A Letter To James Bond

Dear Mr James Bond,

First of all my apologies for leaving during the main course on Wednesday. It was a matter of some urgency, of national importance. I'm sure you understand.

To the matter in hand. I'm writing to you because our working relationship has become increasingly difficult. In many ways you have been of great service to MI6 and your country. But not in the way I'd hoped.

You have brought MI6 great fame, which is not what we wanted. Your primary role is that of secret agent. You are, quite possibly, the most conspicuous 'secret' agent since the whirling, twirling, limelight hogging dancer, Mata Hari; who, I should remind you, finished her career slumped in front of a firing squad.

In the days when you looked like Sean Connery, I thought there was hope for you. You had an aura of intent. There were quips and a slightly upturned corner of the mouth, but rarely anything that could be described as a smile. But then you turned into some Roger Moore type character. You became a showman, a music hall song and dance man, a nod-and-a-wink merchant. I'll admit that you're not bad at disguise as you now look like Daniel Craig. But you still seem too eager to bed a contact instead of arranging a dead drop; too content to be drawn into a car chase when ordering a drone to follow would be less likely to cause an international incident.

Let me draw your attention to the work of some of your colleagues: namely, George Smiley, Percy Alleline and Ricki Tarr. I admit that I wouldn't be inclined to invite any of these men to one of my dinner parties. And none of my lady friends would look at them with a view to any kind of romantic involvement. But isn't that the point? They're spies, James, spies. They're racked by self-doubts, paranoia and often mis-placed loyalty. They're so worn out by their unstinting examination of every coded communication that they barely have the energy to raise a gun. And if they do, it's one shot to the back of the head, not a bloody great explosion that can be picked up by a satellite orbiting Mars.

I know I've suggested this before but have you considered returning to the Navy? Or maybe you should transfer to the army. The paras would be an ideal regiment for your style of combat. Spying isn't your forte. Move on.

So, unfortunately, it is with no regret that I terminate your employment with SIS.

Yours sincerely,

CONTROL

Mark Capell is the author of the thriller, 'Run, Run, Run'. For more information, video trailers and extracts, visit www.run-novel.com

The Day I Met A Notorious Gangster

He was about 75-years-old, much shorter than me, and he stooped. Lines queued up on his face to mark the length of his life. From a distance, he just didn't look as menacing as his name -  'Mad' Frankie Fraser.  But when he looked me in the eye, my God, I was taken aback.

"Hello, Frank. Pleased to meet you."

He stretched out a hand with raised veins. It was the firmest handshake I'd ever experienced. And I still couldn't stop looking at his eyes. Though I was wearing clothes, I felt naked.

"Hello, Mark. Thanks for asking. I'm very well. And yourself?" It was a polite and warm response. But I wanted to run a mile.

It wasn't the first time I'd met a gangster. It was always guaranteed to get ratings on the TV show I was directing. But this man was different. When he looked at you, he froze the water in your eyes. Instantly, I was terrified of him. I'd met younger, more muscle-bound criminals and not thought anything of it. So how did he have this effect on me?

'Mad' Frankie Fraser first turned to crime during the Second World War. While London fended off the Blitz from Hitler's airforce, Frankie was using the blackout as cover to throw bricks through jewellers' windows. He'd even dress up as an Air Raid Warden and get the public to help him load his bag with the jewels, saying the owner had requested he put them somewhere safe.

But he really he hit his stride during the 1960s, the time of the Kray Twins and the Richardson gang. Gangsters were cool in swinging London. The famous photographer, David Bailey, took an iconic picture of the Kray Twins. It was when I asked him about these times that I got an inkling of how he could have such an effect on me, even in his doteage.

I asked him about Jack 'the hat' McVitie. Reggie Kray was sentenced to life imprisonment for his murder. "Frank, is it true that Jack 'the hat' McVitie got his nickname because he never went anywhere without his trilby?"

He raised his eyebrows. "Yeah, he liked his hats. Nice bloke. Went off his head though. Drugs and that. You'd have killed him, Mark."

I was lost for words for a second. Then I recovered. 'I don't think I would have, Frank.'

'You would. Yes, you would.' His eyes were even more fierce. His eyebrows closed in on each other. He wasn't to be contradicted. I wanted to protest. I wanted to stand up for the law abiding majority. But what came out was an awkward smile and a noise that was a murmured, embarrassed chuckle.

And that was why Frank had such an effect on me. He was a master of the body language of intimidation, even at that age. It was like a boxer setting you up with a one-two. At first, he was ridiculously polite. I've never met anybody who was so careful with their Ps and Qs. But then he'd hit you with the stare and rock you with his morality, or lack of it.

I asked him if he'd recommend a life of crime. 'Oh yeah,' he said. 'But I've spent forty-two years in prison, so that's not good.'

I nearly laughed but thought it best not to.

When I decided to write my first novel, a thriller called 'Run, Run, Run', I was determined to use this. I wanted to know if ordinary, decent, law-abiding people could ever be pushed to a point where they could think like hardened criminals; to think like 'Mad' Frankie Fraser. 'You'd have killed him, Mark.'

- Mark Capell

'Run, Run, Run', a thriller, is available from Amazon for the Kindle and to read on ipads, computers and phones. To view a trailer and hear extracts from the novel, visit the website at www.run-novel.com. Follow me on Twitter too @MarkCapell.