Dave is our civilian driver and he powers across West Berlin to Checkpoint Charlie in under fifteen minutes. It is just about enough time for me to compose myself and rehearse my lines. It is a bleak winter night and the rain is falling steadily. Some bored looking American military police are milling around the small guard house trying to shelter from the spray. Ahead of us are the bright lights and vaster watchtowers of the East German border post. "You are now leaving the American Sector" says the iconic sign in four languages. I see that our own Red-Caps are already in attendance. Giles from Brigade is there too, in uniform. He speaks Russian, is a talented pianist and an all-round good egg. He is talking to some civilian of exceptionally benign appearance whose trousers are too short for his legs. He is the man from Berlin Station and likely an MI6 staffer. I am not sure. Both huddle under an incongruously bright golf umbrella that seems designed to attract attention. Giles is looking fired up and I am glad he is there to ride shot-gun. After a few moments he turns to me. "It's alright Jonny" he says "You can go back to your girlie mags. This gent thinks that a small crew should go over and that any more will provoke a bigger scene". The gentleman in question has bushy eye-brows and nods in agreement. "Yes, I think that would be best" he smiles. He has crooked teeth. He turns back to Giles and a bit more seriously says "See who else turns up. A picture would be really handy if your driver can get it". Giles looks edgy and I am secretly relieved. I know that the night ahead will be a long one: windowless rooms filled with body odour; neon lights; bored and occasionally hostile gestures; a mass of documents to be filled and a form of words that just about retains a shred of dignity for Her Majesty's Armed Forces. I beat a retreat back to the car. Of course, Dave is disappointed. It's not Len Deighton but it beats the dreary schedule on tonight's BFBS. I console him with a bratwurst bought at a late night booth near the Olympic Stadium.
Years later and Giles and I are enjoying a reunion dinner with other old mates in a London livery hall. The Wall is long down and there is no way we would fit into our uniforms now. We are enjoying an alcohol coloured evening of reminiscence. Do you remember that night in Berlin, he is asking? Indeed I do, but mostly because we never really had a chance to talk about it at the time. It was quite a caper, he recalls. The two young officers were enjoying the intimate attention of two seriously gorgeous young women in the flat of one of them. "Drink had been taken" said Giles. After a bit, the girls' "brothers" turn up. It is the Stasi and the deal is for a quick release in exchange for a bit of Q&A. The night of abandon is already in progress, but one of our heroes had the presence of mind to demand to see a Russian officer. The "Sovs" turned up. In charge was a young Major who seemed mightily impressed that the Brits were getting their legs over. Outside was a car with some heavies in civilian gear."Click" went a camera. There is a neat man to one side observing the scene. He looks relaxed; his East German colleagues look grumpy and disappointed. Then it was off in convoy to the "Kommadantura" for the official spanking. Except the Russians were dis-inclined to make a meal of it. There was even some back-slapping. Our heroes relaxed, as yet unaware of the bucket of ordure that would be tipped over their heads and careers when they got back to the other side. Giles was delighted: there was little collateral damage and his driver got some happy snaps of the drama for the man in short trousers. "Someone else" had indeed turned up. It was Vladimir Putin.
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