by Bob Cook
Ogden absently twirled the hair in his ears.
“I’m afraid Sybil’s right,” he conceded. “Even if we could string a book together, the income from it would be piddling. I do know some good yarns—things that would still embarrass the Government—but they’re still not good enough. Wrong league.”
“That’s the trouble with truth,” the Laird observed. “It’s too bloody boring.”
“People want their truth to resemble fiction,” Beauchamp said. “Lots of glamour, derring-do…”
“Violence,” Ogden said.
“Sex,” said the Vicar. “Must have sex.”
“Exactly,” Sybil said heavily. “And what can you give them, Godfrey? Cricket matches.”
“Oh Lord,” Ogden said weakly. “Em—what were we talking about?”
“Truth,” Beauchamp said. “The problem therewith.”
“Ah yes,” Ogden said. “That is a headache—” He stopped and screwed up his eyes in thought. “Now wait a minute,” he murmured. “Just wait a minute…”
He reached into his pocket and drew out a stick of bubble-gum. After a few chews, he leaned back in his armchair and put his hands behind his head.
“The trouble with truth,” he repeated.
The others said nothing and watched curiously as a large green bubble formed below Ogden’s nose. When it finally exploded, Ogden sat bolt upright and snapped his fingers.
“I’ve got it,” he declared.
“Oh dear,” Sybil groaned, as she saw the twinkle in Ogden’s eyes. “What now?”
“Look,” Ogden reasoned, “we can’t print the truth, because that would put us in chokey. And nobody wants to read the truth anyway. So let’s tell lies.”
“What do you mean?” asked the Laird.
“Let’s write fictitious memoirs. We’ll say we were in Intelligence—which is perfectly true—but instead of telling boring true stories, let’s tell a lot of sensational lies. Really spectacular whoppers. The public want exciting espionage yarns—let’s give ’em some.”
The Vicar’s eyes bulged in shock.
“But—but you can’t do that!”
“Why ever not?” Ogden inquired.
“The Government would just deny the stories,” Beauchamp said.
“Let them,” Ogden grinned. “Don’t you see? Nobody would believe the buggers. Besides, official policy is neither to confirm nor deny anybody’s memoirs. But they’ll still have to ban the book—”
“Why?” asked the Laird. “If it’s full of bullshit—”
“That wouldn’t matter. It would still be the memoirs of a former employee of MI5, bound by a lifelong duty of confidentiality. They’d have to ban it. But if the stories were good enough, the Americans would pay a fortune for them—”
“And the Australians,” Beauchamp observed.
“Even the Russians,” the Vicar chuckled. “What sport!”
“And they’d still gaol you,” Sybil insisted.
“What on earth for?” Ogden grinned. “The only crime we’d commit would be to claim we once worked for MI5. Can you really see the Attorney-General taking a bunch of old coots like us to court just for saying that? Even this government wouldn’t be that daft. They’d become a laughing stock…”
“So what?” Sybil said. “They’re already a laughingstock. That won’t save you.”
“No, dear,” said the Vicar, “I think Clive’s right. The memoirs would be a work of fiction. And there are lots of examples of ex-Intelligence chaps writing spy novels. Le Carré, Graham Greene…”
“I see,” Sybil nodded grimly. “And you can write equally well, can you?”
Ogden’s eyes rolled upwards.
“Of course we can’t, Sybil darling,” he said patiently. “We don’t need to. Their books purport to be fiction. Ours won’t. Nobody expects non-fiction to be well written, do they?”
“Right,” the Laird agreed. “We’d have the best of all worlds. Bloody clever idea, Clive.”
Ogden grinned and exploded another gum-bubble. “Thank you, dear boy. All in the day’s work for us geniuses, you know. Now, what’s this book going to look like?”
“Well, for starters,” Beauchamp said, “it should just be the memoir of one man. We’ll pool all our ideas, of course, but the book should have one nominal author. It’ll look more authentic that way.”
Since Beauchamp had worked in the antique business, his opinions on the subject of forgery were held to be authoritative. The others nodded in approval.
