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Bespoke Assassins (Part 9)

Paul Dellit has written some excellent political articles for The AIMN, so it came as some surprise that he is better known for his screenplay writing. Thomas Keneally, in a recent review of one of Paul’s screenplays I wrote: “I liked your screenplay and plot very much” and went on to describe it as “a very interesting and well-wrought script”. This particular screenplay – a spy thriller set in 1992 involving a MI5 mission directed at uncovering the source of stolen Russian radioactive material – has been turned into a novella (with input from Mr Keneally) and prior to publishing in hard copy has been offered to The AIMN.

We are pleased to ‘publish’ Paul’s novella. Being over 40,000 words, it will need be published in weekly installments.

Today we offer Part 9 (picking up where we left off from in Part 8).

Chapter 4 (continued)


Oliver wakes up to find Emma still asleep.

“Emma, Sweetness and Light, you have to wake up now. It’s almost 11.”

Emma, still sleepy, returns to present realities with a jolt.

“Oh no. It’s not! They haven’t had breakfast!”

“We could shower together to save time.”

Emma smiles wryly at this suggestion. “Take a juice to them and I’ll be down soon to make their breakfasts while you shower – if I can move.” And as she gets up, moving slowly, attempting to motivate stiff muscles, she is struck by the sudden realisation of a looming problem: “Oh god. Shit! Glasely!! He’s due to arrive soon – now!”

Oliver has already left the bedroom and out of earshot on his way down to the kitchen when Emma remembers the imminent arrival of The Hon. Marcel Glasely.

Oliver, wearing only his pyjama shorts, is making the coffee when Emma enters the kitchen.

He announces proudly, “Had their juices and eagerly awaiting your scrambled eggs, two pieces of toast each please, and I’m making coffee for all of us.”

“You’d better shower. I’ll take care of the coffee. We forgot Glasely.”

“I didn’t forget. Why should I rush around for him? I fail to be impressed by the artificial ranking of human beings on the basis of their antecedents, and if he expects me to be tugging my forelock, he can kiss my arse.”

“As may be, dear Oliver, but if he sees you swanning around in your little jimjams in front of me . . .” She raises her eyebrows.

“Okay. I’ll hit the showers.”

“We’ll have a full house when he arrives. If it comes up, you slept in the unoccupied bedroom last night. I’ve placed all your things next to the single bed in our room. I’ll put Glasely in ‘your room’ and say I’ve moved you into mine.”

Oliver is towelling off after his shower when the front door buzzer rings. He walks to the monitors and looks at the front door monitor which shows Marcel Glasely standing at the front door, looking around a little apprehensively. Emma rushes in and pushes the front door communication button.

“Come in Marcel.” She pushes the button again to turn off communication with the front door then turns to Oliver. “Chop, chop . . . please.”

Emma greets Glasely in the entrance hallway with a restrained smile. “Come through Marcel. Good flight I trust.”

Glasely responds with politeness: “Good flight, yes.”

“Your room is upstairs. I’ll show you. You can freshen up and join us downstairs when you’re ready.”

Emma is leading Glasely upstairs when they meet Oliver coming out of the main bedroom and about to descend the stairs. He stands aside to allow Emma and Glasely to pass.

“This is Oliver, Marcel.”

Glasely is carrying his bags and unable to shake hands with Oliver.

Oliver smiles. “We can shake hands downstairs.”

Glasely responds, po-faced, at what seems to him like an unnecessary suggestion: “Right oh.”

When the three of them are assembled in the lounge room, each with a cup of tea, Emma asks Glasely: “How did you leave Julian?”

“Back in the chair. On the mend, it seems.”

“So you’re . . . ?”

“Assisting the mission until Julian retires, when I take over.”

“In an acting capacity, I expect, until they make a permanent appointment.”

“Don’t think that’s in much doubt . . . Look, before I begin questioning this Stasi fella, I’d like to clear up the matter of the letter I received from you, Oliver, and the fax I received from you, Emma. It seems you didn’t holiday in France after all, Oliver.”

Emma interrupts. “This is your first time in the field, if I’m not mistaken.”

“I was in the Middle East. I’m waiting for . . .”

