An Ordinary Guy, Operation Saponify. Andrew Gilbrook
secretary Miss Middleton have been having, well . . . relations. Do you not understand the security implications?” and she just droned on for what seemed ages about policy, security and morals. I finally got a chance to speak, when she asked if I had anything to say.
“I am well aware of the security aspect of everything I do, and if I had the slightest inkling that Miss Middleton was anything but trustworthy I’d refuse to work with her. I take your accusation seriously Miss Nappy-Rash,”
“Busch-Rash,” she corrected me still not showing any sign of a sense of humour.
“Miss Busch-Fire, I have a very good working relationship with my secretary, the work she does for me is exemplary and professional, and is, quite possibly, the most hard-working person in the building,”
“None the more for that,” she continued “you are being formally warned in a written letter to cease your, your” she stumbled her words trying to think of the correct phrase to apply to my relationship with Karen, “your perverse sexual desires”
“Perverse? What are you on about? Have you lost your hydrocortisone?”
“Hydrocortisone?” she came back totally lost in the joke that was endless in its possibilities. She continued,
“We are aware that you, Miss Middleton and Miss Avraham spent a night together last weekend,”
Now it dawned on me, oh shit, I exclaimed to myself, I’d ordered a deep check on Jenny and they have bugged Karen’s apartment. They must have installed secret cameras too.
“Research!” I grabbed the first word that came into my head.
“What?” the strange woman replied
“We were working on Miss Avraham, it’s official business and in this business, we use all means to find out what we need. I suggest you don’t interfere and remove whatever you have bugged Miss Middleton’s apartment with and allow us to do our important work,” I guessed the word important wasn’t going to go down too well in this room but it was out now, “plus I demand a list of all those that have viewed or listened to any conversations between the three of us. There are higher-level security implications in what we are doing and I’m not having you and your friends rub your BV at my expense,”
“BV?” she queried, now well and truly lost in my stream of Busch-Rash jokes
“You will have to look that one up yourself I’m not here to complete your education,” I continued to rant. I don’t know why I continued to try to get out of the admonishment, but I was angry at myself for being so stupid and this woman was ripe for targeting my anger at.
“Well, I think we can wrap this meeting up then,” I think she had had enough of me by now, I can wind up the best of them.
“Your written instruction is here, and if you can sign the notes of the meeting on each page please,” she had clearly had enough of me.
“I’m not signing anything,”
“You have to sign the foot of each page to say you agree that it’s a correct record of our conversation today,”
“You’ll get a swift foot to your gash-mash before I sign anything you have,” I’d be in further trouble now for the rudeness and insubordination, but I stopped caring now, I was embarrassed I forgot the place would be bugged, I was sick of being talked to like a child by Miss double-barrelled Haughty-Taughty. I forgot the poor note-taker was sat to one side, I looked at her and saw she was stifling a smile herself at my barrage of abuse, clearly she didn’t like Miss Burning-Britches either. It spurred me on to continue the abuse.
“This meeting is over Miss Red-Rash-Rump,” with that, I stormed out of the room and the building, angry at myself for being so stupid in so many ways. But, I did get the second irony, that I had been scolded for my sex life and the meeting was held in the In and Out Club. MI6 does have a sense of humour after all. But I hated the fact that I had been treated like a school kid, talked down to. I am an adult doing a job with high risk and responsibilities, I wasn’t going to be talked at in that way and let anyone get away with it. None the more for that I did understand the issue, and I felt a little embarrassed at my behaviour toward Busch-Rash.
Picture 3. The In and Out Club, London.
The morning of Saturday 19th June 1976, I remember the day well. I was at my home, Karen phoned in distress.
“Andy, its Jenny, she is leaving,”
“How do you mean leaving?” I enquired
“She’s quit her job, she’s paid me a month’s rent and now she is packing her stuff and going,” Karen spoke, clearly crying. Her best friend was going, so suddenly.
“Christ, where is she going?” I asked
“She says home, I was trying to talk to her to ask why, but I saw a ticket in her passport as she was packing”
“Did you manage to catch where she is going from her ticket?”
“No, Andy, what’s happening, she won’t tell me why, or anything, she will be gone within the hour,” Karen spoke through her sobs
“OK, I won’t have time to get to you, this is what we were waiting for, it’s happening,” I said
“What’s happening?”
“Jenny, she is an agent for an organisation, I don’t know which yet. I’ll jump in my car and start driving, in twenty minutes I’ll stop and give you a call,” mobile phones in 1976 were not a thing that everyone had, how we managed without I don’t know.
“Find out from the CAA (Civil Aviation Authority) what flight she is on, for now, I’ll assume it’s Heathrow. When I call if it’s any different I’ll divert. Once you find out the airport call the Border Agency at that airport and have her picked up and to hold her in an interview room and tell them I’m on my way. No way are they to let her fly. Can you do that without her knowing?” I gave my instructions grabbing my car keys
“I will have to go into the office I don’t have those phone numbers here,” Karen replied.
“Ok, don’t give her any idea what you are doing, is she still at your place?”
“Well, she is now waiting for a taxi. I’ll take my car to the office, I will be a couple of minutes,” Karen now switching into her efficient work mode.
“Say goodbye to her as you would normally, make some excuse like you can’t bear to watch her leave or something, I’ll call you in twenty minutes,” with that, I flew out of my flat in Leavesden and jumped in my car. I had a white Triumph Dolomite 1850, it was the car of the day, it was the car the boy racers wanted. It would take me forty minutes to get to Heathrow if I was lucky, I’d have to stop and make sure Jenny was going to Heathrow by calling Karen for the information shortly. I broke every speed limit, if the police stopped me for speeding I’d possibly miss Jenny, maybe I’d ask them to escort me or even take me to the airport, but I didn’t want to give away my identity to anyone. Luckily, that didn’t happen. I guessed Jenny was leaving from Heathrow because any other airport is further and would be very expensive by taxi. I was sure she’d take some other means of transport to get to there if she were leaving from any other airport. I was good at these hunches and I trusted my intuition. After 20 minutes, I stopped by a phone box, luckily it was working. The call to Karen at the office confirmed Heathrow was indeed the airport and that Jenny on her way to France would be nabbed by border police after clearing check-in and security.
I arrived at the airport, Karen had already warned them I was coming and I needed no introduction, I was led to an interview room with Jenny inside waiting with a female Border Agent.
“What time is her flight?” I asked the staff as I arrived outside the room
“You have forty minutes if you want her on the flight,” one officer