“That sounds reasonable,” Ogden said. “Which of us will it be? How about you, Laird?”
“Yes,” the Vicar agreed. “You were always the athletic type: muscle-bound, fearless—”
“Sod off,” the Laird grinned. “I’m no James Bond.”
“You’ve got a black belt in ju-jitsu,” Ogden said accusingly.
“Acquired forty years ago,” the Laird countered, “and it’s at least twenty-five years since I made any use of it. End of argument.”
“In that case,” Ogden said, “why not Jeremy? ‘The candid autobiography of an intrepid double-agent and antique dealer’.”
“Expert in everything from microdots to Ming vases,” the Laird added.
“Dead-letter boxes and Delft pottery…”
“I don’t think so, somehow,” Beauchamp smiled. “But I’d say the Vicar was a prime candidate.”
“Ah yes,” Ogden said. “You’re the boffin after all, Vicar. All your technological experience: radios, phone-taps, and so on.”
“I suppose so…” the Vicar said hesitantly.
“Why, you were just one step away from exploding fountain pens and nuclear-powered Aston Martins,” the Laird observed. “Can’t be bad.”
Sybil could contain herself no longer.
“Out of the question,” she snapped. “I won’t let Godfrey make a fool of himself.”
“Oh, come on, Sybil,” Ogden laughed. “Don’t be such a party-pooper. I’m sure you’d enjoy being married to Godfrey Croft, Superspy.”
“The intrepid Croft,” Beauchamp said dramatically. “KGB agents trembled at his name. Beautiful women melted in his arms—”
“Over my dead body!” Sybil shouted. “Godfrey, I absolutely forbid it.”
“Oh dear,” said the Vicar. “I think Sybil means it, chaps.”
“I most certainly do.”
“In that case,” said the Laird, “there’s only one man left. Clive…”
Ogden blew another green balloon, and thought about it.
“You really think so?” he said.
“Definitely,” said the Laird. “After all, you were in both branches of Intelligence.”
Ogden nodded.
“True.”
“And you’re easily the most resourceful chap here.”
“True, true.”
“So why not?”
Ogden raised his hands in resignation.
“Why not indeed? Very well: Clive Ogden, Cold Warrior Extraordinaire. So be it.”
“Good man,” said the Vicar. “Now, how shall we do this?”
“There should be one writer,” Beauchamp said, “to give the book a unified style. Anyone here ever written anything?”
“Not me,” Ogden said.
“Ditto,” said the Laird.
“I wrote a book once,” the Vicar admitted.
“Did you really?” Ogden blinked, “What was it?”
“A history of the Test Match from 1900 to 1910. It was privately printed.”
“I bet it was,” Ogden smiled. “Still, that puts you one up on the rest of us. I move that the Vicar be our scribe.”
“Seconded,” said the Laird.
“Carried,” Beauchamp declared. “Right: what will this book contain? We’ve got an intrepid hero, so presumably we want to pit him against a dastardly villain.”
“Absolutely,” Ogden said. “A Russian, of course.”
“Obviously,” said the Laird. “A Soviet masterspy—elusive, shadowy—”
“Swarthy,” Beauchamp laughed. “Mustachioed.”
“A master of disguise,” said the Vicar.
“Oh, yes!” Ogden enthused. “What do we call him?” They thought about this in silence for a few minutes. Sybil left the room in disgust, which raised no objection from the others. Finally, Beauchamp said, “Do you remember that little squirt at the Soviet Embassy here in London—that translator with a lisp…”
“I remember him,” the Laird nodded. “He had an affair with a woman at the French Embassy. We thought he was a KGB man pumping her for secrets. Turned out that she was the agent, and he was just a harmless little desk-wallah.”
“How did that business finish?” Ogden said.
“She got nothing out of him, and he was shipped home when his people found out.”
“Siberia?”
“Don’t think so. Just out of harm’s reach. Sad little chap. Anyway, does anyone remember his name?”
“Akhmatov,” said the Vicar. “Yevgeny Akhmatov.”
“That’s the chap,” Beauchamp said. “Good name for a villain.”
