre bribery junk tended to prove it. Hopping mad, Nadir’s anguish boiling, he had told his story many times and convincing, as he kept banging on about his innocence. Striking a chord with me, he declared that he wished to gain justice and move on. As he stopped to light another fag, eloquently reminding me of his Muslim faith, at that moment, by the table, I saw his Koran. Imagine no religion would stop me from helping this man.
As he gave me a good example of British injustice, Nadir recalled the case of his old chum, Wyn Jones. A former Metropolitan Police Assistant Commissioner, no bent cop, but he was sacked when they discovered that he knew Nadir. Part of the smear campaign, I’m not repeating them here; an official investigation found all the rumours lies. I had heard most of it from Elizabeth, she had told me about the taxman, Michael Allcock. Celebrated as a crack Inland Revenue investigator, he had been among the first to cast stones at Nadir, next thing, Allcock’s in gaol for scamming the Tax Office. Expecting a judgment, it recalled a time when I had done that too, Nadir enquired
“What do you believe?”
“Its all talk” I admitted “The SFO never offered me any evidence.”
“When you visited Wardle, you met Brown your MI5 controller there,” asserted Nadir, quizzing “What did he say?
“Not true!” I put him right. “I didn’t meet Brown at the SFO, we met later at MI6 when he told me the Israeli delegation was dead, that’s when he told Jim and me our new objective was to get jobs on your security staff.”
A sneaky question meant to trip me up, as I won his tacit approval, it earned me a faint smile. Nadir was unaware that ‘Brown’ was only a cover name for Pelham, but he knew that a
- 234 -
change of plan put him at MI6 not Elm House. Curious, Nadir queried
“Did MI5 ever seriously think about sending in the SAS to get me?”
“I doubt it,” I rejoined, offering him a glowing smile.
“It will take more than the SAS to secure my arrest,” pledged Nadir, derisive.
“Don’t underestimate them,” I warned him, thinking back to Dad’s exploits.
“I think I should tell you, Olivia” indignant, he bragged “I still have influence in this country – I’m protected by some 45,000 Turkish troops…”
“It evens the odds,” I accepted, diplomatically, offering him another smile.
My caution had hurt him. A mercurial character, as he mounted one last attack, Nadir probed
“What can you tell me about, this, this ridiculous Assignment Brief!”
The crux of my task, I thought that we would never get to it. Mad to argue with him, I agreed with his assessment and expressing my own reservations about it, I described the dodgy dossier risible. Nevertheless, the result Naylor had wanted. Although scornful of it, Nadir had accepted the contents of the Brief as genuine. Only human, curious, the tycoon asked me
“How much money has MI6 promised to pay you?”
“One hundred thousand pounds sterling” I told him.
“Is that all I’m worth!” joked Nadir. Soon recovering from his disappointment and apparently convinced by my performance, he announced “I’ve arranged for a car to be available to you during your stay in Turkey, I’d like you and Jim to see something of Istanbul. Turkey must work hard to gain a favourable image in the world, Midnight Express has done much damage.”
We knew what he meant, based on a true account by American, William Hayes, a convicted drug smuggler, the movie portrayed a harrowing, yet authentic tale of life in Istanbul’s grim Selimiye gaol. In my experience, Britain not too far behind, Turkey still had to improve on an abysmal human rights record. Yearning to build a better future and rising to his feet, Nadir full of Eastern promise, he told me
“You’ve suffered a painful life. When this episode is over, I want to help you. I’m in a position to offer you a very comfortable future.”
- 235 -
“Did MI5 ever seriously think about sending in the SAS to get me?”
“I doubt it,” I rejoined, offering him a glowing smile.
“It will take more than the SAS to secure my arrest,” pledged Nadir, derisive.
“Don’t underestimate them,” I warned him, thinking back to Dad’s exploits.
“I think I should tell you, Olivia” indignant, he bragged “I still have influence in this country – I’m protected by some 45,000 Turkish troops…”
“It evens the odds,” I accepted, diplomatically, offering him another smile.
My caution had hurt him. A mercurial character, as he mounted one last attack, Nadir probed
“What can you tell me about, this, this ridiculous Assignment Brief!”
The crux of my task, I thought that we would never get to it. Mad to argue with him, I agreed with his assessment and expressing my own reservations about it, I described the dodgy dossier risible. Nevertheless, the result Naylor had wanted. Although scornful of it, Nadir had accepted the contents of the Brief as genuine. Only human, curious, the tycoon asked me
“How much money has MI6 promised to pay you?”
“One hundred thousand pounds sterling” I told him.
“Is that all I’m worth!” joked Nadir. Soon recovering from his disappointment and apparently convinced by my performance, he announced “I’ve arranged for a car to be available to you during your stay in Turkey, I’d like you and Jim to see something of Istanbul. Turkey must work hard to gain a favourable image in the world, Midnight Express has done much damage.”
We knew what he meant, based on a true account by American, William Hayes, a convicted drug smuggler, the movie portrayed a harrowing, yet authentic tale of life in Istanbul’s grim Selimiye gaol. In my experience, Britain not too far behind, Turkey still had to improve on an abysmal human rights record. Yearning to build a better future and rising to his feet, Nadir full of Eastern promise, he told me
“You’ve suffered a painful life. When this episode is over, I want to help you. I’m in a position to offer you a very comfortable future.”
- 235 -
A reputation as a lady-killer, now I knew why, about to leave us, as he held my hand, his dark eyes boring into mine, emotive, Nadir assured me.
“You have my deepest sentiments…”
As his minders trailed behind them, Elizabeth and Bilge joined the exodus and pursued Nadir from the chamber. Wilting with exhaustion as I leaned on Jim’s arm for support, David joined us. Thrilled, he enthused
“Well done, I mean really well done – what do you think of Nadir, Olivia?”
“He’s sound, I like him” I responded.
As Peter at last killed his glaring lights, David ventured to help him dismantle his equipment just as Elizabeth dashed into the room, dramatic, she cried out
“He believes you! Asil believes you!”
Apparently, Nadir had just told her that he was commissioning David to make the programme. Lunchtime and as two heavies escorted our small party outside to the car, our dapper chauffeur patiently waiting by it, as Elizabeth approached him, she enquired
“Can you recommend a good local fish restaurant?”
“There is a place,” he told us “By the banks of the Bosphorus.”
Heading north, the car swiftly sliced through lush forest along the highway to Beykoz, a tiny fishing village not far from the mouth of the Black Sea. Unable to contain herself any longer, during the drive, Elizabeth unveiled
“Asil not only believes you, he thinks of David as a son.”
Leaving the car outside a pricey restaurant, as Elizabeth invited our cheerful driver to join us and during the meal, the banker confessed
“I’m afraid we don't know your name...”
“Gürdal” he replied, smiling, a handsome man, tall and thirtysomething, his hair jet-black matching his dark complexion, his features held comparison to Nadir.
“Were you born in Turkey?” quizzed Elizabeth.
“No” he replied and explaining his likeness to the tycoon, he added, “I’m like Mr Nadir, a Turkish-Cypriot, my wife lives in Northern Cyprus, it’s our home.”
“Olivia worked for the Mossad!” exclaimed Elizabeth.
Straight out with it, the banker never ceased to amaze me. Maintaining that he had once served in Lebanon, Gürdal asked me if I had ever been in the IDF, but before I could respond, his
“You have my deepest sentiments…”
As his minders trailed behind them, Elizabeth and Bilge joined the exodus and pursued Nadir from the chamber. Wilting with exhaustion as I leaned on Jim’s arm for support, David joined us. Thrilled, he enthused
“Well done, I mean really well done – what do you think of Nadir, Olivia?”
“He’s sound, I like him” I responded.
As Peter at last killed his glaring lights, David ventured to help him dismantle his equipment just as Elizabeth dashed into the room, dramatic, she cried out
“He believes you! Asil believes you!”
Apparently, Nadir had just told her that he was commissioning David to make the programme. Lunchtime and as two heavies escorted our small party outside to the car, our dapper chauffeur patiently waiting by it, as Elizabeth approached him, she enquired
“Can you recommend a good local fish restaurant?”
“There is a place,” he told us “By the banks of the Bosphorus.”
Heading north, the car swiftly sliced through lush forest along the highway to Beykoz, a tiny fishing village not far from the mouth of the Black Sea. Unable to contain herself any longer, during the drive, Elizabeth unveiled
“Asil not only believes you, he thinks of David as a son.”
Leaving the car outside a pricey restaurant, as Elizabeth invited our cheerful driver to join us and during the meal, the banker confessed
“I’m afraid we don't know your name...”
“Gürdal” he replied, smiling, a handsome man, tall and thirtysomething, his hair jet-black matching his dark complexion, his features held comparison to Nadir.
“Were you born in Turkey?” quizzed Elizabeth.
“No” he replied and explaining his likeness to the tycoon, he added, “I’m like Mr Nadir, a Turkish-Cypriot, my wife lives in Northern Cyprus, it’s our home.”
“Olivia worked for the Mossad!” exclaimed Elizabeth.
Straight out with it, the banker never ceased to amaze me. Maintaining that he had once served in Lebanon, Gürdal asked me if I had ever been in the IDF, but before I could respond, his
- 236 -
mobile rang. Embarrassed, quickly finishing his call, he told us that it was his wife. After the meal, dark outside, Gürdal dropped us at the Dedeman.
Next morning, during breakfast, pleased that we had not let her down Elizabeth informed us that Gürdal was on his way to the hôtel with the car to take us out on a trip, she added
“We’ll meet the boys later, they mustn’t be seen with us.”
After breakfast, Elizabeth returned to her room. It gave us precious time alone. As Jim ordered more coffee, remaining in the lobby, we suspected that our room might well be bugged. Two hours more and on the road again, as Gürdal escaped another jam, soon we sighted the Topkapi Palace, for many centuries the grand home to the Ottoman Sultans. Setting off on foot, we passed a plethora of armed Turkish soldiers encircling the grounds, undeterred, Elizabeth paused by the first booth and taking out her purse to buy everyone entrance tickets, about to pass through the turnstile and Gürdal eyed a metal detector, thinking better of it and as he scampered off, he called back to us
“I’ll catch you up!”
“Gürdal has a gun,” remarked Elizabeth. Nonchalant, she added, “I believe he’s a member of the Turkish Secret Service.”
As we watched Gürdal heading for the first security post, during our chat, Nadir had mentioned to me that he knew Victor Ostrovsky, an ex-spy from the Mossad. I believe that the tycoon had asked Turkish spooks to check me out. My thoughts elsewhere now and for once, enjoying life, as we passed more soldiers, strolling under the arch of the Imperial Gate, about to enter the Court of The Janissaries, turning back to look, I had to laugh. Running for all he was worth, as he tried to catch us up, halting him in his tracks, Gürdal’s mobile sprang into life yet again. Three calls this morning, as he ended his latest chat, blushing, Gürdal confessed
“That was my wife again.”
