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  September 19th, Jacky James’ house, Stockport.

  A black Jaguar S type pulled up outside Jacky’s house and out stepped one man from the rear door, who crossed the pavement, opened the small gate and pressed the bell on her front door. Jacky looking thin and haggard answered within a couple of minutes and looked at the man enquiringly but said nothing.

  Commander Bagshaw opened his hand towards her, displayed his photo ID and said, “My name is Bagshaw, I’m from Special Branch, may I please come in for a few minutes. I have something to tell you which I know will interest you.”

  “Special Branch,” she sneered, “what the hell do you want with me, I’ve told you all I know”

  Bagshaw interrupted, “It’s some information about Alan Johnson.”

  Her face softened, then hardened, then she smiled and waved him into the house, “Come in, come in and tell me the bastard’s dead or dying or critically injured, make my day.”

  “I can’t tell you how he is but I can give you something that I believe he wanted you to have.” He opened his coat and pulled an envelope from his inside pocket, which he gave to her and said softly “He left this on the ship for you. It has only recently been given to me.”

  She opened the envelope, sat down and read Alan’s letter:

  “Dear Jacky, my darling Jacky;

  The two rings you find enclosed are a gift from me; for you to do with as you wish. I had intended to ask you to marry me on this cruise but now realise how totally arrogant of me that would have been. Firstly because you might actually have said no at the moment of asking but secondly and more importantly because you would definitely have regretted a “yes” decision, as the true nature of my intentions were explained to you by others.

  If you do care for me you will go through so many different emotions in the coming weeks as you are interrogated by those who want to find, arrest and imprison me. There will be anger, fear, sadness, bewilderment and despair, all in the belief I have used you and my country.

  My truth is I have grown to love you and I want to marry you, to settle down and be just plain and ordinary. But I am not ordinary and therefore I have misled you, not with my emotional intentions but with what is my true goal in life today. I want to ask you to keep the rings and wait for me but I know how utterly ridiculous and selfish that is, because however you feel about me now, they who work on you after this day will distort your thinking and feelings about me.

  I have existed, I still do exist and I hope one day we will meet again and you will say “yes” to my request for your hand in marriage. Because at this moment in time I truly, deeply love you and I cannot see that ever changing.

  Please believe there is goodness in me, not evil.

  I love you,

  Alan Johnson.”

  She seemed to take an age to read the letter, then looked at the Commander, then re-read the letter, then fingered the two rings. She looked at him, again tried to smile then burst into tears and screamed, “What have you done to him? What have you done with him? Where is he? Why hasn’t anybody told me about this before?”

  Bagshaw sat in a chair, smiled a brief smile trying to placate her and replied, “We have done nothing to him, I can’t tell you any more than that now and I am sorry that you have had to wait so long for his letter.”

  He then stood and approached her, taking the letter and envelope, which he returned to his inside jacket pocket. He looked at her, his usually stern face warming into a smile and whispered, “I must have the letter back for security reasons but you can keep the rings; will you wear them and wait for him?”

  “God knows,” she sobbed, “God bloody knows.” She then jumped to her feet and screamed, “What’s going on, what the hell’s going on?”

  He gently took her by the shoulders to calm her and replied, “I don’t know, therefore I can’t tell you, but I do know one thing Jacky,” he smiled again and looked at her, “I think Alan Johnson loves you.”

  She sobbed back, “You said ‘loves’ not ‘loved’. That means you think he’s still alive.”

  “We don’t know, we do believe that he sustained some injuries from ricocheting bullets while trying to escape but we do not yet know if they fatally injured him or if he was taken to hospital and survived. We do know that he boarded a helicopter on the roof of the hotel which eventually landed at a military hospital in Syria, but there our information ends,” he responded.

  She slumped down into a chair, put her head into her hands and rocked herself back and forth, her tears running down her face and through her fingers onto the carpet. Bagshaw said nothing, but again gently rested his hand on her shoulder.

  At this she raised her head and sobbed, “Please tell me what this is all about,” then angrily pulled away from him and continued “nobody tells me any bloody thing, you’ve known since August about this letter, you must know what I’ve been going through yet you and your bloody friends wait until now to show me this letter and then tell me he may be dead. Why,” she sobbed “why have you done this to me, why can’t you just leave me alone. I was getting my life back, beginning to think I was normal again, after weeks and weeks of agony and despair I could actually hold a conversation with someone without bursting into tears. And now” she screamed, “you’ve brought it all back. All the fucking issues back, why,” she snarled at him, “why do this to me, what do I do now, just sit and ache and cry and slowly, slowly die again?”

  He wrinkled his forehead as he chewed at his bottom lip then replied softly, “I thought I was doing the right thing, I thought you would want to know how Johnson felt about you but maybe I was wrong. Maybe I’m not as smart as I think I am; I’m so very sorry.”

  She jumped to her feet and again snarled at him, “You’re sorry, you’re fucking sorry? Then if you are tell me whether he’s dead or alive and if he is alive where he is.”

