Secret file 05 – Keith Tyson

Born on 19 March 1933. At the time of the Prague Papers (1975) he was forty-two.

He’s tall, with grey eyes and black eyebrows that arch rakishly, and has a square jaw, a thin face and deep furrows run down both cheeks. 

***

Tyson was fascinated by technology and always had been. As a young man he enjoyed an active, outdoor life; a sort of contradiction, being a studious type as well. After obtaining his Spanish degree at King’s College, Durham, he drifted for a couple of months then on impulse joined the Royal Engineers. As the advertisements of the time stated, the Army made a man of him. He thrived on the kind of activity they dished up; a fit body and an alert mind, plenty of action, good money and good food. He cut out drinking, save for special occasions, and then always in moderation. He had never smoked as he couldn’t see anything sensible about ingesting smoke into his lungs.

            In his spare time he took a seamanship course and soon obtained a Coxswain’s certificate. His eyes were good and after hours of practice he attained marksman standard with a Browning pistol: heavy but damned accurate – unlike some toy-like automatics he’d tried.

            Two years later (1962) he joined the SAS, successfully passing their rigorous courses, proud to be given his wings and the sand-coloured beret.

            In 1962 he was in Rhodesia and then in Borneo he spent about ten months in a four man team, training Iban/Border Scouts, the local tribesmen, who became the Army’s eyes and ears to defend the Malaysian border with the Kalimantan region of Indonesia. They were good liaison officers with the locals and also acted as additional infantry and guides.

            While his fighting impulse was more than satisfied, he wasn’t being academically challenged until his patrol met up with the Kalabit, a head-hunting tribe who didn’t particularly like the Chinese communists. The Kalabit taught Tyson their customs and, more interestingly, basic Malay, which was far better than the short course he’d undertaken before being shipped out.

            Unfortunately, in September of that year the Long Jawi Scout Post was massacred by a group of Indonesians. Tyson had known and trained many of the dead and openly grieved for them with other Scouts. Thereafter, the Scouts were solely used as intelligence gatherers and acquitted themselves well for another three years. But Tyson didn’t share in their successes as he’d moved on to Aden in April 1964 shortly after two SAS soldiers’ heads had been displayed impaled on stakes in the main square of Taiz, across the Yemen border.

            Tyson and his new team – Dave, Benny and Mark – were ordered to bring back some enemy heads and they did so. It was grisly work and Benny Bateman suffered severe leg wounds that meant he’d never walk again. But they got him out – and brought back six FLOSY heads.

            On his return from that mission he was recruited into the Counter Revolutionary Warfare unit to cope with the insurgents in the port of Aden itself. Here, he learned counter-insurgency skills which later would be honed against terrorists.

            But he didn’t have much opportunity to use these new abilities as he was asked to attend an urgent hush-hush meeting in a shed at Khormaksar airport. Here he was introduced to Admiral Sands, a short man who seemed uncomfortable in civilian clothes.

            They shook hands and it was all very informal. ‘I’m authorised by your CO to put to you an unusual request, Sergeant,’ Sands had said, his sharp features lightening with a slight smile. ‘We’re talking wheels within wheels here, you realise?’

            ‘Sorry, sir, but you’ve lost me already.’

            ‘That’s my fault. I’ve been with the cloak-and-dagger crowd for four years now and you tend to go all cryptic. Let me explain.’

            Admiral Sands was there on behalf of a certain Sir Gerald Hazard from a covert company called International Interprises. ‘An autonomous bit of MI6, actually,’ Sands said.

            Tyson’s life was about to change dramatically. It began with the unorthodox assignment Sands had been sent to set up. Tyson with three other members of the SAS were parachuted into Brazil under the directive of the Defence Minister; top secret diplomatic clearances had been arranged, complete with sweeteners in the form of generous trade agreements. Two Interprises agents, Mason and Cally, had kidnapped a high-ranking KGB Director of Peru. But their plane crashed in the Brazilian jungle. Interprises had no available operatives up to the rigours of jungle tracking; so the SAS had been brought in.

            Tyson and his two comrades rescued the Russian and the Interprises agents, taking them to a secret rendezvous with the country’s first nuclear-powered submarine, HMS Dreadnought.

            Landing at Rosyth, the two Interprises agents spirited the Soviet spy away. Tyson left his three comrades to some well-earned leave in Edinburgh while he caught the train down to one of Sir Gerald’s country homes just outside Morpeth, as instructed.

            ‘I’ve already had a report from Mason and Cally,’ Sir Gerald said. ‘They were greatly impressed and again send their thanks.’

            ‘I was just doing my job, sir,’ Tyson replied, sipping Vichy water. ‘They held up pretty well in that jungle, all things considered.’

            ‘Yes.’ Sir Gerald grinned and Tyson thought that his features slightly resembled a death-mask from Borneo. ‘Think about what I’m going to offer you. No guarantees, mind. We don’t work that way.’ He gave Tyson a card. ‘Should you want to get in touch.’

            There was something about the man that inspired trust. You really wanted to follow him. Tyson wondered what Sir Gerald had done in his war.