You could tell that he really missed her. As Jim smiled at me, we loved that sort of thing. About to get on and guess what as Gürdal took another call, once he had finished, very dry, Jim said it for him
“That was your wife again.”
“No, not this time” relieved, he told us “This time it was Mr Nadir”.
Then it rang again. As Gürdal blew kisses down the phone, clearly, it was not the tycoon. Deeply bashful, he didn’t know where to put his face. Not meaning to be, yet hilarious and cuddly, a good guy,
- 237 -
Next morning, during breakfast, pleased that we had not let her down Elizabeth informed us that Gürdal was on his way to the hôtel with the car to take us out on a trip, she added
“We’ll meet the boys later, they mustn’t be seen with us.”
After breakfast, Elizabeth returned to her room. It gave us precious time alone. As Jim ordered more coffee, remaining in the lobby, we suspected that our room might well be bugged. Two hours more and on the road again, as Gürdal escaped another jam, soon we sighted the Topkapi Palace, for many centuries the grand home to the Ottoman Sultans. Setting off on foot, we passed a plethora of armed Turkish soldiers encircling the grounds, undeterred, Elizabeth paused by the first booth and taking out her purse to buy everyone entrance tickets, about to pass through the turnstile and Gürdal eyed a metal detector, thinking better of it and as he scampered off, he called back to us
“I’ll catch you up!”
“Gürdal has a gun,” remarked Elizabeth. Nonchalant, she added, “I believe he’s a member of the Turkish Secret Service.”
As we watched Gürdal heading for the first security post, during our chat, Nadir had mentioned to me that he knew Victor Ostrovsky, an ex-spy from the Mossad. I believe that the tycoon had asked Turkish spooks to check me out. My thoughts elsewhere now and for once, enjoying life, as we passed more soldiers, strolling under the arch of the Imperial Gate, about to enter the Court of The Janissaries, turning back to look, I had to laugh. Running for all he was worth, as he tried to catch us up, halting him in his tracks, Gürdal’s mobile sprang into life yet again. Three calls this morning, as he ended his latest chat, blushing, Gürdal confessed
“That was my wife again.”
You could tell that he really missed her. As Jim smiled at me, we loved that sort of thing. About to get on and guess what as Gürdal took another call, once he had finished, very dry, Jim said it for him
“That was your wife again.”
“No, not this time” relieved, he told us “This time it was Mr Nadir”.
Then it rang again. As Gürdal blew kisses down the phone, clearly, it was not the tycoon. Deeply bashful, he didn’t know where to put his face. Not meaning to be, yet hilarious and cuddly, a good guy,
- 237 -
the sort that you would want for a best friend. A big grin and he burst out laughing
“That was my wife this time!”
Releasing our tension, hysterical, as we fell about. Elizabeth had wandered off, coming back to find us, as we burst into more laughter, her perplexed expression only made it worse. The ridiculous episode over, as we pulled ourselves together, matron-like, Elizabeth led on. About to explore the cavernous palace kitchens and joining a party of Japanese tourists, ogling the silver, fine crystal and oriental porcelain. No philistine, but Elizabeth had seen it all before. She lamented
“We don’t have time to see the harem – it has four hundred rooms.”
Instead, we explored the Divan-I-Humayun or Assembly Room of the Council of State. Once the province of the Grand Vizier and no spy service, as such then, the Sultan hid behind a latticed window to keep an eye on things. Awestruck and we tried the Treasury where made even more famous by the movie, we spied the Topkapi dagger. Properly known as the elaborate Kandjar. Dressed in an emerald studded hilt, sheathed in gold and set with diamonds.
The enormous 86-carat Spoonmaker’s Diamond bowled me over. Legend has it that a pauper discovered the stupendous gem and exchanged it for three wooden spoons. The narrative amused me, drawing a parallel with the present. Maybe it had inspired Naylor. Like a wooden spoon, he had equipped me with a very silly brief to buy Nadir. The Treasury behind us and around the corner, sighting a café, Elizabeth suggested coffee. Out with her mobile and rollicking David, before she finished her call, furious with him, the banker wailed
“The boys are lost!”
Gürdal explained that the Cook Reporters had failed their homework, they had asked their taxi driver to take them to Topkapi, but not there and for a good few centuries the palace stands in East Stamboul. Issuing a new brief, Elizabeth told David that we would wait for him at the café.
Freezing today and huddling around a glowing coke brazier to keep warm. Not just anywhere, at the confluence of the Golden Horn, our spot on Seraglio Point, offered us an outstanding view. As we stared across the bay, almost lost in the far distance, we glimpsed Üsküdar and the misty Çamlica hills. Increasingly agitated and bemoaning their ineptness, as she drew our notice to more mundane matters. Poor David and Salk, their names mud. Bitter cold and Elizabeth wailed
“Ohhh where are they, the boys should be here by now.”
“That was my wife this time!”
Releasing our tension, hysterical, as we fell about. Elizabeth had wandered off, coming back to find us, as we burst into more laughter, her perplexed expression only made it worse. The ridiculous episode over, as we pulled ourselves together, matron-like, Elizabeth led on. About to explore the cavernous palace kitchens and joining a party of Japanese tourists, ogling the silver, fine crystal and oriental porcelain. No philistine, but Elizabeth had seen it all before. She lamented
“We don’t have time to see the harem – it has four hundred rooms.”
Instead, we explored the Divan-I-Humayun or Assembly Room of the Council of State. Once the province of the Grand Vizier and no spy service, as such then, the Sultan hid behind a latticed window to keep an eye on things. Awestruck and we tried the Treasury where made even more famous by the movie, we spied the Topkapi dagger. Properly known as the elaborate Kandjar. Dressed in an emerald studded hilt, sheathed in gold and set with diamonds.
The enormous 86-carat Spoonmaker’s Diamond bowled me over. Legend has it that a pauper discovered the stupendous gem and exchanged it for three wooden spoons. The narrative amused me, drawing a parallel with the present. Maybe it had inspired Naylor. Like a wooden spoon, he had equipped me with a very silly brief to buy Nadir. The Treasury behind us and around the corner, sighting a café, Elizabeth suggested coffee. Out with her mobile and rollicking David, before she finished her call, furious with him, the banker wailed
“The boys are lost!”
Gürdal explained that the Cook Reporters had failed their homework, they had asked their taxi driver to take them to Topkapi, but not there and for a good few centuries the palace stands in East Stamboul. Issuing a new brief, Elizabeth told David that we would wait for him at the café.
Freezing today and huddling around a glowing coke brazier to keep warm. Not just anywhere, at the confluence of the Golden Horn, our spot on Seraglio Point, offered us an outstanding view. As we stared across the bay, almost lost in the far distance, we glimpsed Üsküdar and the misty Çamlica hills. Increasingly agitated and bemoaning their ineptness, as she drew our notice to more mundane matters. Poor David and Salk, their names mud. Bitter cold and Elizabeth wailed
“Ohhh where are they, the boys should be here by now.”
- 238 -
Half an hour on and even more upset, Elizabeth tried David again. Furious with him, he was still lost. Abandoning all our plans to meet up at the café, instead the banker suggested to him that we all convened outside the Blue Mosque. Gürdal claimed it dead easy to find and as he parked the car in Taksim Square, awaiting our arrival and pushing tacky tourist souvenirs in our faces, as we tried to leave the car, a shabby horde of skinny urchins at once swooped upon us.
Elizabeth’s mounting anxiety worried me, so taking charge I suggested that we formed a search party. As we combed the square in a determined bid to find the Cook Reporters, the banker agreed to try the right wing, while Jim played centre forward, leaving me to take the left flank. No joy with Gürdal and no fun for us, as they formed three separate columns, the waif-like pedlars chased us all over the square, until Elizabeth sighted them. Relieved to see us, Salk sure glad that no one had caught him on camera. As David clutched an armful of cheap Istanbul tourist books, delighted, I cried
“They got you!”
Sheepish, David confessed that a bandit claiming to have five children to feed had fleeced him. Costing him seven pounds, he had had his shoes cleaned twice. Aghast by his woeful sense of direction, as everyone trooped to the car, I had to snigger when Elizabeth discreetly whispered in my ear
“And he’s going to find Grundy!”
Once in the car, no room for me, he didn’t mind, I sat on Jim’s knee. Leaving Taksim Square behind, Gürdal sped us to Florya and the Beyti Restaurant for lunch. A haunt of the rich and famous and one wall covered in black and white photos, the venue bragged the patronage of presidents and prime ministers, not to mention a whole host of movie stars. During a superb meal, David had another confession to make. He began
“We went for a drink last night, Pete had to hang onto me.”
”Lets have it right,” protested Salk, “You gave me a big hug,” Peter explained that “David’s over-friendly after a drink, I thought hello, I’ve got to stop this, so I said, let’s drink up and get a taxi.”
“We got lost” conceded David. He explained “The driver didn’t understand a word of English, so like you do, I started shouting at him – silly man, he thought I was going to shoot him – he jumped out of the taxi and ran away!”
“I had to chase him and get him to come back,” added Peter. “David phoned his wife in England giving her the number of our hôtel.” As he ended the saga, Salk explained, “She called the hôtel and got them to phone the driver and tell him where to take us.”
- 239 -
Elizabeth’s mounting anxiety worried me, so taking charge I suggested that we formed a search party. As we combed the square in a determined bid to find the Cook Reporters, the banker agreed to try the right wing, while Jim played centre forward, leaving me to take the left flank. No joy with Gürdal and no fun for us, as they formed three separate columns, the waif-like pedlars chased us all over the square, until Elizabeth sighted them. Relieved to see us, Salk sure glad that no one had caught him on camera. As David clutched an armful of cheap Istanbul tourist books, delighted, I cried
“They got you!”
Sheepish, David confessed that a bandit claiming to have five children to feed had fleeced him. Costing him seven pounds, he had had his shoes cleaned twice. Aghast by his woeful sense of direction, as everyone trooped to the car, I had to snigger when Elizabeth discreetly whispered in my ear
“And he’s going to find Grundy!”
Once in the car, no room for me, he didn’t mind, I sat on Jim’s knee. Leaving Taksim Square behind, Gürdal sped us to Florya and the Beyti Restaurant for lunch. A haunt of the rich and famous and one wall covered in black and white photos, the venue bragged the patronage of presidents and prime ministers, not to mention a whole host of movie stars. During a superb meal, David had another confession to make. He began
“We went for a drink last night, Pete had to hang onto me.”
”Lets have it right,” protested Salk, “You gave me a big hug,” Peter explained that “David’s over-friendly after a drink, I thought hello, I’ve got to stop this, so I said, let’s drink up and get a taxi.”
“We got lost” conceded David. He explained “The driver didn’t understand a word of English, so like you do, I started shouting at him – silly man, he thought I was going to shoot him – he jumped out of the taxi and ran away!”
