PASSED IT! TONY DRON
HOW THE DATSUN 240Z WON A COLD WAR ENCOUNTER
A 240Z’s Cold War encounter in Kensington
ABIZARRE experience in Kensington brought the Cold War to life one dark November evening in 1971. The world of John Le Carré’s spy thrillers was no remote fantasy for me after that night.
It was Stephen Bayley’s revealing piece on the classic Datsun 240Z (in Octane 150) that brought this distant memory back. Late in 1971 I drove the UK’s first road test 240Z, and was deeply impressed. The external dimensions, including the wheelbase and the front track, followed those of the contemporary Porsche 911. That was a deliberate part of the 240Z’s 2+2 design, which was otherwise conventional, with a gutsy straight-six up front, driving the rear wheels.
There was nothing remotely groundbreaking about its specification but the handling, performance, use of space inside and excellent modern styling all added up to an outstanding package. At £2389 it wasn’t cheap – Jaguar E-type prices began at only £2882 – and the 240Z test model made some unrefined noises. Never mind that, I thought, this is a really great new car. It felt like a Big Healey for the next generation. Motor’s road test appeared in early December, 1971 – and I was surprised when the editor put an image of me on the cover.
Driving into West London that night, I was wondering how the hell we Brits had le) the field open for Datsun to pull off this brilliant trick when, outside the Royal Garden Hotel, two men stepped out in front of me with their hands up. They didn’t appear to be car thieves – they looked tough, serious, somehow professional and were probably in their late 20s. I pulled over and stopped.
Who were these men? In the first split second, looking at strangers, we spot complex subtle signals. Both wore traditional tweed sports jackets, smart shirts, neat ties and flannel trousers – all in the same style without being identical. They had neat, conventional haircuts and appeared to have visited the same barber’s shop that day. Every item of their clothing was brand new, with a tailored look that spoke of big money, right down to superb new shoes.
This fashion display, apparently intended to make them blend into London as typical English gentlemen, actually made them conspicuously different. Were they plain-clothes police? No, those clothes were far too expensive. They were a puzzle, alright, but I sensed a strong hint of highly trained special forces.
As I wound down my window, one of them issued an order, in a heavy foreign accent: ‘Take us to your Empire.’ He was smiling but it was definitely an order, not a request and I decided against getting on the wrong side of these gentlemen. Still, what did he mean? Unsure of how to comply with this enigmatic command, I too smiled and replied: ‘I’m afraid we lost it more than 20 years ago.’
He was not amused. Getting tougher, he said: ‘The Empire, Leicester Square. We are going to see Dr Zhivago.’ I told them to hop in.
As I pulled away, the guy in the back said, aggressively: ‘We had trouble getting a car to stop… in Moscow you can stop any car and the driver will take you wherever you want.’
‘Is that so?’ I said, thinking to myself that any ordinary Muscovite trying that bold trick would probably find his chosen destination had changed to the Lubyanka.
He went on: ‘We are from the Russian embassy and we are not authorised to see this film, which has not been shown in Moscow.’
No, I thought, and it’s only been out for six years, mate. These were proper KGB men, I was already quite sure. And they seemed capable of anything, however ruthless, if so ordered. They were fully convinced of the superiority of the Soviet system, and this appeared to be their first glimpse of the real London. Obviously, it astonished them.
‘How do you get a car like this?’ asked the other guy. He was polite, more softly spoken. They were a team, it seemed, conforming to the old cliché of Mr Nice and Mr Nasty, but the car was definitely leaving the same deep impression on both.
‘You work, you earn money and you buy one,’ I said, keeping it brief. The idea that just anyone could buy a Datsun 240Z, without permission from some government official, seemed hard for them to grasp.
Whereupon Mr Nasty became angrily argumentative, while Mr Nice pocketed my pack of Embassy cigarettes. He did it with a charming smile, indicating international goodwill as he replaced them with his Russian equivalent. They were terrible.
Getting out at the cinema, Comrade Nice thanked me very much and Comrade Nasty slammed the door really hard before storming off. No kidding, they spooked me and I have never smirked at those old spy dramas, however farfetched they might have seemed, since that day.
Did the mighty Datsun 240Z sow the first seeds of doubt in the minds of two hardened Soviet agents 44 years ago? Maybe it did.
‘THESE WERE PROPER KGB MEN, CAPABLE OF ANYTHING, HOWEVER RUTHLESS’