“Tucked up in the Embassy. It’s best I assume this is your first time. I am in charge of this mission in the field. Your remit is to observe my questioning of the ex-Stasi officer and, when I tell you to, formally confirm to him that whatever terms I negotiate with him will be honoured by the British Government. I take it that we are prepared to meet his terms if he provides the information he claims to have?”

“Ah, yes. That’s about the size of it. But there is still the matter of your deceptive communications. I want an explanation before we go any further.”

Oliver looks to the side and says, almost under his breath,: “A man with a death wish.”

“Have something to say? You can speak up, Oliver. I won’t eat you.”

Oliver looks up at the ceiling and sighs quite audibly: “Oh dear.”

Emma looks at Glasely with cold rage in her eyes. “You weren’t listening, were you Marcel. We are in the field. In the field, I’m in charge of this mission. You’re assisting the mission – the irony of that statement! Your five minutes of fame – with your five minutes of authority you managed to place the whole mission in jeopardy, you failed to activate our security – you placed our lives at risk! Well, now, in bureaucratic language you might understand, I am your supervisor. So think of this as your performance review. You are a buffoon, Marcel. You wouldn’t even be tolerated were it not for your family’s influence. You will not speak, eat, sleep or breathe unless I tell you to. Is that clear to you?’

Glasely is speechless, looks stunned, then begins to speak softly, trying to regain his composure. “I won’t be treated in this . . .”

Emma cuts him off calmly, with an air of authority: “Yes you will, Marcel. And I’ll tell you why. This is your first real foray into the world of ‘missions for grown-ups’. My inclination is to report that you were clearly out of your depth, that you raised pettifogging issues constantly as a way of disguising your failure to grasp the big picture, you displayed an inability to distinguish the trivial from the vitally important. And then there is, of course, your inability to follow directions. That’s the report your ‘supervisor’ is inclined to provide to Sir Christopher.”

Glasely sheepishly looks away from Emma and speaks in a soft voice: “Message received.”

Chapter 5


Later that day


As Emma, Oliver and Glasely walk out of their interview with Kleinsdorf, which they held in the room in which he is being detained, Emma says: “I’ll call Julian. Marcel, here is the voice recording.” She hands a small voice recorder to Glasely and says: “Would you please type it up as an email attachment. There is a computer in my bedroom. Call me when it’s done.”

Emma is on the phone in the kitchen talking to Julian with Oliver beside her. The call is in progress on speakerphone. Julian is speaking: “. . . I agree. So our order of march is: one, I’ll have Feint picked up as soon as he arrives in Berlin – he will arrive tomorrow afternoon, Berlin time; two, Andrew believes Feint would be unable to resist intense interrogation for very long so we get him to tell us where the orphanage is and who its head is, all the details; three, . . .”

Oliver interrupts, “It might expedite matters if Emma and I are left alone with Feint, monitored of course. The shock of seeing us alive and the fear that we might cause him great pain if he doesn’t answer our questions . . .”

Julian responds: “Emma, do you think the two of you could keep your emotions in check?”

“I believe so. I believe that Oliver has remarkable self-control – at least, that has been my observation of him.” She smiles and looks at Oliver, whose mouth is open in mock surprise; she continues: “and you know I abhor physical violence.”

Julian replies: “I’ll consider it. Where were we up to – three? – four? no, three: when Feint tells us where the orphanage is we immediately send two or our people to keep the place under surveillance; four, Kleinsdorf sends advice to Oleg that he has another buyer; five, Oleg should then summon the head of the orphanage to meet him with a view to sending him on his way to deliver the stuff to Kleinsdorf. Meetings between Oleg and the orphanage chap take place in Croatia, so it might be a bit tricky. Nevertheless, our people will tail the orphanage fellow and nab Oleg at that meeting.”

Emma asks: “How are we going to handle the orphanage? That will require some planning.”

Julian replies: “We won’t touch the orphanage. We will release the head of the orphanage immediately and send him on his way with a caution to keep quiet or we will tell the world about his little operation.”

Emma and Oliver begin talking over each other: “What do you mean? Why would you . . .? Do you mean we will be dealing with the orphanage later?”