“I had to chase him and get him to come back,” added Peter. “David phoned his wife in England giving her the number of our hôtel.” As he ended the saga, Salk explained, “She called the hôtel and got them to phone the driver and tell him where to take us.”
- 239 -
Clearly unimpressed, Elizabeth bit her tongue. Still hungry, David had an idea.
“Olivia, I need you to fix another date with Grundy. Please – just one more. We have to make him into a real person.”
That would be difficult. Alas, David didn’t know it, but after meeting Nadir, I had all I needed for my agenda. Our roles reversed and from now on happy to go along with him, it provided extra material for me. Outwardly maintaining my rôle and playing hard to get, I asked him
“What do you want this time, David?”
“Can you find an excuse,” he suggested. “I want Grundy to pay you a visit.”
“I know this chap called Allan Harraden,” revealed Peter. “I’d like him to wire your flat, I want us to do some secret filming.”
“You’ll like Allan,” claimed David “He’s like us – no arsehole!”
“I thought you said you’d got good shots of Grundy?”
“The stuff we got in the park isn’t very clear,” alleged Peter, pulling a face.
I didn’t believe a word. However, remaining two-faced, I issued my own orders and asked Elizabeth to get me a letter from Nadir to give me an excuse to contact Grundy. The banker pledged to fix it.
“We’ll have Grundy tailed” unveiled David, “You never know, he might lead us to his house. I’ll hire a special team and have him followed from your flat” he added, “We can contact certain people to do special jobs.”
Monday, 12th January and if I had failed to pass Nadir’s grilling, we would be heading back to London today. Instead, the tycoon had extended our leave by several more days. Meant to be a holiday, watching us more like, as Jim joined me, taking breakfast with her and Elizabeth checking out of the Dedeman. When Jim asked her where she was going, the banker told us that she was switching to the swish Swissôtel, located near the Bosphorus in Beşiktaş. She declared
“Its business. I’ve to meet a Swiss associate, he’s flying in from Geneva. I have to greet him at the airport.”
At lunchtime, Jim and me enjoyed a chat with Gürdal in the lobby as we waited for a posse of porters to round up Elizabeth’s luggage. Once they had dropped it into the Mercedes, a file of fluttering flags heralded our entrance as we drew near the impressive Swissôtel.
As Gürdal halted the car by a splendid foyer, all braid and buttons and a smart concierge opened my door. I felt like a princess
“Olivia, I need you to fix another date with Grundy. Please – just one more. We have to make him into a real person.”
That would be difficult. Alas, David didn’t know it, but after meeting Nadir, I had all I needed for my agenda. Our roles reversed and from now on happy to go along with him, it provided extra material for me. Outwardly maintaining my rôle and playing hard to get, I asked him
“What do you want this time, David?”
“Can you find an excuse,” he suggested. “I want Grundy to pay you a visit.”
“I know this chap called Allan Harraden,” revealed Peter. “I’d like him to wire your flat, I want us to do some secret filming.”
“You’ll like Allan,” claimed David “He’s like us – no arsehole!”
“I thought you said you’d got good shots of Grundy?”
“The stuff we got in the park isn’t very clear,” alleged Peter, pulling a face.
I didn’t believe a word. However, remaining two-faced, I issued my own orders and asked Elizabeth to get me a letter from Nadir to give me an excuse to contact Grundy. The banker pledged to fix it.
“We’ll have Grundy tailed” unveiled David, “You never know, he might lead us to his house. I’ll hire a special team and have him followed from your flat” he added, “We can contact certain people to do special jobs.”
Monday, 12th January and if I had failed to pass Nadir’s grilling, we would be heading back to London today. Instead, the tycoon had extended our leave by several more days. Meant to be a holiday, watching us more like, as Jim joined me, taking breakfast with her and Elizabeth checking out of the Dedeman. When Jim asked her where she was going, the banker told us that she was switching to the swish Swissôtel, located near the Bosphorus in Beşiktaş. She declared
“Its business. I’ve to meet a Swiss associate, he’s flying in from Geneva. I have to greet him at the airport.”
At lunchtime, Jim and me enjoyed a chat with Gürdal in the lobby as we waited for a posse of porters to round up Elizabeth’s luggage. Once they had dropped it into the Mercedes, a file of fluttering flags heralded our entrance as we drew near the impressive Swissôtel.
As Gürdal halted the car by a splendid foyer, all braid and buttons and a smart concierge opened my door. I felt like a princess
- 240 -
stepping onto plush red carpet and a palace inside, Jim led me to a table in a white marble lounge. While in the backdrop a pianist tickled the ivories, a vast picture window gave us a panoramic view of the Bosphorus. Shortly, as Gürdal joined us at our table and we waited for Elizabeth to check in, elaborately dressed in traditional Byzantine costume, a waitress brought us a pot of excellent coffee.
All done, as she rejoined our party, Elizabeth explained to us that she needed a new briefcase. Once more, as we headed back to the car, insisting that we simply must visit the Grand Bazaar, as Gürdal headed for it, requiring the car for work, Elizabeth asked us if we would mind taking a taxi back to the Dedeman. As she opened up her purse, much less, than it sounds, giving me three million Turkish lire for the taxi, Elizabeth asked me how much it had cost us to get to Heathrow.
“About £50,” I recalled, surprised.
“Here’s $200 – will that cover it?” queried the banker.
It saved me asking Naylor for it. As Elizabeth’s mobile rang, a quick call, soon over, looking pleased with herself she told me
“Asil’s just struck a lucrative deal with Tesco.”
As the car crawled past Mark’s & Spencer, Gürdal announced that he liked their undies and stuck in another jam, as we tried to traverse Galata Bridge, Elizabeth confessed that she had been thinking. She told me
“You and Jim will need to leave the UK before we can show our programme on British TV. MI6 will try to have you arrested, eh, would you mind if Asil fixed it for you to stay in Paris?”
I would be delirious. Hardly able to trust my ears, about to jump at her offer and my bubble burst as Gürdal settled it.
“No – far better you stay in Turkey where we can protect you. They’ll arrest you in France, you will be free from that in Istanbul.”
Drat, I had wanted to witness the Eiffel Tower from my window. At last, over the bridge and back in East Stamboul once more, as he found a convenient place, Gürdal pulled up outside the Grand Bazaar. A maze of four thousand tiny shops, the vibrant market sold gold jewellery, leather goods, and traditional carpets.
Unable to find a parking spot, as we climbed out of the car, Gürdal promised to circle the busy block. Galloping on ahead of us, as Elizabeth led the way, leaving hordes of fervent pedlars in our wake. As we trotted down the narrow alleyways, from that first morning when I listened to the muezzin, I felt at home. The sights, smells and sounds all Middle Eastern, they recalled Israel.
- 241 -
All done, as she rejoined our party, Elizabeth explained to us that she needed a new briefcase. Once more, as we headed back to the car, insisting that we simply must visit the Grand Bazaar, as Gürdal headed for it, requiring the car for work, Elizabeth asked us if we would mind taking a taxi back to the Dedeman. As she opened up her purse, much less, than it sounds, giving me three million Turkish lire for the taxi, Elizabeth asked me how much it had cost us to get to Heathrow.
“About £50,” I recalled, surprised.
“Here’s $200 – will that cover it?” queried the banker.
It saved me asking Naylor for it. As Elizabeth’s mobile rang, a quick call, soon over, looking pleased with herself she told me
“Asil’s just struck a lucrative deal with Tesco.”
As the car crawled past Mark’s & Spencer, Gürdal announced that he liked their undies and stuck in another jam, as we tried to traverse Galata Bridge, Elizabeth confessed that she had been thinking. She told me
“You and Jim will need to leave the UK before we can show our programme on British TV. MI6 will try to have you arrested, eh, would you mind if Asil fixed it for you to stay in Paris?”
I would be delirious. Hardly able to trust my ears, about to jump at her offer and my bubble burst as Gürdal settled it.
“No – far better you stay in Turkey where we can protect you. They’ll arrest you in France, you will be free from that in Istanbul.”
Drat, I had wanted to witness the Eiffel Tower from my window. At last, over the bridge and back in East Stamboul once more, as he found a convenient place, Gürdal pulled up outside the Grand Bazaar. A maze of four thousand tiny shops, the vibrant market sold gold jewellery, leather goods, and traditional carpets.
Unable to find a parking spot, as we climbed out of the car, Gürdal promised to circle the busy block. Galloping on ahead of us, as Elizabeth led the way, leaving hordes of fervent pedlars in our wake. As we trotted down the narrow alleyways, from that first morning when I listened to the muezzin, I felt at home. The sights, smells and sounds all Middle Eastern, they recalled Israel.
- 241 -
Super quality and so much choice, Elizabeth soon found a leather briefcase she fancied. A spot of age-old pazarlik, as Elizabeth haggled over the price, content to smile and watch, I had missed it. As the trader assured her that it was worth fifty dollars, Elizabeth threatened to walk. As he caved in, she had knocked him down to thirty. Moving swiftly on and an elfin shop as we entered his premises, greeting us by the door, the merchant plied tiny cups of Turkish coffee. Elizabeth asked him to show us a Hereke carpet. His English good, he warned her
“Hereke are made from the finest silk – they’re very expensive.”
“That doesn’t matter,” Elizabeth told him “Its for my employer.”
“Who might that be?” he quizzed, smelling money.
“I’d really rather not say,” murmured the banker.
“I can get one for you,” he pledged, as we departed.
About to leave us, Elizabeth divulged that like Nadir, she desired us to fall in love with our intended future base. More pragmatic, it set me wondering if dodgy David had proposed our visit to the bazaar. In such a place, it would prove easy to monitor us on the off chance that we met an MI6 contact. As Jim joined me, we went on a tour of the beehive of shops. Fascinating until weary of the tiresome street hawkers trying to offload their fake French scent, they trailed us in droves. Escaping the mêlée and resting our tired feet, we felt very glad to unwind on the mucky backseat of a yellow cab.
As Jim asked him to take us to the Dedeman in Esentepe, no problem, the cabby soon found the nearest jam. Violently bashing his head against the steering wheel, a real character, as he set me off giggling. Arms waving, the cabby turned about in his seat and hollered
“Chock a block, chock a block!”
Stuck fast and rolling down his window for a chat with a mate, the cabby had been bred to the foul fumes smothering the taxi, just a taste of the murky smog, horrible and lurking over the city. Their exuberant fans call it hell. Braking the cab at a red light opposite Galatasaray football ground and the moustache at the wheel clearly a disciple. All smiles, as we poked fun at our rivalry, now firm pals, even if his team had once beaten ours. Eventually, we arrived at the Dedeman.
That evening, as Gürdal ferried us to the Swissôtel, while he returned to the car, inviting us to dinner in the Ku Kong Chinese restaurant, when the waiter departed from our table, conspiratorially, Elizabeth whispered to me
“Can you hear what the Americans in the corner are saying?”