            For days afterwards he couldn’t settle. That indefinable ‘something’ that he’d been chasing all his adult life, it seemed to be on offer from this mysterious organization called Interprises. Certainly, it was linked in some way to MI6. Yet it had autonomy, which he liked. And it was run by a man he could believe in.

            On the fourth day he fished out Sir Gerald’s card and telephoned the man.

            Although he was in the middle of a meeting, Sir Gerald made time for him. ‘I’d like to join your team, sir. There’s just the one problem – I’m signed up for-’

            ‘Your release can be taken care of, no problem,’ Sir Gerald interrupted.

            ‘Then I’m your man.’

            ‘You’re happy about doing more training?’

            ‘No problem, sir.’

            ‘And although we’re keen on team players, you’ll often be quite alone in hostile territory. You’re used to working in a four-man team. Being alone won’t bother you?’

            ‘No, sir. I’m comfortable with my own company.’

            ‘I thought so. Welcome to our little organization, then, Mr Tyson.’

            It felt strange, being called that. Mister. He quite liked the sound of it.

            Within the month (in 1965), his resignation was sanctioned and he received instructions about training at the Fort in Gosport, where he met Tana Standish.

***

Tomorrow, November 26 sees the release of The Prague Papers published by Crooked Cat. The Papers are based on a manuscript handed to me by an MI6 agent, Alan Swann. It needed some knocking into shape, as it had been a collaborative effort by a select group of agents, all intent on telling the story of Tana Standish, psychic spy, whose career spanned 1965 to 1988. They asked that her story be told as fiction.

As a result, the novel The Prague Papers is the first adventure to feature Tana Standish and is mainly set in Czechoslovakia in 1975.

Certain information was divulged in order for me to write the book; yet some has been concealed to date. This is the fifth secret file – and the last – to be released ahead of the book.

Tyson is featured in the short story ‘Hell for Leather’, scheduled for the Saturday Story slot on 29 November.

Saturday Story - 'Cold Turkey'

Chor Virap, Wikipedia commons

COLD TURKEY

Nik Morton

 

Turkish-Soviet Armenian border, 14 February, 1976.

Even through the five layers of artic clothing, Alan Swann felt the insidious cold. The weight of his pack didn’t help, either. If he’d undergone SAS training, maybe he’d feel more confident. But he hadn’t. The training at The Fort in Hampshire had been thorough enough to prepare him for his career as a spy. He much preferred assignments in the Far East and the tropics, places he’d visited while in the navy. The trouble was that he spoke Russian fluently, with a Georgian accent, as well as Malaysian, Indonesian, German and French. As the Operations Officer said, ‘We have nobody else available with your capabilities. Somehow, Toker is on the loose and we’ve got to get to him before the Ruskies. Toby Barnes will be your back-up.’

Enid in Records said that Dudley Toker was one of the ‘last real gentlemen’ and she really missed his ‘wonderful smile and chivalrous airs. Not much gallantry about since the Sixties,’ she had ended when he picked up his papers and maps. What was odd was that Toker had vanished in Istanbul September last year, presumed dead. Then two weeks ago, the Comcen got a brief report in special code. From Toker. In the Armenian city of Yerevan, of all places.

So a hasty mission was set up. Toby Barnes was ex-SAS and a reliable partner in a crisis. They’d been on three missions together and tended to know how the other thought and reacted in extremis. Both operatives had jumped out of the airplane yesterday. The drop height was 30,000feet so the aircraft would go undetected. They didn’t open their chutes straight away. Instead, they plummeted to the earth in free-fall, as they were aiming to get as close as possible to the border to Armenia. Free-fall was fast, silent and generally accurate: a high altitude, low opening drop was ideal for insertion into enemy territory.

Swann maintained a normal delta position and descended at a rate of 120mph, the wind-rush against his polarised goggles quite deafening. The white expanse of mountains looked beautiful as he fell towards them. Barnes was more experienced and had opted for the tracking position and fell at 175mph. When they reached an altitude of 2,500 feet, they finally opened their parachutes. Barnes landed before Swann, about five hundred yards away. As Swann hit and buckled his legs, his feet sinking into deep snow, he felt enormous relief. No jarring of the knees this time, the soft snow cushioned the impact. Swann broke out his snowshoes and then strode across the virgin snow towards Barnes’s landing place.

 
They’d been dropped a mile from the Turkish-Armenian border. Surveillance flights suggested that there were no Russian sentries out here – it was too cold and inhospitable. They relied on radar to detect aircraft.

On their left were the twin volcanic peaks of Mount Ararat, the home of Noah’s Ark, its 5,000-metre height dominating not only the skyline but also the surrounding snow-clad landscape. This land he stood on, and the mountain, had once been part of Armenia until the Turks took it in 1915, committing genocide in the process. Death beckoned now, it seemed.

 
No matter how experienced and how professional you are, if luck’s against you, you lose. Swann found Toby Barnes: as he’d landed, the snow under him had fallen away and Barnes had tumbled down a deep fissure in the underlying rock. The parachute shrouds had snagged, entwining round his neck before he could hit the release and his neck was broken.