Julian replies: “I mean, as distasteful as it is, we have to leave the orphanage untouched for now – a necessary evil for the greater good. Two members of the Papal Curia are running the place. If we publicly disgrace them we disgrace the Vatican. We need the Pope very publicly on . . .”

Oliver interrupts: “I’m sorry, Julian, but I am having trouble understanding why we can’t just . . .”

Julian interrupts: “The Pope. We need the Pope to visit Eastern Bloc countries with messages that point the faithful in the direction of Western-style democracy and alliances with the West. Catholicism was repressed, not expunged, within the Eastern Bloc. Nothing like banning something to make its adherents more ardently committed. We may confidently predict that Catholicism will flower again after its Communist pruning, more virulently than ever. We need massed rallies of the faithful greeting the Pope to give his West-friendly message social momentum. If it comes out that a couple of the Pope’s right-hand men have been running a bordello for paedophile clergy, of senior rank no less, how biddable then do you think the Pontiff would be? Vatican City would become his carapace. It is unlikely that he would emerge for the rest of his pontificate.”

Oliver protests: “Julian, please, I can’t believe you’re comfortable with this. I can’t believe you’re in favour of conscripting these abused children into the service of some geopolitical strategy, because that’s what you would be doing. You would be an accessory to a crime against humanity for every child you knowing left in the hands of these animals!”

With a note of discomfort in his voice, Julian replies: “It’s a matter of timing, Oliver. We can’t move against the orphanage until the Pope has made his tour of the Eastern Bloc. If these orphans were left in the Balkans, many of them would starve or worse. After the Pope has done his turn, we will move on the orphanage and keep it as quiet as we can. It’s been agreed with the Americans. Can’t be undone.”

Oliver replies: “I see.” Emma is about to protest but Oliver signals to her to remain silent. He continues: “I’m glad I don’t have to carry the burdens of your office, Julian. Anyway, let’s know if you want us to expedite Feint’s spilling of the beans. Other than that, we have Kleinsdorf and Venner here. Do you want them both taken to the Embassy?”

Julian replies: “Our security people will take Venner to the Embassy tomorrow morning. Tell Marcel he is to accompany them. A couple of CIA fellows will meet him there. Tell him to make sure they sign the release form when he hands Venner over to them. They’ll ask him for our report on Mr. Venner and the late Mayfield. He can tell them that I’ll send it on to them in a day or two.”

Emma asks: “And Kleinsdorf?”

Julian replies: “Better keep him with you there. He has to call Oleg and I want you to observe and make sure it goes according to Hoyle. Better find out from Kleinsdorf how Oleg contacts him when he needs to. He’ll have to have a mobile phone. I’ll get our security people to bring one to you. Kleinsdorf will have to give Oleg its number. He should tell Oleg that he is not at home and to call him on his mobile phone.” Julian pauses before continuing, “Yes . . . on reflection I think it would be a good idea for you and Oliver to conduct the initial questioning of Mr. Feint tomorrow, in the presence of our two security people. They will bring him to the safe house as soon as they pick him up from the airport – should be with you early in the evening. If he doesn’t crack when you confront him, you can leave him to them. As soon as they have the location of the orphanage and a description of the courier, they will deliver Feint to the Australian Embassy and then proceed to the orphanage. When they have established their observation post, they will call you and you can get Kleinsdorf to make his phone call to Oleg. Call me after that and we can determine what we want you to do next.” He pauses again before continuing: “Seems Kleinsdorf will be able to tell us all we need to know to successfully complete Carthage. Results far exceed expectations – taken altogether, a commendable performance, both of you. Well done, and good luck with Feint tomorrow.”

Emma replies, “Thank you Julian. I’ll call you tomorrow after Feint.”

“Good. I’ll say goodbye now.”

“Bye Julian.”



And when Oliver says his goodbye, Emma hangs up and walks to the fridge. She declares she needs a drink and asks Oliver: “Would you like a beer or is there any wine left. . .”

“A sickly sweet Gewurztraminer. A beer will do.”

They sit at the kitchen island bench-top.

Emma turns to Oliver. “That little sign you made – you have no intention of abandoning the orphanage, do you? You’re about to come up with another one of your plans: Dick and Jane capture the bad people and free the children.