- 242 -
“Hereke are made from the finest silk – they’re very expensive.”
“That doesn’t matter,” Elizabeth told him “Its for my employer.”
“Who might that be?” he quizzed, smelling money.
“I’d really rather not say,” murmured the banker.
“I can get one for you,” he pledged, as we departed.
About to leave us, Elizabeth divulged that like Nadir, she desired us to fall in love with our intended future base. More pragmatic, it set me wondering if dodgy David had proposed our visit to the bazaar. In such a place, it would prove easy to monitor us on the off chance that we met an MI6 contact. As Jim joined me, we went on a tour of the beehive of shops. Fascinating until weary of the tiresome street hawkers trying to offload their fake French scent, they trailed us in droves. Escaping the mêlée and resting our tired feet, we felt very glad to unwind on the mucky backseat of a yellow cab.
As Jim asked him to take us to the Dedeman in Esentepe, no problem, the cabby soon found the nearest jam. Violently bashing his head against the steering wheel, a real character, as he set me off giggling. Arms waving, the cabby turned about in his seat and hollered
“Chock a block, chock a block!”
Stuck fast and rolling down his window for a chat with a mate, the cabby had been bred to the foul fumes smothering the taxi, just a taste of the murky smog, horrible and lurking over the city. Their exuberant fans call it hell. Braking the cab at a red light opposite Galatasaray football ground and the moustache at the wheel clearly a disciple. All smiles, as we poked fun at our rivalry, now firm pals, even if his team had once beaten ours. Eventually, we arrived at the Dedeman.
That evening, as Gürdal ferried us to the Swissôtel, while he returned to the car, inviting us to dinner in the Ku Kong Chinese restaurant, when the waiter departed from our table, conspiratorially, Elizabeth whispered to me
“Can you hear what the Americans in the corner are saying?”
- 242 -
“They’re discussing a deal that they’ve struck with AN” I told her. “Its linked to an oil refinery, they said AN’s figures are good.”
“They were at the office all day,” confided Elizabeth. “We’ve agreed to build a refinery in Istanbul”.
During the meal, Elizabeth enquired into my background with the IDF. I knew that David had put her up to it. Aware that I didn’t trust him, he used the banker in his pains to con me. I couldn’t grumble, not after winding up them. Elizabeth had had plenty of chance in gaol to ask me, leaving it until now confirmed that she represented David’s pawn. Or should that be queen? Making her move, she asked me how I got the scar on my right arm.
“I’m sorry, it happened such a long time ago, I’d really rather not discuss it.”
“It's a war wound isn't it – was it caused by shrapnel or bullet?”
“It wouldn’t be right for me to talk about it, Elizabeth,” I teased.
“I think you were at Entebbe – am I right, yes, I am right aren’t I.”
Pushy to the point of rudeness, making her work for it and toying, I changed the subject and fair comment, remarked
“I couldn’t trust David to find his way out of bed. Tell me Elizabeth, how does he expect to stalk the cream of MI6.”
Aware that they had to take care, but not the villain of the piece, their distrust niggled me. After she had tried to ambush me, lost for words, as Elizabeth fiddled with her napkin, we had reached stalemate. Reasonably, Jim advised her
“It can do no harm to tell us, Elizabeth. We are on the same side.”
Part of Israeli folklore, the Golani had played a part in it. I gave her an account of the IDF raid on Entebbe. Elizabeth sat enthralled, she loved ripping yarns and Naylor had ordered me to excite her. When I had done, at once jumping to conclusions and Elizabeth shrieked
“I knew it, I was right!”
“Don’t forget, it’s a deal, Elizabeth” Jim reminded her, “When you tell us about David’s plans.”
As I left him to it, Jim had learned this game fast, my unsung hero, part of me and priceless. Aware of his own shortcomings, David planned to hire a specialist team of ex-SAS men. Elizabeth didn’t know how they meant to tail Grundy, it didn’t matter I could make an educated guess. She added
“David has to be careful, they might not help him if he tells them that Grundy’s MI6.”
- 243 -
“They were at the office all day,” confided Elizabeth. “We’ve agreed to build a refinery in Istanbul”.
During the meal, Elizabeth enquired into my background with the IDF. I knew that David had put her up to it. Aware that I didn’t trust him, he used the banker in his pains to con me. I couldn’t grumble, not after winding up them. Elizabeth had had plenty of chance in gaol to ask me, leaving it until now confirmed that she represented David’s pawn. Or should that be queen? Making her move, she asked me how I got the scar on my right arm.
“I’m sorry, it happened such a long time ago, I’d really rather not discuss it.”
“It's a war wound isn't it – was it caused by shrapnel or bullet?”
“It wouldn’t be right for me to talk about it, Elizabeth,” I teased.
“I think you were at Entebbe – am I right, yes, I am right aren’t I.”
Pushy to the point of rudeness, making her work for it and toying, I changed the subject and fair comment, remarked
“I couldn’t trust David to find his way out of bed. Tell me Elizabeth, how does he expect to stalk the cream of MI6.”
Aware that they had to take care, but not the villain of the piece, their distrust niggled me. After she had tried to ambush me, lost for words, as Elizabeth fiddled with her napkin, we had reached stalemate. Reasonably, Jim advised her
“It can do no harm to tell us, Elizabeth. We are on the same side.”
Part of Israeli folklore, the Golani had played a part in it. I gave her an account of the IDF raid on Entebbe. Elizabeth sat enthralled, she loved ripping yarns and Naylor had ordered me to excite her. When I had done, at once jumping to conclusions and Elizabeth shrieked
“I knew it, I was right!”
“Don’t forget, it’s a deal, Elizabeth” Jim reminded her, “When you tell us about David’s plans.”
As I left him to it, Jim had learned this game fast, my unsung hero, part of me and priceless. Aware of his own shortcomings, David planned to hire a specialist team of ex-SAS men. Elizabeth didn’t know how they meant to tail Grundy, it didn’t matter I could make an educated guess. She added
“David has to be careful, they might not help him if he tells them that Grundy’s MI6.”
- 243 -
Next morning, Tuesday 13th January, after breakfast, Jim joined me for another private talk in the lobby. Shaking my head as I began to laugh, he queried
“What’s so funny?”
“It gets no easier does it – we’re up against the SAS now!”
As I recalled the chapter when we had used Peter Kerry as bait to kid David in Pencester Gardens, Jim reckoned that we might need Naylor’s help again. Aiding us, Naylor had then provided us with a decoy. When he followed Grundy out of the park, David chased close behind and spied on him as the impostor climbed into his taxi. Later, confessing his deed, David claimed that the event had really impressed him. A simple dodge, it convinced him that he had witnessed a Service car tailing Grundy’s taxi up the road. Not wrong! Naylor had supplied the wheels to make the sneaky scam look real. After lunch, expecting Gürdal, we went down to the lobby to find him deep in conversation with a tall dark stranger. Strolling over to them, we met Gürdal’s friend.
“This is Mehmet, one of Mr Nadir’s people, he speaks no English, like me, he’s from Northern Cyprus.”
In common with most of Nadir’s burly minders, as we shook hands with him, Mehmet a man mountain, he looked ex-commando. Not with us today, Gürdal explained that Elizabeth was busy at the office. As he enquired into which venue we would like to visit, I suggested the military museum.
“You’ll enjoy it” enthused Gürdal, ”I’ve been there many times!”
Upon our arrival, the museum closed today, let down, but making a suggestion, Gürdal pulled the car into Yerebatan Caddesi. As Jim joined me in the street outside our new venue, before Gürdal sped away, he promised to park over the road and wait for us in Taksim Square.
As we made our way down the great stone slabs and entered into the cavernous basilica, Constantine ordered the construction of the Yerebatan Saray or Sunken Palace, back in the third century. The most impressive section of a subterranean waterway, Justinian liked it so much that he added a bit more three centuries later. Meant to insure against siege, today the place romantic, we found ourselves deep in the mouth of a splendid murky grotto. Our booklet claimed that 336 sculptured columns held up the roof, each one eight metres tall. An immense structure and like fine rain, as water cascaded into shallow pools below, at once covering my head with the booklet, I had to watch out for my hair frizzing. As sexy coloured spotlights flickered pleasingly upon them, subtle dancing shadows kissed ancient walls. Moving on and before the Column of Tears, we made our wish and stole a kiss. Shortly, climbing more slabs and back on the street, a lovely day in Taksim Square, the warm sunshine had tempted out
“What’s so funny?”
“It gets no easier does it – we’re up against the SAS now!”
As I recalled the chapter when we had used Peter Kerry as bait to kid David in Pencester Gardens, Jim reckoned that we might need Naylor’s help again. Aiding us, Naylor had then provided us with a decoy. When he followed Grundy out of the park, David chased close behind and spied on him as the impostor climbed into his taxi. Later, confessing his deed, David claimed that the event had really impressed him. A simple dodge, it convinced him that he had witnessed a Service car tailing Grundy’s taxi up the road. Not wrong! Naylor had supplied the wheels to make the sneaky scam look real. After lunch, expecting Gürdal, we went down to the lobby to find him deep in conversation with a tall dark stranger. Strolling over to them, we met Gürdal’s friend.
“This is Mehmet, one of Mr Nadir’s people, he speaks no English, like me, he’s from Northern Cyprus.”
In common with most of Nadir’s burly minders, as we shook hands with him, Mehmet a man mountain, he looked ex-commando. Not with us today, Gürdal explained that Elizabeth was busy at the office. As he enquired into which venue we would like to visit, I suggested the military museum.
“You’ll enjoy it” enthused Gürdal, ”I’ve been there many times!”
Upon our arrival, the museum closed today, let down, but making a suggestion, Gürdal pulled the car into Yerebatan Caddesi. As Jim joined me in the street outside our new venue, before Gürdal sped away, he promised to park over the road and wait for us in Taksim Square.
As we made our way down the great stone slabs and entered into the cavernous basilica, Constantine ordered the construction of the Yerebatan Saray or Sunken Palace, back in the third century. The most impressive section of a subterranean waterway, Justinian liked it so much that he added a bit more three centuries later. Meant to insure against siege, today the place romantic, we found ourselves deep in the mouth of a splendid murky grotto. Our booklet claimed that 336 sculptured columns held up the roof, each one eight metres tall. An immense structure and like fine rain, as water cascaded into shallow pools below, at once covering my head with the booklet, I had to watch out for my hair frizzing. As sexy coloured spotlights flickered pleasingly upon them, subtle dancing shadows kissed ancient walls. Moving on and before the Column of Tears, we made our wish and stole a kiss. Shortly, climbing more slabs and back on the street, a lovely day in Taksim Square, the warm sunshine had tempted out
- 244 -
abundant Muslim pilgrims and more tourists. In the distance, acquiring it from a hawker in the square, busy by the car, an incongruous scene, we witnessed our minders playing with a yoyo.