  She stopped talking for a few seconds as her whole body began to tremble and she again sat down trying to hold herself together, then mumbled, “You can’t just leave me like this, I need to know, I need to know.”

  He smiled at her and softly replied, “I will try to find out if he is still alive.”

  She looked up hopefully and whimpered, “And if he is, can I go and see him?”

  He shook his head and replied, “If he is alive I am sure he will have changed his name and probably his looks and will be a fugitive for a very long time. Therefore to search for him would be futile, it may also endanger your life and possibly Alan’s and finally the Syrians, if he is still in that country, would not give you access; therefore trying to find him is not an option,” he pursed his lips, looked at her and said softly, “I’m so very sorry.”

  He paused for a few seconds then turned to go saying, “I must leave now, but I will do as I have said. He smiled at her and sighed, “I do hope that one day you will be happy.” At this he opened the door, shouted, “Goodbye,” closed it behind him and entered the Jaguar.

  YEAR ONE

  Chapter 1

  May 20th, Year 1, The Cellar Bar, The White House Hotel, London, England.

  “Why choose this place?”

  “Quite a few reasons really, just look around you, it’s empty, it’s also underground and lit by candles, very cosy but quite dark, with no CCTV. The staff are busy preparing food for this evening and because it’s a holiday hotel they’re used to many different faces. We fit in here, we’re nothing out of the ordinary and even if we were, another reason is that somebody has plans for this place. A total renovation will begin in 3 months and this bar won’t even exist after that. The staff will have disappeared and therefore anybody wanting to check on whether this meeting took place will have an impossible task.”

  Alan was an average guy, average age, average height, some hair, white, dressed to go anywhere, he could blend into any surroundings from 5 star hotels, local pubs, shops, restaurants, railway stat
ions and even the theatre, he was average, just “Mr Average, Mr Grey,” instantly forgettable.

  Shan was different, although born in England he still had roots in the Middle East and was a practising Muslim. He was well dressed, tall, and dark with a Roman nose and striking cheek bones. Alan knew Shan would be instantly recognisable and knew there could be only one or two more meetings in England with him at most. Shan had the business links; he was part of the money chain. The one item Alan needed in spades to achieve his plans.

  “You see what I mean about the waiters being busy? We’ve been here 10 minutes now and no service. What do you want to drink?”

  “Get me a large orange juice please,” replied Shan.

  Both waiters were foreign; Alan guessed Albanian and their command of English proved slight. However, trade was made; change given and another reason for picking this place had been confirmed to Alan; because in the unlikely event the staff would want to listen, the possibility of them fully understanding was remote.

  He returned with the drinks and placed them on the table, Shan took a drink of the orange juice, replaced his glass on the table, leant toward Alan and said, “I’m here; I was intrigued with your letter. Why all these complex instructions, walk some distance, get a taxi, don’t use the tube and leave the taxi down Euston Road?”

  He smiled and replied, “The underground has more cameras than you can imagine. Walking and taxis, it’s not perfect but it helps keep you anonymous.” He looked around to confirm they were not being overheard, then continued, “now, down to business; I have been reading with interest Phase three of your plans and assume the events from 2000 to date were all part of Phase two therefore Phase three is to be the one.”

  Shan shrugged and smiled then said, “Maybe it is, maybe not, I think there will be many phases, our business is long term. There is no end to it; future generations of supporters have not yet been born.”

  Alan continued, “I have an idea, it’s extremely simple, it will be very effective, it will create havoc, chaos and death on a scale that will be mind blowing.”

  “I think most of the ideas have been uncovered and the British Government aren’t exactly sitting on their fat arses waiting are they,” whispered Shan, “so, what’s it to be, a dirty bomb, poisoning the water, bombing the tube again, stealing a nuclear submarine or asking all the takeaways to poison their food? That last one might work!” laughed Shan.

  “None of those, it will be very simple, very effective and very British.”

  “Well, you intrigue me; so what is it?” he enquired.

  Alan avoided an answer by responding, “I don’t think it will be wise to tell you just now because the less people know the better.”

  Shan chuckled, “You don’t expect me to write a blank cheque for an unspecified event sometime in the future?”

  Alan looked around, took a gulp of Grolsch, looked at Shan and leaning forward whispered, “I need the money for equipment and to build the product. The event will be specified as will a date within the next two years.”

  “And what about your fee, your reward?”

  “I will expect £100 per head.”

  “£100 per head,” Shan laughed, “wow, last of the big hitters.”

  “Not if hundreds of thousands die.”

  “Jesus Christ – are you serious?”

  “I can’t give you the exact number and it doesn’t matter, what I can say is that it will bring this country to its knees, hundreds of thousands of knees.”

  “You are willing to kill thousands of people for our cause; but you’re not even one of us, it doesn’t make sense.”

  “I’ve worked all my life for government and its causes and it’s got most of my friends and some of my close family killed, which would be cause enough. But that’s in the long distant past, all forgotten; now the cause is me.”

