The TV Show The Prisoner was Based on Fact

Given the subject matter of the previous entry, I though I would celebrate with an un-edited extract from Secrets & Lies .

The TV Show The Prisoner was Based on Fact

Sometimes you can get away with revealing highly confidential information openly as long as you don’t tell people what you are showing them is classified. When it comes to revealing a secret to full public glare, no-one comes close to George Markstein.

Markstein had worked as a military correspondent during the start of the Cold War. Before moving into writing for television, he built up an incredible range of sources within the intelligence community. Through his contacts he heard about the ‘Mad Major’ – an ace British secret agent during World War II who was too much of an asset to kill but who had become too deranged be allowed to go back to occupied France.

The ‘Mad Major’ was taken to an establishment known as the ‘Cooler’ – a Scottish castle where he and other spies were to be held until the end of the war. Unfortunately, post-1945 some of them were then transferred to another facility for ‘prolonged secure retirement’.

Whilst working with Patrick McGoohan on the TV show Danger Man, Markstein told the star about the retirement home for spies and together they created the basis for the cult TV show The Prisoner – in which a British masterspy resigns and is taken to the mysterious Village where he is held against his will. Later, Markstein revealed even more about the ‘Mad Major’ in his best-selling novel entitled The Cooler.

Over the years research has shown that the original ‘Cooler’ was at Inverlair Lodge, in Inverness-shire, an establishment heavily guarded by the Cameron Highlanders during the war. In the early 1980s, Markstein would take close associates to his London gun club where a special firearm – a Walther PPK – was displayed. This gun had once belonged to the Mad Major himself.

Even 60 years after the end of the war, the full history of the ‘Cooler’ and the ‘Mad Major’ remain classified information. Given that some of the files have been categorised Maximum Burial – meaning they remain classified for 100 years – the secrets of the real life Village look set to be kept for some time to come.

Back in the Village

Early morning, I walk along Embankment towards the Westminster Village and find myself standing at the crossroads of Westminster Bridge and Parliament Square. A bubble in the incessant traffic stream appears. A sports car with an actor whose face is memorable enough to recognise, but not to name, is driving. He is accompanied by a cameras mounted on a truck and police motorcycle outriders.

For some reason the suit, brutally polished muscle of the car and the actor’s determined sang-froid make me think classic celluloid secret agent. My mind moves beyond James Bond to John Drake, sparking sudden remembrance and possible recognition. I think the driver is James Caviezel.

Suddenly it strikes me I may be watching a recreation of the most iconic opening sequence in television history. If it is Caviezel, then it can only be filming for the new version of The Prisoner. I am living in the fantasy of my 14-year-old self who was entranced by McGoohan’s masterpiece. Libertarianism grew inside me while watching the defiance of Number Six. Views that found expression 20 years later in Secrets & Lies, began with a Lotus Seven growling past the Houses of Parliament and into an underground car park.

I stand on a traffic island and watch the car cross the bridge and out of sight. Suppress any delight by recalling how my excitement at being part of Star Wars history turned to a quinine bitterness when I actually saw The Phantom Menace. The classics are often unforgiving to those who try to fuck with them.

At 7am I slide my security key and open the blast doors. A heavy push on the thick, cold metal and six flights of stairs take me to my new space. Like banging the blackened skin of a bruise and being reminded of the original injury, the 80mm of armour makes me painfully aware I am in the Westminster security triangle. Even without this, my window view of the Thames House transmitter towers screaming paranoia into the static confusion of the infosphere prevents any denial that I am well and truly back in the Village.