As we made for the splendid Blue Mosque, a pretty sight, six slender minarets hugging the fine structure and once inside, wall-to-wall blue Iznik tiles, exquisite glass, still masses to see, as we cut through the lavish gardens in Taksim Square and across the extensive lawns. Grown men too, having fun, Gürdal and Mehmet still played with their toy.
Turkey’s best landmark, they say it took 10,000 men six years to build the Aya Sofya. Like the sultan, magnificent, no cowboy builders erected this one. In those days, no B&Q, they imported ivory from Asia, marble from Egypt and columns from the ruins of Ephesus. Reminding me of Jerusalem, the huge dome remains the greatest work of Byzantine building. The Aya Sofya began life as a church. It became a mosque in the 15th century and sprouted four minarets. Atatürk turned it into its present use as a museum in the ‘thirties. As we explored the interior, climbing a precipitous cobblestone ramp and an arduous slope did for a stairway. Fitter than we knew and already at the summit, high on the balcony and the only way to appreciate the dome’s enormous extent, we admired the golden Christian icons before returning to the vast floor below.
I love legends, this a good one, it claimed that the Weeping Column shed water, which worked miracles. Over many centuries, as they rubbed it with their thumbs before making a wish, folk have worn a recess in the pillar. You never know, we gave it the thumbs up too.
Outside again and as we tore Gürdal from his plaything, everyone jumped into the car for a spin along the endless coast. Not a pretty sight, like dodgems at the fair, we passed crashed cars nearly everywhere. That evening, Gürdal gave me a call to say that he would pick us up in the car at seven next morning. As we ended the brief chat, I warned Jim
“Gürdal said Peter wants to do some more filming tomorrow.”
On Wednesday morning, Jim and me the first guests to take breakfast. Thirty minutes later, meeting the car outside, Jim jumped in next to Gürdal. I felt guilty about wearing pants to see Asil. Nippy today, my skirt still too short and dressed to please, I could do without her sulks. Elizabeth preferred me ladylike and like Mum, she cooed
“You should always wear a skirt, Asil likes it and you have nice legs.”
“Why so early? Where are we going?” I asked her.
- 245 -
As we made for the splendid Blue Mosque, a pretty sight, six slender minarets hugging the fine structure and once inside, wall-to-wall blue Iznik tiles, exquisite glass, still masses to see, as we cut through the lavish gardens in Taksim Square and across the extensive lawns. Grown men too, having fun, Gürdal and Mehmet still played with their toy.
Turkey’s best landmark, they say it took 10,000 men six years to build the Aya Sofya. Like the sultan, magnificent, no cowboy builders erected this one. In those days, no B&Q, they imported ivory from Asia, marble from Egypt and columns from the ruins of Ephesus. Reminding me of Jerusalem, the huge dome remains the greatest work of Byzantine building. The Aya Sofya began life as a church. It became a mosque in the 15th century and sprouted four minarets. Atatürk turned it into its present use as a museum in the ‘thirties. As we explored the interior, climbing a precipitous cobblestone ramp and an arduous slope did for a stairway. Fitter than we knew and already at the summit, high on the balcony and the only way to appreciate the dome’s enormous extent, we admired the golden Christian icons before returning to the vast floor below.
I love legends, this a good one, it claimed that the Weeping Column shed water, which worked miracles. Over many centuries, as they rubbed it with their thumbs before making a wish, folk have worn a recess in the pillar. You never know, we gave it the thumbs up too.
Outside again and as we tore Gürdal from his plaything, everyone jumped into the car for a spin along the endless coast. Not a pretty sight, like dodgems at the fair, we passed crashed cars nearly everywhere. That evening, Gürdal gave me a call to say that he would pick us up in the car at seven next morning. As we ended the brief chat, I warned Jim
“Gürdal said Peter wants to do some more filming tomorrow.”
On Wednesday morning, Jim and me the first guests to take breakfast. Thirty minutes later, meeting the car outside, Jim jumped in next to Gürdal. I felt guilty about wearing pants to see Asil. Nippy today, my skirt still too short and dressed to please, I could do without her sulks. Elizabeth preferred me ladylike and like Mum, she cooed
“You should always wear a skirt, Asil likes it and you have nice legs.”
“Why so early? Where are we going?” I asked her.
- 245 -
“Its Peter’s idea, he has a friend working on a dig, he said it would make for a good scene for the programme. It’s a Roman amphitheatre, I’m not sure where, oh, I think its in a place called Düzçe.”
I sure didn’t pretend to know where it was and Elizabeth didn’t know either. Conversely, after yesterday, witnessing the smashes, I appreciated why we had to flee Istanbul early. Leaving the suburbs and taking the E80, as Gürdal stopped the car to pay the toll at a barrier, Elizabeth told me
“We're meeting the boys on the road. Graham Ball is joining us, he scripted the Cook Report we did in Cyprus last year.”
As Elizabeth rummaged through her new briefcase, pulling out of it a thick wad of printed papers, gleeful, she told me
“This is the work that you did for David, we’ve had all 160 pages printed. This is my copy”. A titter and Elizabeth added, “Oh you should have seen David’s face when we gave him a copy – he didn’t realise there’d be so much!”
“What do you think of it Elizabeth?”
“Graham’s read it already, he said you write very well. He found it gripping, taut, full of pace. He’d like you to help him with the script for the programme.”
When Gürdal got us under way again, but not for long and pulling the car into the verge, he stopped the Mercedes behind a pockmarked brown Renault 16, as I watched Peter emerge from the other car, winding down my window for him, Salk stuck his frizzy head into the Mercedes. Cheerful, he told us that his friend sat behind the wheel of the other car. An archaeologist, like him, named Peter, he explained that he would lead our convoy east to the dig. Not quite done, Salk said that David and Graham were with him. He promised me that we would stop and convene when we had gone a few more kilometres up the road.
An hour later, both cars departed the motorway turning into a roadside services. Leaving the others in the compound, as we ventured into a café, Graham couldn’t wait to discuss the MI6 plot with me. Scruffy when we met outside Victoria, nice suit and more like a politician today. As the others joined us in the café, Elizabeth treated us all to coffee and KitKats. As Graham led me to a table, unable to prise us apart, the clock ticking, Peter stuck his head in again, calling time, we had to press on. Gulping our coffee and pocketing our biscuits, as we chased after them, soon on the road again and very excited, Elizabeth lost no time telling me that Peter intended to film us as she interviewed me. A relief, no Paxman job then. Up at the crack of dawn, while Elizabeth tried to get some sleep, the outlook drear, we sped past acres of chronic flat pasture dotted by sorry half-built abodes.
I sure didn’t pretend to know where it was and Elizabeth didn’t know either. Conversely, after yesterday, witnessing the smashes, I appreciated why we had to flee Istanbul early. Leaving the suburbs and taking the E80, as Gürdal stopped the car to pay the toll at a barrier, Elizabeth told me
“We're meeting the boys on the road. Graham Ball is joining us, he scripted the Cook Report we did in Cyprus last year.”
As Elizabeth rummaged through her new briefcase, pulling out of it a thick wad of printed papers, gleeful, she told me
“This is the work that you did for David, we’ve had all 160 pages printed. This is my copy”. A titter and Elizabeth added, “Oh you should have seen David’s face when we gave him a copy – he didn’t realise there’d be so much!”
“What do you think of it Elizabeth?”
“Graham’s read it already, he said you write very well. He found it gripping, taut, full of pace. He’d like you to help him with the script for the programme.”
When Gürdal got us under way again, but not for long and pulling the car into the verge, he stopped the Mercedes behind a pockmarked brown Renault 16, as I watched Peter emerge from the other car, winding down my window for him, Salk stuck his frizzy head into the Mercedes. Cheerful, he told us that his friend sat behind the wheel of the other car. An archaeologist, like him, named Peter, he explained that he would lead our convoy east to the dig. Not quite done, Salk said that David and Graham were with him. He promised me that we would stop and convene when we had gone a few more kilometres up the road.
An hour later, both cars departed the motorway turning into a roadside services. Leaving the others in the compound, as we ventured into a café, Graham couldn’t wait to discuss the MI6 plot with me. Scruffy when we met outside Victoria, nice suit and more like a politician today. As the others joined us in the café, Elizabeth treated us all to coffee and KitKats. As Graham led me to a table, unable to prise us apart, the clock ticking, Peter stuck his head in again, calling time, we had to press on. Gulping our coffee and pocketing our biscuits, as we chased after them, soon on the road again and very excited, Elizabeth lost no time telling me that Peter intended to film us as she interviewed me. A relief, no Paxman job then. Up at the crack of dawn, while Elizabeth tried to get some sleep, the outlook drear, we sped past acres of chronic flat pasture dotted by sorry half-built abodes.
- 246 -
The highway dragged up memories. I’m sure that you must recall me using the E80 and driving the other way to Germany just before I joined the Mossad. Ages later as the landscape changed, dramatic and eerie now, more like my scene and Hadfield. Our trail cut a twisting swathe through snow-capped mountains. An hour more, blizzards and mist behind us, and still chasing the Renault, we left the motorway. Splashing mud and slush along the way as our little convoy proceeded along a trunk road, then down a rough dirt track, all at once, as we passed a tiny cluster of quaint timbered houses, the cars crawled up a steep incline and around the corner the amphitheatre came into full view.
Built on the banks of a steep knoll, facing east and standing some sixty metres tall, I counted perhaps fifty terraced rows. The length of a football pitch, certainly impressive, leaving our chariots where gladiators once clashed, alas, heavy skies suggested more snow. As Peter grabbed his camera, David gave him a hand with the tripod. Craning our necks as we watched them clamber up the relic, Graham strolled by to have a chat with me about the diary turned book that I had penned for David. Analytical, he remarked
“It’s very good, it certainly had me hooked, but it lacks a bit of detail. You’ve not said much about the IDF or your work with the Mossad.”
”It’s not meant to be about them and to be honest, they’re painful chapters, I didn’t wish to dwell upon or glorify them. David said I should focus on Five and Six. I’ve had only eight weeks to do it.”
“Eight weeks! I’m sorry. I thought it must have taken you months to write. Oh, incidentally, I think you’ve handled the gender issue very well.”
As the weather changed, blue sky and sunshine chased all gloom. Just right for filming and frantically waving from the highest terrace, Salk signalled to us that he was about ready to shoot our scene. As we set off on the climb together, a prey to propriety, Elizabeth had chosen high-heels. Worried that she might stumble, I stuck circumspectly close to her. Gamely, at first, she took each step in her stride, then as we climbed ever higher, the going tougher, but true to form, Elizabeth’s robust pride pushed her up. As I checked out the view, well worth reaching the pinnacle, more concerned about her obvious distress, Peter asked Elizabeth if she was all right. In response, oh dear, the banker shrieked
“I wasn’t prepared for this, I didn’t realise it would be so high.”
