Why Frederick Forsyth might have been the greatest spy thriller writer of all time

Growing up, this writer’s mother often lamented that if one spent as much time poring over textbooks as one did perusing the collective works of Frederick Forsyth, one might have amounted to something worth writing about—instead of writing about worthless things. Tautologies, masquerading as jokes aside, Britain too has long mastered the art of making its hypocrisy sound like high wit.

Take Yes Minister.

There’s a hilarious episode where Jim Hacker and Sir Humphrey Appleby team up to pressurise a BBC director into pulling an embarrassing interview. The BBC man initially refuses—until Sir Humphrey gently reminds him that failure to cooperate might result in budget cuts and, more scandalously, the loss of seats at Wimbledon and Royal Ascot. They all then solemnly agree that while the BBC mustn’t appear to give in to government pressure, they won’t air the interview due to “security implications.”

The brilliance of the scene lies in how comfortable the British—for all their lack of tastebuds—are with poking fun at the very institutions they hold dear. A taxpayer-funded broadcaster that can satirise both the government and itself without missing a beat.

But Yes Minister—as brilliant as it is—is perhaps only the BBC’s second greatest contribution to the literary arts.

The top spot, without contest, belongs to a former Royal Air Force pilot with an eye for detail and a knack for turning geopolitical chaos into page-turning precision: Frederick Forsyth, who departed for Elysium on June 9.

And here’s the kicker: Forsyth might never have become an author at all had it not been for the BBC.

Fate—disguised as institutional cowardice—had to intervene so that he could stumble into his true dharma.

The story goes that once his flying days were over, Forsyth joined Reuters, before moving on to the Beeb.

However, disgusted by BBC’s denial of genocide – a custom in which the Albion has shown a lot of promise – during the Biafra War in Nigeria, Forsyth quit in disgust and started covering the war as a freelancer.

However, freelancing, as every freelancer worth her salt will tell you, led to penury. Broke, and living on a friend’s sofa he wrote the first manuscript of the book that came to be known as The Day of the Jackal, ostensibly within only 35 days. The Day of the Jackal was initially rejected because it dealt with a rather sticky subject – the attempted murder of a very much alive Charles De Gaulle – not to mention that the cold, journalistic style of writing, lack of a traditional Herculean hero, overt detailing, and a plot whose ending was preordained.

The rest as they say is history.

Read the full piece on TOI.