Oliver responds with a look of resignation: “No – no Jane, no Dick. And even if I did come up with a plan, it certainly wouldn’t involve you. He pauses reflectively. “I think we have to accept that any ‘plan’ would be a good example of optimism trumped by reality . . . don’t you agree?”

“Why wouldn’t you involve me!?”

“My plan. I pick the team.”

“I thought you said there could be no plan.”

“Okay – if I did have a plan.”

“Why exclude me?”

“You know why.”

“I wouldn’t ask if I knew.”

“Now you’re fishing.”


Oliver becomes annoyed. “Okay. That’s enough. You know dammed well.”

Emma smiles. “What do I know dammed well? Tell me what I know dammed well.” She pauses, still smiling. “Tell me . . . I want you to tell me.

Oliver looks at Emma, a little embarrassed. “Tell you what?”

“You really are a very old fashioned ‘boys own’ romantic, aren’t you. You want to do the really brave thing. You want to save the children by yourself and not let the girl be put at risk.”

Oliver walks over to the kitchen and begins opening cupboard doors and slamming them shut, obviously upset and frustrated by his fruitless search. “Any schnapps in this bloody place?”

Oliver slams a cupboard shut and rests upon the bench top below, his head bowed and resting on the closed cupboard door. Emma is watching him. She sees two tear drops fall upon the bench top. She walks over to him and places her hand upon his back. She begins to rub it softly without speaking.

His head rests on the cupboard door at first, and then he stands up and turns away from Emma so that she cannot see his red eyes. He attempts to change the subject: “Tell me about yourself. You know all about me but you’ve never told me about you.”

“It’s late enough. Go to bed and I’ll join you as soon as I have taken care of our guests for the night. I’ll bring you something.’

Oliver regains his composure. “Thanks. I’m okay. We can bed them down together and then have a bite ourselves. Then I want the full and unexpurgated version of your life.”

Their dinner over, Emma and Oliver are lying in bed facing one another. She begins her autobiography, speaking gently, with a note of open sincerity in her voice: “One unique thing about my family – we were all Cambridge people. My mother and father were both undergraduates at Cambridge when they met. My father is now a retired Cambridge humanities professor. My mother is a retired Cambridge archivist. The elder of my two brothers, older than me, read law at Cambridge. The younger brother, younger than me, studied architecture at Cambridge.

“And you got a good degree in modern languages – a middle child.”

“Not in that sense. I was probably the most adventurous – a bit precocious and sometimes outspoken but not because I was an overlooked middle child. That was just my nature.”


Emma smiles. “My parents loved each other very much – yin and yang, very close, very involved. Their three children were allowed to be fairly independent, because, I suppose, we were reasonably well-behaved. We were three very different personalities, different interests, separate lives. We cared for one another and got along. We’d stick up for one another. But none of us could have said what the other two were doing most of the time.”

“So you became a journalist, then a photojournalist.”

“I didn’t like working for newspapers – and the feeling was mutual, so I set about writing feature articles as a freelance journalist – travel mostly. You had to have pictures to go with the copy so I had to learn to be a good photographer if I hoped to earn a living. Then I decided to pursue more interesting projects and ended up in a few trouble spots. You had to work in with a group. It would have been too dangerous for a woman working alone.” She pauses reflectively. “Life on the edge, in more ways than one. A real buzz at first. Then one day . . . I was writing a piece on Palestine, in Palestine. The night before I was with a group of foreign journalists, all drinking too much in someone’s room at the hotel. The excuse was a welcoming party for a new arrival. He was someone’s friend. He seemed really nice. We seemed to connect. We had a kind of vague arrangement to have dinner the following night. The next day he was shot dead by an Israeli border guard. Only one shot was fired. A mistake, they said. About a week later I was approached by 6 to work for them. I accepted without thinking twice.”

“Tell me about Phillip . . . or if you don’t want to . . .”