“You should’ve worn sensible shoes” carped Salk ”Like Olivia.”
“I realise that myself now!” she snapped.
As I watched, Punch and Judy, a shrug and Peter liked playing movie director. Explaining to us what he wanted and starting at the far end of the amphitheatre, we had to natter to one another
- 247 -
Built on the banks of a steep knoll, facing east and standing some sixty metres tall, I counted perhaps fifty terraced rows. The length of a football pitch, certainly impressive, leaving our chariots where gladiators once clashed, alas, heavy skies suggested more snow. As Peter grabbed his camera, David gave him a hand with the tripod. Craning our necks as we watched them clamber up the relic, Graham strolled by to have a chat with me about the diary turned book that I had penned for David. Analytical, he remarked
“It’s very good, it certainly had me hooked, but it lacks a bit of detail. You’ve not said much about the IDF or your work with the Mossad.”
”It’s not meant to be about them and to be honest, they’re painful chapters, I didn’t wish to dwell upon or glorify them. David said I should focus on Five and Six. I’ve had only eight weeks to do it.”
“Eight weeks! I’m sorry. I thought it must have taken you months to write. Oh, incidentally, I think you’ve handled the gender issue very well.”
As the weather changed, blue sky and sunshine chased all gloom. Just right for filming and frantically waving from the highest terrace, Salk signalled to us that he was about ready to shoot our scene. As we set off on the climb together, a prey to propriety, Elizabeth had chosen high-heels. Worried that she might stumble, I stuck circumspectly close to her. Gamely, at first, she took each step in her stride, then as we climbed ever higher, the going tougher, but true to form, Elizabeth’s robust pride pushed her up. As I checked out the view, well worth reaching the pinnacle, more concerned about her obvious distress, Peter asked Elizabeth if she was all right. In response, oh dear, the banker shrieked
“I wasn’t prepared for this, I didn’t realise it would be so high.”
“You should’ve worn sensible shoes” carped Salk ”Like Olivia.”
“I realise that myself now!” she snapped.
As I watched, Punch and Judy, a shrug and Peter liked playing movie director. Explaining to us what he wanted and starting at the far end of the amphitheatre, we had to natter to one another
- 247 -
as we wandered back along the masonry towards his camera mounted on a tripod at the opposite end, where David sat by it.
Curious and joined by frisky packs of urchins on their bikes, all the locals had gathered to watch us. As they played impromptu stewards, Graham and Gürdal enjoyed a modest victory manning an imaginary perimeter fence. As he stood on a grassy hummock nearby, Jim had donned his shades, moving Elizabeth to tell me that he looked like CIA. As Salk yelled action, we tried take-one. Would you believe it, an awkward gap in the masonry precisely where she had to tread. As Elizabeth hitched up her skirt and endeavoured to surmount the difficulty, she had nice legs too. He was off, Salk howled
“No, no, no – I can’t be having that – too clumsy!”
Elizabeth made it worse going on about stupid men and how different the world would be if only women ruled it. As I saw the funny side, desperately needing to burst out laughing, but somehow, managing to contain myself, we tried take-two. Not famed for his patience, violently shaking his head and disgusted, Peter bawled
“No, no, no, bloody useless, Elizabeth, what’s up – can’t you do any better!“
“You horrible man!” livid she screamed, “I’m becoming neurotic!”
Their comedy routine hilarious, I fell about laughing. Prudently, Salk suggested that we take a short break before we tried take-three. Keeping his head down, this time fulfilled by our efforts, Peter directed that we begin the dialogue.
Playing a chat show host and beginning now to enjoy herself, Elizabeth faced me on the topmost terrace. Fine for some, the banker sat on David’s jacket. The cold slab froze my bum. As Peter ordered me to shift my legs, he told me that his camera could see right up my skirt and my knickers. Feeling deeply embarrassed, as I changed my position and pulled down my hem. Elizabeth began the interview by recalling our arranged début in Holloway. Quickly moving on to our reunion at Cookham. I described how months later, we met at the flat in Dover. Going on about Wardle, Smith and more, we ended the show with more recent events. We called it a wrap just before the sun found a new home.
As the cars took their leave, it was their haunted faces. The villagers resembled all the asylum seekers that Jim and me had felt sorry for back in Dover. Leaving them behind and breaking for lunch at a roadside café, Jim revealed to me that while Elizabeth and Peter had their spat, he went walkabout in the village.
One ancient Turk had buttonholed Jim and invited him into his house. As Jim described the abode to me, it sounded a lot like Belle Vue Street in the ‘fifties. Once inside, Jim said that the old
Curious and joined by frisky packs of urchins on their bikes, all the locals had gathered to watch us. As they played impromptu stewards, Graham and Gürdal enjoyed a modest victory manning an imaginary perimeter fence. As he stood on a grassy hummock nearby, Jim had donned his shades, moving Elizabeth to tell me that he looked like CIA. As Salk yelled action, we tried take-one. Would you believe it, an awkward gap in the masonry precisely where she had to tread. As Elizabeth hitched up her skirt and endeavoured to surmount the difficulty, she had nice legs too. He was off, Salk howled
“No, no, no – I can’t be having that – too clumsy!”
Elizabeth made it worse going on about stupid men and how different the world would be if only women ruled it. As I saw the funny side, desperately needing to burst out laughing, but somehow, managing to contain myself, we tried take-two. Not famed for his patience, violently shaking his head and disgusted, Peter bawled
“No, no, no, bloody useless, Elizabeth, what’s up – can’t you do any better!“
“You horrible man!” livid she screamed, “I’m becoming neurotic!”
Their comedy routine hilarious, I fell about laughing. Prudently, Salk suggested that we take a short break before we tried take-three. Keeping his head down, this time fulfilled by our efforts, Peter directed that we begin the dialogue.
Playing a chat show host and beginning now to enjoy herself, Elizabeth faced me on the topmost terrace. Fine for some, the banker sat on David’s jacket. The cold slab froze my bum. As Peter ordered me to shift my legs, he told me that his camera could see right up my skirt and my knickers. Feeling deeply embarrassed, as I changed my position and pulled down my hem. Elizabeth began the interview by recalling our arranged début in Holloway. Quickly moving on to our reunion at Cookham. I described how months later, we met at the flat in Dover. Going on about Wardle, Smith and more, we ended the show with more recent events. We called it a wrap just before the sun found a new home.
As the cars took their leave, it was their haunted faces. The villagers resembled all the asylum seekers that Jim and me had felt sorry for back in Dover. Leaving them behind and breaking for lunch at a roadside café, Jim revealed to me that while Elizabeth and Peter had their spat, he went walkabout in the village.
One ancient Turk had buttonholed Jim and invited him into his house. As Jim described the abode to me, it sounded a lot like Belle Vue Street in the ‘fifties. Once inside, Jim said that the old
- 248 -
boy had offered him a glass of tap water. It was all he had and mimicking North American Indians and their peace pipe, making a new friend Jim swallowed every drop. Unlike my experience in the hotel, to this day he has suffered no ill effect. Nonetheless, if Jim ever had the privilege to call upon the old chap again, that guy would know him.
Within the hour, as the convoy hit the trail west on our way back to Istanbul, enjoying a chat on the way, Gürdal told us that there and back, our trip was about 400 km. During the long drive, Elizabeth proposed that we should dictate a letter for Nadir to sign upon our return. Believing that she knew how to play this game, but still seeking my approval, the banker suggested
“I think we need it to convince MI6 that your meeting with Asil was a success.”
When we had done, Elizabeth enjoyed another little siesta. As I stared out of the window, no mist now and deep in thought, amusing myself, once ruled by Midas this the land of Phrygia and the legend had repeated itself. Just like the old king, everything that he had once touched had turned to gold, a price to pay, Asil too now made a classic villain. My reflection and our outing over, evening drawing in and Elizabeth stirred as Gürdal reined the horsepower outside Nadir’s office.
As the Renault drew up close behind us, twisting in her seat and waving to its occupants, quickly turning away again and fretful, as we stepped outside into the street, Elizabeth wailed
“Oh dear…I’m in trouble now, David said I shouldn’t acknowledge them.”
“Don’t worry, Elizabeth”, I consoled her, “After chasing them all over Taksim Square the other day, I reckon all Turkey’s aware that you know them now.”
As Gürdal rang the bell, quickly through the gate, this time no minders, taken on trust today, we strode into the house. All smiles, as she greeted us in the lobby, Bilge led Jim and me into a pine-panelled kitchen where we all took a bench seat at a table. As Jim seated himself next to me, Bilge sat facing us. Popping into the room for a moment, Elizabeth promised us that she would only be a moment and raced off to print the letter that we had settled on in the car.
Just then, a brawny minder stormed in and warned Bilge that she was needed elsewhere. As she left us alone with him, experiencing a dry throat, Jim asked the bodyguard if he would mind fetching him a glass of water. Helpful, he attended to it at once. As he found Jim a tumbler at the sink in a far corner, his back to me, seizing my chance, behind me dwelt a little porthole in the wall, peering through it, I spied Nadir’s latest empire. As they tapped in
Within the hour, as the convoy hit the trail west on our way back to Istanbul, enjoying a chat on the way, Gürdal told us that there and back, our trip was about 400 km. During the long drive, Elizabeth proposed that we should dictate a letter for Nadir to sign upon our return. Believing that she knew how to play this game, but still seeking my approval, the banker suggested
“I think we need it to convince MI6 that your meeting with Asil was a success.”
When we had done, Elizabeth enjoyed another little siesta. As I stared out of the window, no mist now and deep in thought, amusing myself, once ruled by Midas this the land of Phrygia and the legend had repeated itself. Just like the old king, everything that he had once touched had turned to gold, a price to pay, Asil too now made a classic villain. My reflection and our outing over, evening drawing in and Elizabeth stirred as Gürdal reined the horsepower outside Nadir’s office.
As the Renault drew up close behind us, twisting in her seat and waving to its occupants, quickly turning away again and fretful, as we stepped outside into the street, Elizabeth wailed
“Oh dear…I’m in trouble now, David said I shouldn’t acknowledge them.”
“Don’t worry, Elizabeth”, I consoled her, “After chasing them all over Taksim Square the other day, I reckon all Turkey’s aware that you know them now.”
As Gürdal rang the bell, quickly through the gate, this time no minders, taken on trust today, we strode into the house. All smiles, as she greeted us in the lobby, Bilge led Jim and me into a pine-panelled kitchen where we all took a bench seat at a table. As Jim seated himself next to me, Bilge sat facing us. Popping into the room for a moment, Elizabeth promised us that she would only be a moment and raced off to print the letter that we had settled on in the car.