“I agree,” Ogden said. “Akhmatov it is. If he’s still alive, we’ll send him a copy of the book. Now, what about the stories?”
“As you said, Clive, we want plenty of violence.”
“And sex,” urged the Vicar. “Must have sex.”
The Laird raised his pipe-stem.
“A seductive female double-agent,” he said.
“Spot on,” Beauchamp agreed.
“Another Mata Hari.”
“Desperately in love with our hero,” Ogden said.
“And equally in love with the villain,” said the Vicar. “Loyalties torn in two.”
Ogden clapped his hands appreciatively.
“Marvellous,” he declared. “This is going to work. You know chaps, I think we missed our true vocation.”
Chapter Five
“THAT’LL DO FOR NOW,” Ogden declared.
“But we’ve barely started,” said the Vicar.
“It’s enough,” Ogden said. “With this lot, we should be able to find a publisher. If they like it, we’ll give ’em some more.”
They had been hard at work for two weeks, and the product of their labours now ran to sixty sheets of typescript. Sybil had expected them to give up after three days when the Vicar’s artificial hip began to give him trouble, and Ogden broke his dentures. But to her surprise and chagrin, the friends carried on all the same, and they now had something to show for their persistence.
“Read out the opening page, Vicar,” Beauchamp suggested.
“All right. Where’s it gone? Ah, here we are.” The Vicar put on his spectacles, and read out the following:
“Officially, I was stationed in Berlin. In fact, my work took me much further afield. I had been seconded from MI5 to the newly-formed VO5 unit, under the auspices of Allied Joint Military Intelligence. Our brief was straightforward: to track down a string of recently-formed Soviet espionage networks operating at the highest levels in Allied military bases throughout Europe.”
“Good stuff,” said the Laird.
“A fine, no-nonsense opening,” Ogden said.
“Absolute garbage,” Sybil said.
“Carry on, Vicar.”
“Our sources indicated that the whole operation, which we had code-named AARDVARK, was masterminded by one individual: an elusive figure called Yevgeny Akhmatov. We had few hard facts about Akhmatov: some said he was an émigré count who had been weaned back into the Soviet fold, and had spent the war returning high-grade Intelligence from the German occupied zone; others said he was not Russian at all, but a brilliant Norwegian mercenary who ran the entire AARDVARK set-up from a hut in the Pyrenees.”
“Even better,” Beauchamp nodded. “The sense of mystery—the exotic locations—I think we’ve excelled ourselves.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Sybil groaned.
“More,” commanded the Laird. “More.”
“Of one thing we were certain: whoever he was, Akhmatov was ruthlessly efficient. The few people who could offer us meagre crumbs of information about Akhmatov’s activities were usually murdered soon afterwards. Their bodies would be found floating in rivers, with their legs sawn off and tongues ripped out. The message was simple: informers could not hope to escape.”
Sybil’s lip curled in distaste.
“Is that absolutely necessary?” she asked.
“But of course,” said the Vicar. “Sex and violence: it’s the done thing, you know.”
“And that was the violence, was it?” Sybil frowned. “What about the sex?”
“Coming right up,” Ogden beamed. “Proceed, Vicar.”
“But Akhmatov had one fatal weakness: women, and it was here we might hope to trap him. His sexual prowess was legendary, but it had led him into some close scrapes. One of our best informants was a French film actress whom Akhmatov had seduced and subsequently abandoned. She had turned for consolation to an Egyptian air-force pilot through whom we were able to obtain some vital clues about Akhmatov’s personal habits. It emerged that Akhmatov was between forty and fifty, small in stature, powerfully built, with greasy dark hair and a swarthy, mustachioed complexion. A livid scar ran from his elbow to the palm of his right hand, the result of a student duel. A shrapnel wound gave him a slight limp and still caused him occasional discomfort which he would soothe by consuming large quantities of Dutch gin or, when this was not available, Benedictine. He was a master of disguise, an accomplished marksman, an expert with explosives, and a brilliant exponent of clandestine radio communication.”
“What a build-up!” exclaimed the Laird. “It’s irresistible.”
