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The Big Breach; From Top Secret to Maximum SecurityCompliments of http://www.192.comwith this unwanted intrusion on his day's skating. `Hey, Shaggy, wotyou say, we go back over the lake, if he follows us, den we give `imsomfin' interestin' to look at?' We skated back up Piccadilly, aroundHyde Park Corner and back over to the Serpentine. The helicopter dronedover a few minutes later. Shaggy and Winston glared hard at theintruder. `Right,' dem nosey bastards are asking what for,' announcedWinston. Without a further word, they turned around, bent over anddropped their shorts. `Stick your fuckin' lense up my fuckin' arse!'yelled Winston gleefully.The helicopter surveillance that afternoon made me realise that MI6were serious about keeping me under watch and persuaded me that itwould be prudent not to play around any more. That evening I posted mypassport to the New Zealand High Commission on Haymarket. A few monthslater, a probation officer told me that SB, under instructions fromMI6, put in a warrant to re-arrest me after I failed to post it onSaturday morning. The magistrate threw out the application, pointingout that warrants for breach of probation must be requested by theprobation service and not the police. MI6 were not deterred and onMonday morning ordered probation to put in another application. But bythen my passport was safely in the post and they couldn't justify anarrest.After my New Zealand passport was out of my hands there was no moreobvious physical surveillance. But MI6 were tapping my home and mobilephones and it was irksome knowing that people I knew in UKZ would belistening to me. Whenever I heard a good joke down the pub, I rang myhome ansaphone and repeated it so the transcribers would at least havesomething to liven up their day. I confirmed that my mail was undersurveillance by posting a couple of letters to myself, building intothem the anti-tamper tricks we learnt on the IONEC. Any letters postedat the nearest postbox to my house on Richborne Terrace were alsointercepted.In early June I saw a television documentary about the death of thePrincess of Wales and Dodi Al Fayed in the Alma tunnel in Paris inAugust of the previous year. It revealed that the chauffeur, HenriPaul, who also died, worked normally as the Ritz security manager.Mysteriously, a large sum of cash was found on his body. It dawned onme that he was the same Ritz security manager I had come across whilereading BATTLE's file in SOV/OPS section in 1992. Realising that thisinformation would be important to the imminent inquest into the deaths,but knowing that going to the British police would see me immediatelyre-arrested, I wrote to the father of Dodi Al Fayed, Mr Mohamed AlFayed, the owner of Harrods department store. There was no reply fromHarrods, so, presuming that he was not interested in the information, Ithought nothing more of it. Six months later, after casually mentioningthis to a journalist who immediately recognised its significance, arepresentative of Mr Al Fayed contacted me. He assured me categoricallythat the letter had never arrived.Getting out of jail was a relief, but living in the real world meantworking to pay for a roof over my head. My flat was mortgagedcommensurate with my MI6 salary, so a new job would have to be as wellpaid if I wanted to stay there. My experience in MI6 had already provendifficult to market, and to add to my difficulties MI6 said that theywould not use their contacts to help me. I didn't want another soul-page- 201 - To purchase the original limited edition hardback version of this bookplease call 08000 192 192 or go to http://www.192.com
The Big Breach; From Top Secret to Maximum SecurityCompliments of http://www.192.comdestroying descent into debt, so I chose to sell my flat. It was incentral London, had a small but well-kept garden, a garage and was ingood condition, so it sold quickly. It was gut-wrenching to move outfor the last time in mid-June and load up my possessions for the driveup the motorway to my parents' home in Cumbria, where I could stayuntil the probation was over. When my travel restrictions were lifted,I planned to move to Australia or New Zealand where it would be easierto start afresh at the bottom of a new career without the millstone ofa mortgage. I bought a laptop computer and hooked up the internet so Icould research job opportunities there. It was in direct breach of myprobation conditions, but MI6 would have to admit that they weretapping my parents' telephone if they wanted to re-arrest me. In anycase, it gave me pleasure to break an absurd and technophobiccondition. The internet proved fruitful and soon my Psion was fillingwith contacts in Auckland and Sydney. One career that interested me wastelejournalism and I made contacts with TV companies in both cities.Among them was Australia's Channel 9 TV and their young Londoncorrespondent, Kathryn Bonella, met me a couple of times in London.These meetings had to be discreet, because although I was just lookingfor a job, MI6 would view them as a breach of probation and would tryto have me re-arrested.As the end of my probation neared, I started to fear that MI6'sreluctance to provide any resettlement help was an ominous sign. Ifthey believed that I was such a threat that it was necessary toconfiscate my passports, ban me from the internet, prevent me talkingto journalists and oblige me to rigidly check in with a probationofficer every week until 31 July, how were they planning to control mefrom 1 August? From that date onwards, I would be legally free to talkto journalists, use the internet and travel abroad. It was toosuspicious that they would use the stick until the end of probation butthen not offer even a whiff of a carrot thereafter.There was only one conclusion to draw. MI6 must have an elaborate,possibly sinister, plan in place, to control me after 31 July. I fearedthat they planned to frame me for a crime with a lengthy prisonsentence. They had examples of my fingerprints and genetic signatureand it would not be difficult to use this as evidence in, say, a drugsmugglingprosecution. I concluded that it was better not to stay inthe UK to find out. It would mean going before the end of my probationand without a passport. But how? Luckily there was my training in HMPBelmarsh to fall back on.Dobson advised me that one way to slip out was to take a ferry fromLiverpool to Belfast, then the train to Dublin. A passport was notrequired to travel to Northern Ireland because it was part of theUnited Kingdom, nor was one required to travel between the two Irishcapitals because that would antagonise the Irish Republicans. Once inDublin, I could apply for another New Zealand passport from the HighCommission and fly out. But the security forces had such an obviousloophole swamped with surveillance, including CCTV cameras that couldidentify a face in a crowded station, and it was ground I did not know.Dobson also gave me some of his Dover tobacco-smuggling contacts whohad fast boats. But getting caught up in a smuggling racket would playinto MI6's hands. After reviewing the options, the best was the mostbrazen - just blag my way on to one of the cross-channel ferries toFrance. Dobson told me he had succeeded a couple of times when thepage- 202 - To purchase the original limited edition hardback version of this bookplease call 08000 192 192 or go to http://www.192.com
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