Just then, a brawny minder stormed in and warned Bilge that she was needed elsewhere. As she left us alone with him, experiencing a dry throat, Jim asked the bodyguard if he would mind fetching him a glass of water. Helpful, he attended to it at once. As he found Jim a tumbler at the sink in a far corner, his back to me, seizing my chance, behind me dwelt a little porthole in the wall, peering through it, I spied Nadir’s latest empire. As they tapped in
- 249 -
new deals, a hubbub of busy suits sat facing monitors. I resumed my original position, before the heavy served Jim his water.
Elizabeth returned to the room clutching our draft. Asking me to approve the wording, as I obliged, dated 15th January and it began ‘Dear Olivia and Jim, I am sorry I was unable to say goodbye to you prior to your departure. However, I was pleased to meet you both, and hope you liked Istanbul. We will write to you again shortly, once my Head of Security has located suitable accommodation for you. Kind regards, Asil Nadir.’
I declared the draft fine and handed it back to her. Ripping it up, Elizabeth left it in shreds on the tabletop and dashing off again, she went to get a copy printed. As we watched him, offering us a rare smile, the minder picked up the pieces and stuffed every scrap into his jacket pocket. When Elizabeth returned, handing me the real thing, printed on Nadir’s posh stationery, the tycoon had just signed it. Adamant that we must meet Volkan, wising up to the game, Elizabeth unveiled
“He’s Asil’s head of security, MI6 might ask you to describe him.”
Elizabeth departed once more to fetch him. She returned with a striking figure. Troy only a zephyr down the road, he put me in mind of the Iliad. Me the Trojan horse, here was Achilles. Bronzed, huge chest and such shoulders, I had seen him before, the gorgeous guy in the courtyard on my first visit. A devastating smile, his dark gaze fixed upon us, towering, looking younger, he had to be late ‘30s. Apart from his more obvious strengths, his darting eyes shrewd and showing me off, Elizabeth told him
“Olivia’s like you – ex-commando.”
”With the British Army?” quizzed Volkan.
When I put him right, intrigued, he wanted more. Here we go again, Elizabeth’s penchant for spies and soldiers knew no limit. She told him that I had operated with the Mossad and begging him parade his war wounds before us, doing as she bid, as Volkan raised his huge left hand for us to see, his fore and index fingers missing, his jaw set firm, he murmured
“Grenade.” An afterthought, “It happened in Cyprus.”
“Is it much of a problem?” I asked him, sensitively.
“No, I get by” he responded, quickly adding “I don’t notice much difference now.”
“Olivia!” shrieked Elizabeth, “Show Volkan your wound!”
Equally embarrassed and on the spot, unable to decline. Off with my jacket, I rolled up a sleeve and exhibited my afflicted arm. His head a tangle of tight curls, as Volkan inspected the scar, solemn, he told me that he was impressed.
“It runs from her elbow up to her shoulder.” pointed out Jim.
Elizabeth returned to the room clutching our draft. Asking me to approve the wording, as I obliged, dated 15th January and it began ‘Dear Olivia and Jim, I am sorry I was unable to say goodbye to you prior to your departure. However, I was pleased to meet you both, and hope you liked Istanbul. We will write to you again shortly, once my Head of Security has located suitable accommodation for you. Kind regards, Asil Nadir.’
I declared the draft fine and handed it back to her. Ripping it up, Elizabeth left it in shreds on the tabletop and dashing off again, she went to get a copy printed. As we watched him, offering us a rare smile, the minder picked up the pieces and stuffed every scrap into his jacket pocket. When Elizabeth returned, handing me the real thing, printed on Nadir’s posh stationery, the tycoon had just signed it. Adamant that we must meet Volkan, wising up to the game, Elizabeth unveiled
“He’s Asil’s head of security, MI6 might ask you to describe him.”
Elizabeth departed once more to fetch him. She returned with a striking figure. Troy only a zephyr down the road, he put me in mind of the Iliad. Me the Trojan horse, here was Achilles. Bronzed, huge chest and such shoulders, I had seen him before, the gorgeous guy in the courtyard on my first visit. A devastating smile, his dark gaze fixed upon us, towering, looking younger, he had to be late ‘30s. Apart from his more obvious strengths, his darting eyes shrewd and showing me off, Elizabeth told him
“Olivia’s like you – ex-commando.”
”With the British Army?” quizzed Volkan.
When I put him right, intrigued, he wanted more. Here we go again, Elizabeth’s penchant for spies and soldiers knew no limit. She told him that I had operated with the Mossad and begging him parade his war wounds before us, doing as she bid, as Volkan raised his huge left hand for us to see, his fore and index fingers missing, his jaw set firm, he murmured
“Grenade.” An afterthought, “It happened in Cyprus.”
“Is it much of a problem?” I asked him, sensitively.
“No, I get by” he responded, quickly adding “I don’t notice much difference now.”
“Olivia!” shrieked Elizabeth, “Show Volkan your wound!”
Equally embarrassed and on the spot, unable to decline. Off with my jacket, I rolled up a sleeve and exhibited my afflicted arm. His head a tangle of tight curls, as Volkan inspected the scar, solemn, he told me that he was impressed.
“It runs from her elbow up to her shoulder.” pointed out Jim.
- 250 -
Red-faced, as I quickly replaced my jacket, a mite earlier and Bilge would have saved me. Darting into the room, urgent, she called out
“They want you now!”
Leaving Elizabeth and Volkan to stew in the kitchen, Jim accompanied me and chasing after her, Bilge returned us to the boardroom where we found David and Graham conspiring together in separate leather armchairs. A quick nod and we headed for the French window where preparing to shoot us, Peter adjusted his lighting. As he directed us to take the same pews as before, once seated, holding my hand, Jim told me that I looked tired.
“It’s been a long day,” I murmured “I didn’t realise that Peter would want to film me again – don’t worry, I’ll be fine.”
As Salk set the camera rolling, breezing into the room minus his minders on this occasion and as Nadir took his throne, greeting us like old friends. He began
“I understand that you’ve been exploring the country, you must tell me about it when we begin filming.”
Interrupting us, Peter insisted that we must wear microphones. Handing one to me, an old hand now, as I fixed it to my jacket, Salk attached a second mike onto Nadir’s stylish charcoal lounge suit. Flitting behind his camera and our director called action. Full of charm, Nadir told us
“It’s lovely to see you again.”
“Hold it!” yelled Peter, looking upset.
“What’s wrong, is it something I should have said?”
“You’re fine, Olivia, its what Mr Nadir hasn’t said.”
As the tycoon stared at me, baffled by Salk’s remark, we tried again. Losing his rag, Peter bawled at the tycoon
“Look – when you greet, Olivia, start by wishing her good evening!”
“Are you taking the urine Mr Salkeld” taking it in good part, Nadir quipped ”Are you taking the piss…why don’t I go behind the camera – you sit in the chair!”
“I’m not important,” grumbled Salk, “Let’s try again.”
Peter more pedantic than me, now my turn to stumble, smiling, I told Nadir
“We visited dooz, I'm sorry, I'm not sure how you say it.”
“Doozsheh, Doozsheh” coached the tycoon.
- 251 -
“They want you now!”
Leaving Elizabeth and Volkan to stew in the kitchen, Jim accompanied me and chasing after her, Bilge returned us to the boardroom where we found David and Graham conspiring together in separate leather armchairs. A quick nod and we headed for the French window where preparing to shoot us, Peter adjusted his lighting. As he directed us to take the same pews as before, once seated, holding my hand, Jim told me that I looked tired.
“It’s been a long day,” I murmured “I didn’t realise that Peter would want to film me again – don’t worry, I’ll be fine.”
As Salk set the camera rolling, breezing into the room minus his minders on this occasion and as Nadir took his throne, greeting us like old friends. He began
“I understand that you’ve been exploring the country, you must tell me about it when we begin filming.”
Interrupting us, Peter insisted that we must wear microphones. Handing one to me, an old hand now, as I fixed it to my jacket, Salk attached a second mike onto Nadir’s stylish charcoal lounge suit. Flitting behind his camera and our director called action. Full of charm, Nadir told us
“It’s lovely to see you again.”
“Hold it!” yelled Peter, looking upset.
“What’s wrong, is it something I should have said?”
“You’re fine, Olivia, its what Mr Nadir hasn’t said.”
As the tycoon stared at me, baffled by Salk’s remark, we tried again. Losing his rag, Peter bawled at the tycoon
“Look – when you greet, Olivia, start by wishing her good evening!”
“Are you taking the urine Mr Salkeld” taking it in good part, Nadir quipped ”Are you taking the piss…why don’t I go behind the camera – you sit in the chair!”
“I’m not important,” grumbled Salk, “Let’s try again.”
Peter more pedantic than me, now my turn to stumble, smiling, I told Nadir
“We visited dooz, I'm sorry, I'm not sure how you say it.”
“Doozsheh, Doozsheh” coached the tycoon.
- 251 -
Privileged, my first lesson in Turkish and in the circumstances, I would hardly forget it. In sharp contrast to our first summit, far more relaxed on this occasion, Nadir didn’t smoke. Instead, he asked Jim what did he think of Istanbul.
“It’s a great city,” he rejoined.
“You’ll see much more of Turkey,” pledged Nadir “When you join my staff.”
Abandoning our seats and shaking hands, Nadir reckoned that his kismet relied on our success. Looking like he meant it, he pledged
“You’re nice people” a wistful sigh and he added, “In any other circumstances, I would like to help you. I look forward to our next meeting.”
“Take care,” we urged him. “Shalom.”
“Can we do it again?” enquired Peter, “Just to make sure we got it.”
“Are you serious?” retorted Nadir, in mock rage.
“Just the handshake” pleaded Peter, chuckling. “One really good shot.”
Shooting the scene again, this time, Peter satisfied, like him a workaholic, Nadir left the stage to chase the next deal. As David and Graham pounced upon us, they purred
“That went rather well, now it's up to you two in England.”
As Bilge bid us farewell, not a bit like the SAS, a real trade delegation met us in the lobby. All of them Swiss, we squeezed past them and their attractive watches.
Waiting for us, Elizabeth suggested that we returned to the car, trooping behind her, as she marched us into the cool night, piercing the gloom, dazzling halogen spotlights lit our way. Once more, passing by the sparkling pool and half way up the concrete steps, a man’s voice, deep, he called out to us
“Akshamlar, akshamlar!”
As he emerged from the shadow below, standing by the pool, a familiar black overcoat, as one bright beam struck his face, wreathed in smiles, Volkan boomed goodnight. His mates now and in chorus, as Jim joined me, we called back to him
“Take care my friend, shalom!”
At the top of the steps, undercover, next to Nadir’s sleek limo, we jumped into the Mercedes with Elizabeth. As Gürdal fired the engine, once they had the gate open, the tycoon’s bodyguards put on a show. As we stared out of the windows, two men flanked each side of our car. As Gürdal eased the vehicle forward, they advanced too. An imposing vanguard, forming an armed arc, sure
“It’s a great city,” he rejoined.