“Well, I can resist it,” Sybil sniffed.
“Sybil dearest,” Ogden smiled sweetly, “you could resist a panzer division. Encore, Vicar.”
“Through the AARDVARK network, Akhmatov had already secured the formula for the newly-developed KP5O8 radar surveillance system, secret plans for the latest American high-altitude reconnaissance aircraft, and the specifications of any number of ground-to-air and anti-tank missiles. On top of all this, several networks of Allied agents throughout Eastern Europe had been exposed and liquidated: first the 69H network in Romania in late 1953, then the DDT75 network in Bulgaria in January 1954, and the RU12 ring in Poland in September of the same year. AARDVARK and Akhamatov had to be found without delay.”
“That’s enough,” Sybil shuddered. “I think that has to be the most preposterous, cliché-ridden—”
“But it’s all true,” Ogden broke in.
“What?”
“You heard me. This is history.”
“Nonsense. You’ve made it all up.”
“Oh no we haven’t,” Ogden said firmly.
“You said you would,” Sybil countered. “You decided at the very beginning that you were going to invent it all.”
“We changed our minds,” Ogden said. “This is all true.”
“You’re having me on,” Sybil said.
“Not at all,” Ogden insisted.
“You mean…there really was a—I can’t believe it.”
A note of doubt had crept into Sybil’s voice. She picked up the typescript and read the first page.
“But it’s so laughably implausible,” she complained.
“History often is,” Ogden said piously, and he blew a massive purple gum-ball.
Sybil stared, and shook her head.
“Well, well,” she said. “I’d never have guessed it. But Godfrey, why didn’t you ever tell me about a man called Akhmatov?”
The Vicar gazed at his wife reprovingly.
“Really, Sybil. I was a professional, you know.”
For once, Sybil was quite nonplussed.
“Yes, but… Well, if you say it’s true, I suppose it must be.”
Ogden clapped his hands in triumph.
“Precisely!” he roared. “And if you say that, so will everyone else. Publishers, readers, the lot.”
>
Sybil’s eyes popped.
“You—you mean you were having me on?”
“Of course we were, old girl. And you swallowed it. And so will everyone else.”
Sybil’s face turned an interesting shade of violet. She got to her feet, put her hands on her hips, and shook with rage.
“Clive Ogden,” she said, in a voice quivering with indignation, “that was an unspeakable thing to do.”
“Oh, steady on, Sybil,” Ogden laughed. “I was just making a point.”
Sybil tramped out of the room, leaving the men to weep with laughter.
“Oh dear,” Ogden gasped. “I am most dreadfully sorry, Vicar.”
“Not to worry,” the Vicar chortled. “She’ll get over it. And you did prove your point. They’ll believe us, all right.”
“What now?” Beauchamp said, as he blew his nose. “Find a publisher, I suppose.”
“No,” said the Laird. “We need an agent. I only know of one…”
“Is he any good?”
“It’s a woman, and I’ve no idea. She handled Greg Bliss’s book on fly fishing. He thought very highly of her.”
Ogden shrugged.
“Can’t hurt to have a word with her, I suppose.”
As agreed, the Laird got in touch with the agent, a formidable lady called Olive Chambers, who was most impressed with the sample chapters. When she had signalled her enthusiasm to the Laird, a meeting with all the writers was arranged one Friday morning in her office.
“Good Lord,” Ogden whispered, as he entered her study. “She’s even older than we are.”
“Shut up,” the Laird hissed.
But Ogden was quite right: Miss Chambers predated her prospective clients by at least ten years. She was a corrugated, beefy old lady, with pince-nez and wiry white hair drawn back into a bun. But, as Ogden later observed, she was “still all there”, and her handshake was strong enough to crack nuts.
“Mr Ogden,” she smiled, “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you. Your memoirs are so very exciting.”
Ogden shrugged nonchalantly. “Do you think so?”
“Oh yes,” she said. “Quite thrilling. It’s got everything, you see: blood and thunder, betrayal and intrigue. I loved it. And these other gentlemen are…?”
