Miles Kington: A taxi ride from Heathrow to death row

'My God. The British spy world is so far behind the times' he muttered. 'This is positively pre-Fleming'

Several times recently I have heard experts say that there is one branch of writing in which the British still outshine the Americans, and that is in the art of spy fiction. By coincidence that is exactly the subject of 'A Very Special Relationship', my latest thriller, which I am starting to serialise today...

Nobody gave a second glance at Dick Steinam when he arrived at Heathrow. After all, he looked like just another American businessman. You could tell he was American from his clothes. Who was it said that you could tell an American from a British first-class passenger? The British guy always looked as if he had had his clothes cleaned and pressed for the occasion. The American looked as if he had just bought them. Anyway, nobody would be looking at him while all eyes were on some British celebrity dripping with jewels.

"Is it Fay Weldon?" said one onlooker.

"I suppose it must be," agreed her friend, glancing at the Bulgari logo on the celebrity's lapel.

Dick felt glad of the diversion as he passed through the place where chauffeurs held up placards saying "Mr and Mrs Winkelman" and "Phantom Cars", but not, he was happy to see, "Dick Steinam". Dick didn't want anyone to know he was there. He was on a secret mission. Very secret indeed.

Not 36 hours previously he had been summoned to the HQ of the American publishing industry and been briefed by a man known to him only as Chuck.

"As you know, the British have had the secret of spy fiction for years," said Chuck, "and they won't let us have it. We want you to steal it for us, Dick."

"Why not just ask Blair?" said Dick. "He'll let Americans have anything."

"We tried," said Chuck. "He'd like to, but he hasn't got it. He said he'd get it for us, but you know Blair. He's like a Mexican garage mechanic. He'll say anything to please. The thing is, Dick..."

Chuck broke off at this point and walked silently to the door of the plush 19th-floor New York apartment. Without warning, he opened the door. Outside, a man knelt with his ear to the door. Dick went for his gun instinctively, but Chuck held up his hand.

"No need for heroics, Dick. It's a life-size sculpture we had specially made called The Listener. It puts off genuine listeners, who think someone else has got to the keyhole first."

"Yeah, maybe," said Dick. "But in that case, why did you go through the charade of opening the door to have a look, if you knew it would be there already?"

"Because it will look good in the film," said Chuck.

"I see," said Dick, though he wasn't sure he did quite see.

"So," said Chuck, "go get the secret of British spy fiction."

And now here he was at Heathrow getting into a famous black London taxi and saying: "Do you know where the London Literary Scene is, driver?"

"Some kind of club is it, mate?" said the cabby.

"Yeah, something like that."

Dick got in the back of the cab and laid his bag on the floor.

"I had Keith Waterhouse in my cab once," said the driver. "Funny bloke he was. I thought he was drunk to begin with, but then I realised it was just the way he spoke. I sometimes wonder if writers cultivate a certain diction so that you can't tell if they've been drinking or not. What do you think?"

"Could be."

"Yeah, I think you could be right. Anyway, I said to him: 'Better make sure you don't leave any half-completed novels in my cab, Mr Waterhouse!' and he said: 'Believe me, cabby, when I have half-completed a novel, I take it straight to the publisher!' So I said..."

As the man's voice droned on, Dick began to feel drowsy. He tried to open a window. It was locked. And just as he realised it was locked, he spied a small gas cloud being blown into the interior from a hole in the front of the cab.

"My God," he muttered. "The British spy world is so far behind the times. This is positively pre-Fleming..."

He rummaged in his bag and pulled out a hammer. He tried to smash the window. He failed. He keeled over on top of the bag. To the neutral eye it looked as if he had been knocked out. Only a close observer would have noticed Dick pull a breathing tube out of the bag and put it in his mouth. The other end led to a hidden oxygen cylinder. At journey's end he would be as fresh as a daisy and ready to confront – and take by surprise – any captor...

Tomorrow: More startling developments in the hunt for the secret of the British spy thriller!