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The Big Breach; From Top Secret to Maximum SecurityCompliments of http://www.192.comI spent the next two days enjoying Paris in glorious weather, thoughfears about MI6's next move were never far from my mind. Drinking abeer on the Champs Elys‚e in the summer evening sunshine, thepossibility that the French police would arrest me at the request ofMI6 seemed mere fantasy. MI6 would be reluctant to give the DST theopportunity to question me about their operations against France. Evenif they did arrest me, what would be the charge? Skipping a few days ofprobation was not an extraditable offence. But that gnawing feelingthat re-arrest was imminent never totally disappeared. Realising thatthe best defence against MI6's excesses was to ally myself withjournalists, I rang the Sunday Times, and told them the story of myabscondment. David Leppard of their Ìnsight' team was already in Pariscovering another story and we arranged to go together to the NewZealand embassy.The following morning was warm and humid, and it was a relief to stepinto the air-conditioned lobby of Leppard's hotel on Avenue Lafayette.After a couple of calls to his room from reception, Leppard ambleddown. `Bloody phone's playing up. I'm sure it's bugged.' I let hiscomment pass. It amused me that even experienced journalists imaginedthat a few crackles on the line were signs that their telephone wasintercepted.We took a taxi round to the embassy on the Avenue Leonardo da Vincinear the Place Victor Hugo. To take some photographs for theaccompanying article, a Sunday Times photographer, Alastair Miller, waswaiting outside as we pulled up. Even the heavy-handed DST would shyaway from arresting me in front of a journalist and photographer. Mysuspicions about the New Zealand embassy staff were well-founded. Nowthey had changed their tune for the third time. `We've had newinstructions from Wellington,' explained Mary Oliver, `You can't haveyour passport back until tomorrow.'The embassy's capitulation to MI6 pressure over my passport wasdisappointing, and Oliver's farewell pleasantries fell on deaf ears asI stormed out. On the street outside I felt guilty about my rudenessand considered going back in to apologise, but Miller was impatient toget on with the photo-shoot. We walked over to the Trocadero, fiveminutes away, where the Eiffel tower would make a suitable backdrop,had a light lunch in an outdoor bistro, then Miller set to work. Soonwe had a small crowd around us, presuming that I was a rock star or afootball player.We finished at around 1430 and since we were going the same way haileda taxi together from the Place Victor Hugo. I kept an eye out forsurveillance as we ploughed through the slow-moving Paris traffic, butsaw nothing obvious. I asked the taxi-driver to drop me at the Gare StLazare, as it was easier than giving directions to my hotel. Thestation was being refurbished and heavy polythene dust sheets andscaffolding obscured the familiar facade, disorientating me. Glancingaround to find another landmark, I noticed a dark grey VW Passatpulling up 150 metres away. A similar car had been waiting near thetaxi rank at the Trocadero. I didn't note the number so I couldn't besure they were the same, but it added to my unease. I walked up the Rued'Amsterdam, past the entrance to my hotel and bought a bottle of Evianfrom a Lebanese delicatessen. Doubling back to my lodgings, there wasnobody obviously following.page- 205 - 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.comNo sooner had I locked the door of my room behind me and sat down onthe narrow bed than there was a knock at the door. It was the sharp,aggressive knock of somebody in authority, not the soft apologeticknock of a hotel maid. Òui, qu'est ce-que vous desirez?' I asked,unable to hide the suspicion in my voice.'C'est la r‚ception.' The voice was too belligerent and in any casereception would have used the internal phone if they needed to speak tome. I stood up, took a deep breath and turned the key in the door. Itburst in as though there was a gas explosion outside. Three heavilybuilt men catapulted through the door, screaming, `Police, Police!',cartwheeling me backwards, smashing my head on the desk and crushing meto the floor. Resistance would have been futile, even if I was soinclined. My arms were wrestled behind my back and handcuffs snappedinto place, biting into the flesh. I was helpless, but blows stillrained down on the back of my head until a well-aimed kick in the ribssucked the breath out of me. Only when I fell completely motionless didthe assault stop. I was hauled upright, then thrown on to the bed.Three heavies stood over me, their glowers relaxing into triumphant,toothless grins. One was sucking a knuckle that had split during theassault. Behind them stood two more officers, their revolvers pointedat my chest. The taller of the two appeared to be in charge. A wave ofthe barrel and the three heavies started searching the room.`L'ordinateur, o— est l'ordinateur?' he snapped at me. I pointed at theoverturned desk where my laptop lay on the floor, face down, open atthe hinge, but seemingly still in one piece. A heavy picked it up,dusted it down, slammed it shut and rammed it into a specimen bag. Ètle Psion?' continued the gun. I nodded at the bedside table and thebloody knuckle slung it in another bag. Working in silence, theygathered my other possessions and clothes together, crushed themuntidily into my suitcase, struggled to close the zip, gave up andstrapped it together with my belt, leaving my suit trouser-leg and ashirt-tail hanging out.Silently they dragged me out of the room and down the narrow corridorto the lift. The commander stabbed the button but then muttered anorder and decided on the stairs. There were five steep flights of themand for a moment it crossed my mind that they might give me a shove. Asthe five police led me past the front desk of the hotel, my hairdishevelled, shirt splattered with blood, shirt-tail hanging out, Ismiled apologetically at the receptionist. He glared back, presuming Imust be guilty of some villainous offence.Outside, a small group of onlookers had already gathered. Two plainclothes police cars waited with an ambulance behind them, suggestingthat they expected me to put up a fight. `Why did you smash me up?' Iasked one of the officers in French as he pushed me into the back seatof the first car. He grunted menacingly and I shut up.Sitting impassively in the back of the car, handcuffed to a flic oneach side, we made our way westwards and then along the south bank ofthe Seine. It was a sickening feeling to lose control of my freedomagain and dull helpless resignation set in, like a rabbit caught in asnare knowing its time is up. MI6 had got me again on a Fridayafternoon, meaning a whole weekend in an uncomfortable police cellpage- 206 - 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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