Charivari

That's no lady, that's a trap

Sex is a dangerous game, as a number of public men have found to their cost. It's especially dangerous when mixed with espionage, and we all know what fiendish tricks the Soviet secret service gets up,to in its attempts to take advantage of the. sensual appetites of Western politicians. The fiendish tricks of the other side are less well Publicised. It is not generally known, for instance, that the current East-West détente is based on a set of photographs of Brezhnev in bed with a CIA agent called Anna Karenina. Copies of these pictures are in Dr Kissinger's briefcase every time he meets the Soviet leader for a quiet chat on world affairs.

But never mind Anna, the person I really want to tell you about is my friend Oliver Odd. Either Oliver is a paranoiac or the Kremlin's network of female agents is even bigger and further flung than anyone has hitherto realised. The fact is that, though he has never visited Russia, he believes the KGB is determined to catch him in a sex trap of the kind it set there for Commander Courtney ten years ago and appears to have tried unsuc

cessfully to set for Ivan Lawrence MP earlier this year.

If you have not heard of Oliver, you may wonder what interest the Russians may have in blackmailing him, since he is not an MP nor even a member of the Civil Service. He is in fact an Insurance salesman but he is also chairman of the recently founded Anti-Tax Party, which hopes to contest at least half a dozen seats in the next general election, The KGB is bright enough, one supposes, to foresee that rising social and economic unrest in Britain could eventually sweep the ATP into power. Ivan Lawrence, you may remember, was approached by a female stranger in a Moscow hotel who told him she found him attractive. Now t?liver, with his receding chin, bulbous nose and

ald head, is not much of a ladies' man, but he told me he had recently been subjected to a whole series of such sexual provocations. The most dis concerting thing was that they had all occurred in London. The first incident had taken place at the new Russian night club, the Borshtch 'n' Migs, which had invited Oliver and his wife to its opening party. A fleshY Slavonic lady had asked him to dance and, while they were on the floor, kissed him enthusiastically on both cheeks and said: "My name is Natasha, I like to have fun, what about you?" He had fled from her and kept well away from the place ever since. But he had noticed other women, particularly waitresses in certain restaurants, behaving towards him in a similarly peculiar way. None of these others were Russian, 'and if his suspicions had not already been aroused there would have been no hint that any of them were linked with the Kremlin's dark plots. "Why," I asked, "don't you go to the police?" "I have done," said Oliver, "but without hard evidence they say there's nothing they can do." "Why don't you collect some hard evidence?" "You mean — go all the way with one of them?" He flushed. "It's a risk I daren't run. That would be playing right into their hands." "Not if the police were on hand to make sure no photographs were taken."

"You can't be sure they don't have accomplices in our oWri police. Besides, think of the political harm it could do me if the story got out,"

"Oliver, are you sure these little incidents are as sinister as you make out? Couldn't it just be that a lot of girls find you attractive?" He stared at me suspiciously. Perhaps, I reflected in embarrassment, that had been a silly thing to say. "Well, maybe not. But are you sure you're not misinterpreting some perfectly innocent gestures?" ``If you don't believe me," he snapped, "come and see for yourself." We set off for lunch to the Trattoria Antonioni, where Oliver said KGB agents had courted him especially assiduously. As we handed our coats to the pretty receptionist, he nudged me and whispered: "See that?"

"See what, Oliver?"

"She patted me on the bottom." "Can't say I noticed, old boy. Perhaps it was only accidental." The receptionist smiled at us. "How nice to see you again, Signor Odd."

I received another nudge. "what do you make of that wink she gave me, then?" said Oliver, as we made our way into the restaurant.

The wink, if wink there had been, had escaped my attention. Likewise I failed to observe the waitress pressing her breasts against Oliver's shoulder as she leaned to serve his lasagne. But he assured me agitatedly that she had done so — and squeezed his hand as she was removing the dirty plates. At the end of the meal Oliver mopped his brow and gave a sigh of despair. Then he pushed the bill across the table. "Look at that," he said. I reached for my wallet, but he stopped me with an impatient gesture. "No, I'm paying. Just look at the number she's scribbled in the corner."

It was 11. "Isn't that," I asked, "the number of the table?"

"Don't be naiQe. It's obviously the time she finishes work. She wants me to come back and pick her up." "Oliver, why are you so upset? Even if all these women are making passes at you, that's no reason for pulling a long face. You don't have to do anything your wife wouldn't like. But I must say frankly I think your political work may have been putting too much of a strain on you. Don't you think you ought to see a psychiatrist?" He groaned. "You don't understand. The spirit is strong but the flesh is weak. Sooner or later I know I'm going to succumb to temptation, and then the fat will be in the fire. I see only one way out. I shall have to resign as leader of the party."

We left the restaurant. As we were walking along Wardour Street, a beautiful woman approached us. "Oh sir," she said to Oliver in a heavy East European accent, "you like to be nice to me, no? Please, where is Piccadilly?"

Oliver let out a high-pitched yell. "For God's sake leave me alone," he cried, and the startled woman fled away into Old Compton Street. "Now," he sobbed, "will you believe they're plotting to get me into bed with a red?" I had to admit the encounter was a strange one, though conceivably just a coincidence, I stopped trying to talk him out of resigning. The funny thing is that since then I myself have started to notice unknown women giving me the eye. Only yesterday a blonde stopped me outside my own front door and asked for a light. As I gave it to her I had the distinct sensation that she was pressing her knee against mine. Unnerved I ran back into the house.

I swear that personally I've nothing to do with the Anti-Tax Party. You don't think, do you, that

Chad Babble