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.
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