“You’ll see much more of Turkey,” pledged Nadir “When you join my staff.”
Abandoning our seats and shaking hands, Nadir reckoned that his kismet relied on our success. Looking like he meant it, he pledged
“You’re nice people” a wistful sigh and he added, “In any other circumstances, I would like to help you. I look forward to our next meeting.”
“Take care,” we urged him. “Shalom.”
“Can we do it again?” enquired Peter, “Just to make sure we got it.”
“Are you serious?” retorted Nadir, in mock rage.
“Just the handshake” pleaded Peter, chuckling. “One really good shot.”
Shooting the scene again, this time, Peter satisfied, like him a workaholic, Nadir left the stage to chase the next deal. As David and Graham pounced upon us, they purred
“That went rather well, now it's up to you two in England.”
As Bilge bid us farewell, not a bit like the SAS, a real trade delegation met us in the lobby. All of them Swiss, we squeezed past them and their attractive watches.
Waiting for us, Elizabeth suggested that we returned to the car, trooping behind her, as she marched us into the cool night, piercing the gloom, dazzling halogen spotlights lit our way. Once more, passing by the sparkling pool and half way up the concrete steps, a man’s voice, deep, he called out to us
“Akshamlar, akshamlar!”
As he emerged from the shadow below, standing by the pool, a familiar black overcoat, as one bright beam struck his face, wreathed in smiles, Volkan boomed goodnight. His mates now and in chorus, as Jim joined me, we called back to him
“Take care my friend, shalom!”
At the top of the steps, undercover, next to Nadir’s sleek limo, we jumped into the Mercedes with Elizabeth. As Gürdal fired the engine, once they had the gate open, the tycoon’s bodyguards put on a show. As we stared out of the windows, two men flanked each side of our car. As Gürdal eased the vehicle forward, they advanced too. An imposing vanguard, forming an armed arc, sure
- 252 -
and deliberate four more men stepped out into the road. He knew already, Gürdal still enquired what did I think of them. Pleasing him, I suggested that they appeared capable of taking anyone.
Next day, Thursday 15th and feeling sad, our last full day in Istanbul, making the most of it, at lunchtime, as we all climbed once more into the car, Elizabeth asked me which venue would we like to visit today. Recalling his disappointment when we found it closed, I suggested that we try the Askeri Military Museum. As I knew he would, unable to restrain himself, passionate, Gürdal told me
“Before you return to England, you must experience the Mehter.”
Once inside the museum, predictably, Gürdal deposited his faithful firearm with security. Upon his return and about to play, urging us to hurry or we would miss the band’s next performance, we pursued Gürdal as he snaked this way and that through a maze of marble. Eventually, we arrived outside the auditorium. About to enter and as Elizabeth’s mobile played another tune. As I eavesdropped on his every word, Salk instructed the banker to tell Nadir to make his cheques payable to his company. Spelling it out, Peter told the banker
”Its called Faction Limited…did you get that, F.A.C.T.I.O.N.”
Salk would have a fit if he knew. Outstanding intelligence, I had to release it to Naylor upon my return to England, when I would also tell him that the tycoon had fallen for his eccentric Assignment Brief.
As we entered the auditorium, the band playing and eager not to miss them, as Gürdal hastened us all along, trying not to disturb folk, we seized our seats. Once settled, we witnessed a vivid spectacle on stage, forming a crescent, at least forty turbaned men all dressed alike in crimson and white. A taste of an era long gone, dating way back to the 8th century, true to the original and briefly returned to life, the Ottoman Mehter must be the oldest martial band.
A super array of instruments, they played clashing cymbals to shiny trumpets and tall drums. An authentic sound, Middle Eastern and taking me over, it set me daydreaming. Intended to stir the army and scare the enemy, I’ll bet they did, as they pumped up the volume, their music loud and shrill. Breaking the spell, as he nudged my arm, Jim drew my attention to Elizabeth. Not her cup of tea, as I well knew, in prison always listening to opera and reluctant, I suggested to her lets go.
“Did you not enjoy it?” quizzed Gürdal concerned.
“On the contrary” I assured him “It’s just what I wanted!”
Pity about his shoes, there they go, squeak, squeak, squeak upon the polished floor. In his element now, acting as our guide, Gürdal
Next day, Thursday 15th and feeling sad, our last full day in Istanbul, making the most of it, at lunchtime, as we all climbed once more into the car, Elizabeth asked me which venue would we like to visit today. Recalling his disappointment when we found it closed, I suggested that we try the Askeri Military Museum. As I knew he would, unable to restrain himself, passionate, Gürdal told me
“Before you return to England, you must experience the Mehter.”
Once inside the museum, predictably, Gürdal deposited his faithful firearm with security. Upon his return and about to play, urging us to hurry or we would miss the band’s next performance, we pursued Gürdal as he snaked this way and that through a maze of marble. Eventually, we arrived outside the auditorium. About to enter and as Elizabeth’s mobile played another tune. As I eavesdropped on his every word, Salk instructed the banker to tell Nadir to make his cheques payable to his company. Spelling it out, Peter told the banker
”Its called Faction Limited…did you get that, F.A.C.T.I.O.N.”
Salk would have a fit if he knew. Outstanding intelligence, I had to release it to Naylor upon my return to England, when I would also tell him that the tycoon had fallen for his eccentric Assignment Brief.
As we entered the auditorium, the band playing and eager not to miss them, as Gürdal hastened us all along, trying not to disturb folk, we seized our seats. Once settled, we witnessed a vivid spectacle on stage, forming a crescent, at least forty turbaned men all dressed alike in crimson and white. A taste of an era long gone, dating way back to the 8th century, true to the original and briefly returned to life, the Ottoman Mehter must be the oldest martial band.
A super array of instruments, they played clashing cymbals to shiny trumpets and tall drums. An authentic sound, Middle Eastern and taking me over, it set me daydreaming. Intended to stir the army and scare the enemy, I’ll bet they did, as they pumped up the volume, their music loud and shrill. Breaking the spell, as he nudged my arm, Jim drew my attention to Elizabeth. Not her cup of tea, as I well knew, in prison always listening to opera and reluctant, I suggested to her lets go.
“Did you not enjoy it?” quizzed Gürdal concerned.
“On the contrary” I assured him “It’s just what I wanted!”
Pity about his shoes, there they go, squeak, squeak, squeak upon the polished floor. In his element now, acting as our guide, Gürdal
- 253 -
sped us to the well-stocked armoury. A colossal range and from every era, lances, daggers, swords, squeak, squeak, and squeak as he hauled me over. I had to tell him
“Great shoes, Gürdal!”
Sharing a laugh, then as Gürdal spoilt it by pointing out an Uzi, I froze. Not his fault. Perceptive and at once aiming to cheer me up, he turned my attention to a roll of honour carved into a granite wall. Apparently serious, Gürdal told me
“They are the names of great Turkish warriors…look Mehmetçik, that’s me!”
My turn to be caught out, falling for it, I loved daft jokes and Gürdal’s mischief soon restored my humour. Meanwhile, Jim had found the tents and following him inside one, we shared a long passionate kiss. Not quite done, but near the exit, we visited a tasteful souvenir shop. As in Nice, I only wanted a little badge. Elizabeth insisted, so I also chose a bookmark and some elegant postcards.
Outside again and as Gürdal made for the canon, he didn’t get far. Hauling him back and not wrong, Elizabeth claimed that when you've seen one canon, you've seen them all. As we all trooped back to the car, Elizabeth suggested that we visit the Swissôtel for high tea in the lounge. A perfect end to our ultimate day in Istanbul, Earl Grey, fresh Swiss pastries and letting go, as Jim found his tongue he remarked
“You know, these fancy pastries remind me of the little cakes my Mum used to serve in a little shop in Stockport…”
Until now, Jim had looked lost. He had still not recovered since the airport. Far removed from his early lifestyle, as he related to them aspects drawn from his harsh childhood, Elizabeth and Gürdal fell under his spell. As a security officer, Jim had guarded a few grand places like this, but never before had he been a guest in one. Poignant and his narrative clearly moving them, compelling me to shed a discreet tear, proud of him, I loved Jim a little bit more.
As Elizabeth found her new briefcase and retrieved from within it her diary, fixing for us a dinner date, touching, she told us
“We’ll meet again in Dover” a sigh “I shall miss you.”
When Gürdal ferried us back to the Dedeman, he pledged to collect us next morning to take us to the airport. Once in our room, about to pack and a brilliant idea, inspired, Jim urged me to send letters off to Wardle and Smith. I told them, that keeping our promise, we had since gained eyeball contact with Asil Nadir.
© COPYRIGHT OLIVIA FRANK ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
“Great shoes, Gürdal!”
Sharing a laugh, then as Gürdal spoilt it by pointing out an Uzi, I froze. Not his fault. Perceptive and at once aiming to cheer me up, he turned my attention to a roll of honour carved into a granite wall. Apparently serious, Gürdal told me
“They are the names of great Turkish warriors…look Mehmetçik, that’s me!”
My turn to be caught out, falling for it, I loved daft jokes and Gürdal’s mischief soon restored my humour. Meanwhile, Jim had found the tents and following him inside one, we shared a long passionate kiss. Not quite done, but near the exit, we visited a tasteful souvenir shop. As in Nice, I only wanted a little badge. Elizabeth insisted, so I also chose a bookmark and some elegant postcards.
Outside again and as Gürdal made for the canon, he didn’t get far. Hauling him back and not wrong, Elizabeth claimed that when you've seen one canon, you've seen them all. As we all trooped back to the car, Elizabeth suggested that we visit the Swissôtel for high tea in the lounge. A perfect end to our ultimate day in Istanbul, Earl Grey, fresh Swiss pastries and letting go, as Jim found his tongue he remarked
“You know, these fancy pastries remind me of the little cakes my Mum used to serve in a little shop in Stockport…”
Until now, Jim had looked lost. He had still not recovered since the airport. Far removed from his early lifestyle, as he related to them aspects drawn from his harsh childhood, Elizabeth and Gürdal fell under his spell. As a security officer, Jim had guarded a few grand places like this, but never before had he been a guest in one. Poignant and his narrative clearly moving them, compelling me to shed a discreet tear, proud of him, I loved Jim a little bit more.
As Elizabeth found her new briefcase and retrieved from within it her diary, fixing for us a dinner date, touching, she told us
“We’ll meet again in Dover” a sigh “I shall miss you.”
When Gürdal ferried us back to the Dedeman, he pledged to collect us next morning to take us to the airport. Once in our room, about to pack and a brilliant idea, inspired, Jim urged me to send letters off to Wardle and Smith. I told them, that keeping our promise, we had since gained eyeball contact with Asil Nadir.
© COPYRIGHT OLIVIA FRANK ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