Neither carried any identification. All their equipment was manufactured in the USSR. Swann could safely leave Barnes where he hung. He offered a quick prayer for his companion and felt his throat was dry with tension. He sipped a little water then set out on his mission alone.

***

For the next two days Swann trekked down the mountain slopes towards the walled monastery of Chor Virap. The sky was eggshell blue and very clear. As he trudged over the snow he was aware that he left an obvious trail but there was nothing he could do about that except pray for a snowfall to obliterate his tracks. He continually scanned the empty sky for the slightest black speck that might become a deadly Soviet helicopter on patrol.

While the weak sun shone, he tried to avoid overheating, opening his parka. At least it wasn’t windy, so there was no wind-chill to contend with; frostbite was the worst enemy, followed by hypothermia. It was a case of keeping a balance, maintaining his core body-heat while he kept moving to his target.

The pointed tower of the seventeenth century church beckoned, emerging out of the dun-coloured assembly of buildings and wall on a slight promontory. He waited overnight under a makeshift canvas shelter and set out as the sun’s first rays shimmered like a halo around Ararat’s slopes.

***

Tayyip Sezer was a grizzled bent old man, an Armenian monk. Stocky and at least in his seventies, he seemed to be both tough and strong as he eased open the heavy wooden door and let Swann in.

‘We have been expecting you, sir,’ Tayyip said in broken English, closing the door.

‘How many are here?’ Swann asked.

‘Just five in our community. Enough to tend the vines.’ He gestured towards the south. Swann had seen the snow-covered vineyards on a sloping plain beyond the monastery. ‘You would like some broth, I think?’

 
‘That would be welcome,’ Swann said, pulling off his hood and goggles. ‘But I’d like to see your visitor first.’
 
Tayyip grinned, revealing stained crooked teeth. ‘He said whoever came for him would be impatient. Follow me.’
 
Across a cobbled courtyard, up a narrow dark alley and into a small doorway. Tayyip led Swann down a spiral stone staircase into what appeared to be a candle-lit wine cellar. ‘I’ll go and get the broth,’ Tayyip said and left him. For an anxious second he wondered if he was going to be locked up down here. The door stayed ajar.
 
‘Sorry it’s so dark,’ said a refined voice out of a shadowy corner, ‘but my eyes aren’t accustomed to too much light yet.’
 
Swann stepped forward. ‘Toker?’
 
‘Yes.’ The man stepped out into the glow of candles. ‘I think I know you – Alan Swann, isn’t it?’ He held out a hand.
 
Swann nodded, took off his mitt and shook hands.
 
Dudley Toker was tall and gaunt and wore a straggly greying beard. ‘Sorry about my appearance, but I’ve been on the run for a couple of months. I’ve been hiding here since I left Yerevan two weeks ago. That’s where I got my message out to you, thanks to Andranik Kocharian, a contact of mine...’
 
Glancing round the austere stone room, Swann said, ‘Two weeks down here?’
 
‘Tayyip was anxious for my safety. We were at college together years back. Two weeks isn’t so bad. Gregory the Illuminator was captive here for thirteen years.’
 
Before Swann could comment Tayyip returned. ‘Here, have this.’ Both men gratefully spooned up the thick vegetable and mutton broth. ‘I sacrificed a sheep in your honour,’ said Tayyip.

***

Later that day, Toker put on the spare clothing that Swann had brought and said his farewells to the monk Tayyip. Then they walked back towards the border.

Before they’d set out, Toker had explained that while working in Istanbul he’d learned about plans to assassinate Chairman Mao Tse-tung by poison. He was captured to find out how much he knew and whether or not he had informed anyone else. The Soviet plot was intended to point the finger at the CIA and thus throw China into Russia’s arms. ‘Just in case I don’t make it, old boy,’ Toker said.

He was weak from imprisonment, torture and food deprivation. It was a miracle that he’d escaped. Naturally, Swann wondered if Toker had been brainwashed or fed spurious information to cause embarrassment. But the man seemed genuine – and very courageous.

***

At the end of a gruelling two-day trek they crossed into Turkey and Swann sent his radio-message. Two hours later, he set a flare and a short while afterwards the Huey rescue helicopter swooped down towards them. Mission accomplished.

Behind the scenes, the Foreign Office informed the Soviet and Chinese ambassadors about the plan Toker had uncovered. Naturally, the Soviet ambassador strenuously disavowed any plot. Once the Chinese were aware, there was little point in going through with the assassination attempt. Several of Chairman Mao’s entourage disappeared mysteriously in March of that year and Chairman Mao died on 9 September, 1976, apparently of natural causes.

***

This story has been gleaned from certain manuscripts provided by several secret agents who served in International Enterprises, an adjunct to the British Intelligence Service, in the 1970s.

Swann and others are featured in the full-length adventures of psychic spy Tana Standish, beginning with The Prague Papers (Crooked Cat Publishing), published as an e-book on 26 November, 2014.

Please purchase from

Amazon UK here

Amazon COM here

 
'Cold Turkey' was previously published in The New Coastal Press, 2009.
Copyright Nik Morton, 2014.

This story was originally written in response to the writers' circle theme 'turkey'...