“It’s a bit sad, but I want to tell you. We were paired up for a mission in Indonesia – that’s how we met. We were two very different people – very little in common. In fact we were the kind of people who would never have become friends, and we weren’t really – just colleagues. When the mission came to an end, he was due to fly back to Australia and me to London. We’d achieved all of our objectives and we were rather satisfied with how clever we had been. Phillip had received word that he was to be promoted and suggested we celebrate over a farewell dinner. We had a lot to drink. He told a rather pitiful story about his girlfriend-of-five-years breaking off their relationship, just as he was proposing to her. So that he should have no doubt about her decision to ‘move on’, she let him know that there was ‘another man’ – who was his best friend.” Emma continues with a pitiful smile. “Well, I told him that my last relationship ended when the man I loved left me with just a goodbye note – without even saying anything to me in person – not the slightest indication before that there was a problem with our relationship . . . there wasn’t.” She pauses wistfully before continuing: “And so, the dinner turned into a boozy session of commiserations. Instead of celebrating, we began feeling enormously sorry for each other and, of course, we ended up in bed.” She pauses again before declaring: “There is nothing like really, awkwardly, bad sex, to sober you up.” And she laughs, again wistfully, before resuming: “Some little while after the first disaster, he intimated with a rather triumphal air, that he was up for a second shot, but I managed to rush to the bathroom and pretended to throw up. We parted the next day. When I discovered I was pregnant, I told him and we ended up married and living in his parents’ holiday place on the Hawkesbury.”

“Forgive me, but aren’t female operatives on the pill when they’re in the field, in case they’re attacked?”

“Raped. Yes, but I’d misplaced my supply, and it was very hard to get the pill where we were in Indonesia. But I wasn’t worried. We weren’t in any danger and there was no prospect of Phillip and I ever . . . And we weren’t that drunk. Phillip wore a condom, but in keeping with the rest of the performance, he managed to let it come off.”

“Would it be insensitive at this point to see the funny side . . .”

“Don’t you dare . . .” She smiles before gently reproaching him with: “Are you interested in hearing the rest . . .?”

“Please. I’m sorry.”

“Well, we married for Katie’s sake, obviously. He was very keen, and his job would keep us apart for lengthy periods – but it was just too awkward when he was at home. I knew that Katie would eventually sense that she didn’t have loving parents. I thought that it would be better to have one content parent than two who could not provide the role model of the way relationships are supposed to be. So, after a long period of to-ing and fro-ing, we agreed, amicably, to divorce when he completed this mission.

“Do you mind if I ask you a very, very personal question? I don’t expect you to answer.”

“Ask away.”

“Now you’ll think I’m fishing . . .”

She responds in mock stern voice: “Out with it, young man.”

“You seemed to be quite surprised that someone would make love to you the way I did. I mean, I understand – quick orgasm then sleep, even though it made me your ersatz dildo – but the way you reacted was a little surprising.”

Emma smiles. “And such a lifelike dildo. Yes, I am sorry for what I said, and yes, I do think you’re fishing. Well, you are my best lover, but that’s not saying much.”

Oliver looks a little deflated. “Oh.”

“There was one before you who was pretty good but there wasn’t that . . .” She giggles. “‘Chemistry!’”

“Not to forget ‘sexual tension’.”

“No, we mustn’t forget that. No, you’re streets ahead. Besides the ‘pretty good one’, I had a couple of boyfriends at Cambridge, and the odd one night stand. Then, post-Cambridge, there were short term relationships. Then there were two journalists, in danger zones.”

“You had a threesome!”

She punches him playfully. “One after the other.”


“Don’t be silly. One journalist at a time on separate occasions. We were high on ‘danger zone’ adrenalin and booze. As far as I can remember, it wasn’t great sex, well, one of them wasn’t – the other one I mentioned before – the one I thought would last – but it did give me a good night’s sleep. A quickie and a good night’s sleep – that’s what I wanted from you. And I realise now, I had hoped you would be a hopeless lover.


“You were making me feel uncomfortable. And it is your fault. You accused me – when I told you I wanted you to abandon the mission, on that first evening – you accused me of having an emotional attachment to you, or some such.” She looks a little sheepish. “Now you’ll be smug again.”

“Not in my nature.”

She looks askance. “Well, as we spent a little more time together, not consciously, mind you, but subconsciously . . . and it made me feel a bit vulnerable.” She pauses. “That wasn’t how I was in other relationships. I could be very demanding – one boyfriend even told me I was intimidating – can you imagine?”

He replies with deadpan expression: “He must have been easily intimidated.”

She turns upon him, smiling derisively. “Oh, please! I’m opening my heart to you, and you’re being the class comedian.”


