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IF YOU’RE NOT IN BED BY 10, COME HOME!

Martin Bengtsson

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Published in 2005 by Maverick House Publishers,

Main Street, Dunshaughlin, Co. Meathwww.maverickhouse.com

email: info@maverickhouse.com

ISBN 0-9548707-2-7

Copyright for text © Martin Bengtsson 2005Copyright for typesetting, editing, layout, design

© Maverick House Publishers

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

The paper used in this book comes from wood pulp of managed forests. For every tree felled, at least one tree is planted, thereby

renewing natural resources.

The moral rights of the author has been asserted

All rights reserved.No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in

any form or by any means without written permission from the publisher, except by a reviewer who wishes to quote brief passages in connection with a review written for insertion in a

newspaper, magazine or broadcast.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

Note: The names that appear in italics in the book have been changed to protect person’s true identity.

I’d like to dedicate this book to the most honest and trustworthy journalist that I’ve ever met in Fleet Street. He followed my nefarious career throughout, and inspired me to write this tome. The late Gerry Brown, sadly missed.

I’d also like to thank John Mulcahy, a chum of mine here in Ireland, who’s kept me on the straight and narrow since I’ve lived here.

Conform and be dull.

- J. Frank Doble

P

Some of the following events may seem far-fetched. Not so. Let me assure you that I’m an adventurer with an almost unbelievable story to tell. It just so happens that it’s true. Having been surrounded by intrigue, subterfuge and occasional mayhem, I’ve been involved in military and commercial espionage, gunrunning, piracy, and general smuggling. I’ve been part of an assassination hit squad, a personal bodyguard to the Saudi royal family and others, a stuntman on 16 films (including a number of the classic Spaghetti Westerns), a decoy and an explosives technician, a leader of expeditions across the Sahara desert and throughout Africa (hot), a ski instructor in Austria (bloody cold)—and numerous equally satisfying enterprises.

I’ve held three different identities and many alternative addresses, had a number of wives—including three of my own—and have been forced to

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kill twice in self defence (happily none of the ladies).My employers have included the Mafia, the CIA, MI6, and the FO.

Very likely I would not have embarked upon this book had it not been for a chance comment at a recent lunch party, when, seated opposite a military chum of long standing, I’d commented that all was not as it seemed with the silver cutlery, some of the pieces being stamped ‘stainless Korea’. His reply prompted me to undertake the task.

‘Stainless Korea, eh? That’s more than your career has been, old boy. There’s most certainly a book or two within your nefarious past.’

Not one of my exploits was precipitated by any political bias, patriotic sentiment or allegiance to a particular cause. I can honestly say that I did them for the money.

It’s not a way of life that I would recommend without a ferocious aptitude for self-preservation, in the knowledge that it’s not a rehearsal. It hasn’t all been plain sailing and, with few exceptions, those that I’ve become involved with have usually crapped on me, so much so that on a number of occasions in the past I’ve seriously considered changing my name to Armitage Shanks.

Having always lived at the margins of the law, society, convention—and most of all, luck—my life has been a broad canvas, some of which, regrettably, I’m unable to change even by painting over it. The

result, I fear, would allow the darker elements to ghost through the palimpsest to reveal an indelible mark.

To anyone who might contemplate emulating any of my past, I’m sure that I’m well qualified to offer a word of advice.

Don’t.

Newhaven harbour, Sussex. 1951.It all began when one sunny morning at the beginning of February, I walked to the end of pier fourteen and threw the briefcase I was carrying as far out into the river as I could manage. It dropped in with a satisfying splash and sank into oblivion, taking with it any suggestion of establishment that might still have clung to me. I watched as its eddy drifted away on the ebbing tide.

I was free. I was still only a teenager but I felt a sense of freedom for the first time in years.

Before me, at the foot of the jetty ladder, lay the gateway to my new life—the trawler Myzpah. Built in 1896, this stylish vessel looked totally traditional, adding to the romantic aura of past days of sail in which I’d longed to feature.

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I gazed down at her for a few long moments before going aboard, taking in as much as I could, enjoying her allure. At the same time I tried to work out for what purpose some of her equipment might be used, in the hope of appearing less green if asked to do something with it later.

