Even so there are iconic images from that time that remain burned into the imagination, to the extent that one looks back on them with something akin to nostalgia. One of these must be a scene that we’ve all watched countless times in innumerable films.
Usually the backdrop is Berlin, at night. A street runs along the side of a waterway. In the background is a box-girder bridge, one end of which is adorned with barbed wire and a watch tower. Along the street are lampposts so widely spaced that they seem to obscure more than they illuminate: between them, there are patches of deep shadow into which any passerby vanishes momentarily before reappearing many seconds later into the next pool of cold light.
The camera briefly focuses on the watchtower where a sniper in the uniform of the East German border guards stares intensely into the Western street, his look somehow contriving to express both malice and boredom. His gun, which we somehow know is a high-velocity rifle equipped with a telescopic sight, is slung over his shoulder. He pauses to strike a match: momentarily the flame lights his face from below making his expression even more sinister. As the camera slides away, his cigarette glows red in the newly-dark guard box.
Down in the street, the silence is broken by the sound of footsteps on the paving stones. A man, carrying a suitcase, leaves one of the pools of light and disappears into shadow. He may have vanished, but his footsteps continue. And suddenly they seem to have provoked an echo – but then we realises that we are hearing no echo, but a second set of steps, irregular and slower, as another man, coincidentally also carrying a suitcase, limps into the camera shot from the opposite direction and disappears in turn into the shadow. The two sets of steps continue until a few moments later, both men reappear into the light, moving away from each other. Each still carries a case. But is each man holding the same case as before? Or have we just witnessed a crucial exchange between agents, right under the noses of the East German guards? Has there been a handover of crucial material? And if so what was that material? Documents? Photographs? Money? Weapons?
Ah, the atmosphere, the excitement, the suspense. It would be a pity to see that kind of scene lost for ever.
Well, I can now reveal that the tradition is continuing despite the end of the Cold War. But instead of Berlin, the venue of the classic scene may be less predictable than it was. And all thanks to another tradition, that of bringing families together for Christmas.
My son Nicky and his girlfriend Nicola, collective noun ‘Nick-Nick’, both live in Madrid. Both were due to fly into Liverpool to join their respective families for the holidays. Nicola’s family lives in Southport, not far from Liverpool, and at the time we made the travel arrangements we lived in Stafford, not that far from the airport. Then, however, we moved to Luton. The idea of a long drive northwards on Christmas Even didn’t appeal to us, so we contacted Nicky and he agreed to fly instead to our local airport. Crucially, as it turned out, his Luton flight was scheduled to leave Madrid at pretty much the same time as Nicola’s to Liverpool.
They turned up at Madrid airport together and handed their bags into the Easyjet desk. Fond goodbyes followed and they boarded their planes. The first intimation that things might not be going right came when Nicky looked out of the window and saw what looked distinctly like Nicola’s case being loaded into his plane. And no sign of his own.
His worst fears were confirmed by the luggage carousel at Luton airport. He had indeed been delivered Nicola’s suitcase, and she had his.
‘No problem,’ I told him, ‘I’d be quite amused to see you in a bra and I’m sure we’d get a lot of pleasure from Nicola’s gifts to her family.’ She had, apparently, bought and lovingly wrapped rather a lot of fine presents.
Nicola sadly took a more jaundiced view of the situation, and showed absolutely no inclination to adopt my relaxed solution. So we resigned ourselves to having to give up on our cherished desire to avoid a long drive on the icy roads. We loaded Nicky and the suitcase into the car and drove the hundred miles or so to a deserted service station on the M6 motorway north of Birmingham.
There, in the fleeting light and shadows of a windswept, icebound car park, at midnight, the exchange took place.
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| The Nick-Nick handover takes place in the sinister surroundings of Hilton Park Services |
The plot possibilities are endless. However, I’m glad to say that in this instance the outcome was much less exciting, much more banal but a great deal more enjoyable than in most of those classic espionage films. Too much to eat, far too much to drink, excellent company and a pleasant holiday break.
Just the kind of break that I hope anyone reading this enjoyed too. And the kind of pleasurable interlude that I hope will set the tone for us all in 2011.
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