“It’s just that whenever I was attracted to a man before, I was always in control. It really didn’t mean that much to me if things didn’t work out – except once.” She pauses. “Then you . . . just slipped under the radar. I’m not going to say I’m in love with you, of course. Just . . . very uncomfortable.” She pauses again. “So that’s why I called you a bastard – but a very sweet one.” Then her expression softens as she asks: “Tell me why you were so upset, before, in the kitchen.”

He pauses before replying in a soft voice: “Do you mind if I don’t.”

“If you’d rather not . . .”

“Another time.”

Emma sits up in bed. “Did you really want to know about me or was it just a way of avoiding that awkward question?”

Oliver sits up in bed. “Of course I wanted to know about you – I want to know, much more . . . and I did want to avoid you asking that question.”

She pauses. “I see. Well, for the record, I would like us to be able to tell one another everything . . . Oh god. I’m sorry . . . Now I’m turning into a cliché . . . Look, I’m not in love with you but it is . . . it is very . . . well, I care what you think.” She pauses again. “This is a very strange relationship for which I have no precedent.”

“No precedent. Oh, Emma, surely Ms. Austen could provide some guidance.”

“Yes, I meant to ask you about our aliases, Darcy and Bennett. What made you think of Pride and Prejudice?”

“Not necessarily Pride and Prejudice. They were the first two characters I could think of. Perhaps you remind me of a kind of generic Austen heroine.”

“Ms. Bennett puts Mr. Darcy through the hoops, but in the end she accepts his proposal of marriage. A bit of wishful thinking on your part, eh?”

Oliver smiles broadly. “Well, I have now completely regained my equanimity. You have that effect.”

“If I promise to be very sympathetic, will you tell me why you were upset? If you don’t I won’t be able to sleep. You have a way of making my mind begin to race when it should be at peace.”

“If I tell you, our little game will be at an end. Then I promise you, restful sleep will elude both of us.”

“Oh please, Oliver. What a thing to say!” She pauses, then continues when Oliver makes no response: “Please. What game?”

“Our bloody plan – that game. It’s becoming increasingly difficult to sustain – ‘one bloody day at a time’ – ‘see how things develop’ – they’re developing like a bloody Polaroid – what happened to time-lapse spread over weeks!?”

“Oh, I see, I think.”

“You think! You seem to have the need to tell me, at regular intervals, that you’re not in love with me. Why do you think that is, Emma? Well, I think I have the answer! We’re bloody hopelessly in love! Now I think I was making a pretty good fist of keeping up the ‘one day at a time’ pretence until our last phone call with Julian and he told us about those little kids, left there, no one to rescue them. Then when we talked about it, the spectre of you being hurt during some kind of rescue, then I thought of Claire and Danni . . .”

Emma, tears in her eyes, reaches over to Oliver and kisses him softly several times then speaks slowly as if to give weight to her serious intent: “The children. We have to give all of our energies to taking them away from that place and finding a new home for them. That has to be our first priority. We come second. Of course I love you, more than . . . so we can be sure of that, that we love each other, and we can be sure that we can work out a future together, but . . . don’t you agree?”

“Yes, yes of course.”

They hug and Emma smiles and speaks with tears in her eyes.

“Well, here’s another fine mess you’ve gotten us into, Ollie.”

Oliver pauses, then speaks softly with glistening eyes and a smile in his voice, attempting to cover his embarrassment at his tearful display of emotion: “For future reference, can we not use the diminutive of my name.”

Emma snuggles up to him. “Whatever you say, Ollie, I mean, darling.”

“And we’ll have to be very careful to confine the use of ‘Darling’ to moments such as this – in bed, I mean.”

“We must remain professional when we are being professional – as per your plan.”

“Precisely. As per my plan. At least we can salvaged that much of it.”

“. . . Remember when you explained your plan to me, in great detail?”

“Of course.”

“How did that end?”

“When I said I was just following orders?”

“Well, it’s my turn to go first.” She begins to slowly slide under the sheets towards Oliver’s nether regions.

“Miss Bennett! . . . Miss Bennett! . . . . Miss Bennett! . . . Please! Miss Bennett!”

To be continued . . .


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