She was, of course, a fine wooden ship. She smelled strongly of a mixture of tarred nets that hung drying from her foremast and, as one might expect, fish. Her pine deck was scrubbed and bleached almost white as a result of receiving constant attention from millions of gallons from the English Channel throughout her 56-year calling.

Apart from an intermittent tapping sound coming from somewhere inside the ship, there was no other sign of life.

It was time to introduce myself, but stepping on board the first time was going to be a moment to savour, and a moment for reflection.

As an only child, the product of a doting mother, Molly, and a tolerant father, Victor, I was very spoilt, but at the same time given every opportunity to grow up basically normal. The fact that I didn’t must therefore be my own fault.

The formative years of my upbringing were quite strict, but we were, I suppose, a slightly unconventional family in some ways. From the age of about four my parents encouraged me to call them by their Christian names. This was considered rather eccentric by some of their less bohemian friends—and by others as an artful tactic for disowning me if I misbehaved in public, by giving the impression that I was the progeny of someone else.

I was weaned on Guinness, Mozart and Monet, the former being the elixir to which my 106-year-old paternal grandmother attributed her longevity.

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She had the good sense to tell the world so when interviewed by a national television company at the celebration of her 100th birthday, thus guaranteeing copious quantities of that beverage arriving promptly each 20 June thereafter, courtesy of the brewers.

The musical influence stemmed from the frequent soirées held at Grandma Bengtsson’s large Sussex home, where we spent long pre-war summer holidays.

Molly, a talented and competent pianist, could sight-read and interpret almost any score. Vic, on the other hand, was a very pleasing violinist but lacked any formal tuition. If questioned regarding this he would pass it off, saying that he learnt the ‘fiddle’ while playing jazz in the bars and bordellos in Havana, where he’d resided for a couple of years.

I was encouraged to sing and shyness wasn’t permitted, not that there was a lot to start with. I longed for the day when my voice would break, in the hope that it would become a tenor. It didn’t. I’m a bass baritone.

Vic not only played violin extremely well, but he was more than passable on cello and piano. Molly also sang beautifully. She had a lovely coloratura soprano voice. Vic used to call her his ‘Bohemian Girl’ because, although she had a wide repertoire, one of his favourite pieces was I Dreamt I Dwelt in Marble Halls. Now, whenever I hear that, or Meditation by Massenet or The Swan from the Carnival of the Animals, I can still vividly see them both.

The music wasn’t all highbrow and in no way over-theatrical. It was simply magic, but then these were magical times. Although I was slightly privileged, and always allowed to stay up for all these gatherings, as well as a little alcohol, my childhood wasn’t spoiled in any way.

Sometimes these evenings would go on until dawn, when Grandma would rustle up a huge breakfast for all. Nobody sat down, as it would be a perched or walk-about job, and always contained porridge, eggs, bacon and fish.

The ensemble was usually completed by an assortment of visiting minstrels, and the resident eccentric cellist aunt.

There was a trunk that stood under the window of a room not called the music room, but the one that housed the piano. It was packed with sheet music that ranged from Gilbert and Sullivan to Verdi, and Chopin to Glenn Miller.

These were pre-television days, and I assumed that all families and households behaved like we did. If we were invited out anywhere, I always wondered why nobody played or sang. It never occurred to me then that other people considered us unusual or totally odd.

Vic also provided the art ingredient, being a truly wonderful painter. In fact he possessed an alarming range of interests, so varied they required indexation, some being rather less serious.

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His lessons in lifemanship, on how to escape the consequences of a series of wrong decisions, were numerous and sometimes a little frivolous. For example, ‘When avoiding the bank manager, always stay on the side of the road nearest to his window. It’s called “narrowing the field of vision” and shortens the time that one is visible . . . Always be one step ahead of the devil and the judiciary . . . Remember that women are like antique tables—the thinner the legs, the more they cost.’

And his advice when I first started going out with girlfriends, ‘if you’re not in bed by ten o’clock, come home,’ carried the extra warning that to avoid catching a chill, one should never get out of a warm bed and go home.