  He passed Shan a sheet of paper then continued, “You had better see the list of my equipment needs and while you are reading it I’ll go and get another drink. Do you want the same again?

  “Yes, this is quite nice orange, could you get lots of ice please.”

  Alan approached the bar and waited his turn. Shan watched him leaning on the bar trying to attract the waiter’s attention and thought, “how can you stand at a bar and order beer and orange juice while contemplating the death of a major part of the population? He makes it look easy; he might just make it work.” Shan smiled to himself, picked up the sheet of paper and turned his attention to the list.

  Alan returned with the drinks and growled into Shan’s ear, “These bloody waiters, they spend more time arguing in the back room in some strange European language than they do serving customers.” He put the drinks down and stayed silent now after his outburst while Shan read the list of equipment needs again.

  He put the paper down, smiled then said, “Some list, some money. If, and it’s a big if, we were to go ahead with this what guarantee do we have of success?”

  “None, but what guarantees did you have in the past? None I’ll bet.”

  “But this is substantial money, you’re talking five million just to set it up and we don’t know what ‘it’ is. I don’t think anybody will lend you the money without some inkling of what you intend to do.”

  Alan looked around the room again to check they were not being watched then produced a pen and paper from his inside pocket and wrote just fourteen words on the sheet of paper. He then passed it to Shan who grabbed the paper and read it with interest. He passed the paper back, nodded at Alan, smiled and replied, “Now that is some incident, that really is some incident, do you think it could happen?”

  “The incident will happen won’t it, of that I’m absolutely sure, but just how effectively we make it work for our purpose, is up to us.”

  “I like this, nothing like this has ever been considered before. It’s so bloody crazy and simple it just might work.”

  “Kiss, Keep It Simple Stupid, used to be an old military concept, until the West and now everybody else got too sophisticated, let’s go back to Kiss,” responded Alan.

  “Well if you could pull this off…”

  Alan interrupted him, “when I pull this off, then you will owe me a great deal of money.”

  “And they’ll pay you if it works; what do you want from me in the short term?”

  “Just to know if you think they’ll back it, because I want to move reasonably soon to get the next phase in place.”

  “I think they will back it; go to the next phase and whatever happens I will cover the costs until then.”

  Alan smiled back and whispered, “Thanks. I will deliver the goods if you can get the go ahead but I will need substantial amounts of cash very soon and no forgeries, everything must be above board.”

  Shan got up to leave as other people were coming into the bar. They looked like tourists, not really knowing whether to sit and wait for table service or go to the bar. Observing this Alan thought, “yet another strange British custom.”

  He looked at Shan and whispered, “No mobile phone calls at all, no land line phone calls, no letters or faxes, no emails to anybody about this meeting or the money needed. It must all be word of mouth.”

  Shan slumped back into his seat, protesting, “How the hell can I communicate with my people if I can’t even make a telephone call?”

  “I don’t know, how do you think people did it before Alexander Graham Bell’s invention?”

  “Next you’ll be expecting me to train pigeons I suppose?”

  Alan looked around at the tourists who had now decided to approach the still arguing waiters behind the bar, then passed Shan a clipping from a recent edition of the Times newspaper and said, “Read that please, take your time; it’s important.” He picked up the clipping and studied it.

  “Death by remote control turns desert into fearful hideaway.

  Somew
here in the vast mountainous hinterland known as Yemen’s Empty Quarter, Mohammed Hamdi al-Ahdal is waiting for death from the sky. For months, one of Al-Qaeda’s most dangerous fugitives has been roaming the tribal lands that stretch across an unmarked border deep into Saudi Arabia.

  It is an easy place to get lost, but last week an unmanned Predator aircraft demonstrated to al-Ahdal – and other Al-Qaeda terrorists – that not even the emptiest of deserts is safe from an American strike.

  The remote –controlled assault last weekend on a Toyota Land Cruiser carrying six Al-Qaeda members along a dirt track killed Ali Qaed Sunian al-Harthi , better known as Abu Ali, one of two Yemen-based terrorists suspected by Washington of plotting the attack that killed 17 sailors on the USS Cole in Aden harbour in 2001.

  The other suspect is al-Ahdal, who remains at large yet now knows that the next time he shows his face outdoors a Hellfire missile travelling at 950mph might be the last thing he sees.

  After a difficult week that brought a flurry of new terrorist threats against America, Britain and other western nations, Officials were jubilant that a combination of precise intelligence and flawless technology had accomplished a long-awaited breakthrough in the hunt for Al-Qaeda outside Afghanistan.

  Despite lingering complaints at the summary nature of al-Harthi’s execution – and the revelation that Kamal Derwish, an American suspected of links to an Al-Qaeda cell in New York state had been among the other men killed in the car – the Predator strike opened a bold new phase in Washington’s secretive conduct of an unconventional war.

  After months of hints that the CIA, supported by American special forces, was preparing for action outside Afghanistan this was the first public sign that intelligence on the ground is at last being processed with sufficient speed for an instant military response.