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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. Meath
www.maverickhouse.com
email: info@maverickhouse.com
ISBN 0-9548707-2-7
Copyright for text © Martin Bengtsson 2005
Copyright 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
I Y’ N  B  , C H

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.
I Y’ N  B  , C H

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.
I Y’ N  B  , C H

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.
I Y’ N  B  , C H

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.

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