The Expired E-Book

B.P. Smythe

• Herausgeber: Dolman Scott Publishing
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Seitenzahl: 376

Beschreibung

'The Expired' is a psychological thriller masterpiece showing how vulnerable people can be brainwashed to become sleepers (Manchurian Candidates) and used by corrupt politicians to further their own ends. ‘The Expired’ shadows true accounts of government sleeper programmes set up during the Korean War and the East West Cold War.
Commander Gregory Potting is a former head of MI6 Intelligence and the governments most trusted Senior Adviser for Internal Affairs.
His position is put to the test in 1973 when a bizarre psychological plot unfolds that isinextricably linked to a London terrorist attack, a cocaine drug scam, a homosexual called Francis Hodder who suffers from schizophrenia and changes from time to time to Roxanne - a transvestite prostitute who robs and murders his clients.
Francis Hodder is a transsexual who preys on gay men. As a child he is abused by his father who is head of government security. Francis becomes an embarrassment to MI6 because of his gender leaning. He is brainwashed to become a Sleeper assassin triggered by code words to kill personnel who threaten government security. Francis becomes a manipulated pawn, who by mistake during a sexual encounter with a Black September terrorist, uncovers plans for a deadly attack on a densely crowded popular sports event to kill thousands of people to further the cause of EL Fatah and Black September.

Leseprobe

THE EXPIRED

B.P.SMYTHE.

B.P.Smythe studied engineering at Carshalton College and eventually became a member of the Institute of Quality Assurance.

For his published crime writing short stories and novels. B.P. Smythe was inducted into the Crime Writers Association for his achievements.

Sow And You Shall Reap is his first self- published novel. Last year B.P. secured a three book deal of short stories from Bloodhound Books http://www.bloodhoundbooks.com/. His author bio is on their website.

This year 2018 and 2019, B.P.Smythe is shortly to release four full length novels – The Expired, The Medal of Purity, The Holocaust Experience, Whatsoever A Man Soweth including two further books of short stories - Short Tales with Long Memories VOL 1 and VOL 2.

Books by B.P.Smythe For information on obtaining free complimentary PDF, Kindle or paperback copies, contact B.P.Smythe at [email protected]

B.P.Smythe short stories…[email protected] -

Mob: [phone]

THE EXPIRED

B.P.SMYTHE.

Published by BM Smythe in 2018

Copyright©2018 B.P.Smythe.

All rights reserved

No Part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written consent of the author. Persons who engage in any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

The author has no responsibility for the information provided by websites or links for this publication including products, advertising or other materials presented on such sites.

This publication is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the author’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published.

All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

The views expressed in this publication are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

ISBN: 978-1-911412-72-4

eBookS

iBooks: 978-1-911412-73-1

Kindle: 978-1-911412-74-8

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

THE EXPIRED

B.P.SMYTHE.

Corruption, Embezzlement, Blackmail and Murder within MI5 Secret Service puts pressure on government security to find, foil and eliminate a murdering Transvestite, a cocaine drug scam and a London terrorist attack.

CHAPTER ONE

‘Have you wet that bed again, you little shit?’ His father took off his belt with vengeance and then strapped his backside repeatedly.

Francis cried out, ‘Na please, Dada, I’m sorry.’ The tears were streaming down his terrified little face.

The big man went to the draw and took out the large dressmaker scissors.

Francis watched in horror as his father came towards him with them - snip – snip – snip.

‘The next time you do that I’m gonna lift your nightie and snip that useless thing off.’ He grabbed his small arm and dragged him sobbing to his bed. ‘Look at it, now smell it, you little shit.’ He forced his head down and rubbed his nose into the wet sheets. ‘They do that to puppies so they learn not to mess indoors.’

Francis looked up at him with pleading eyes. His long shoulder length hair clung to the sides of his face with tears and snot.

‘Why, dear God, couldn’t you have been a girl like your sister, Roxanne? Even your mother didn’t want a boy. You’re the reason she left. She wanted to take Roxanne but I wouldn’t let her. I wanted her to take you.’ His father raised his hands in anger and desperation. ‘You made your mother run away. Boys are the curse of this family. Our first two were Mongols, now hidden away in some loonybin and then you had to come along. But I’m going to show you…believe me I’ll make you into a girl before you start school if it’s the last thing I do.’ He thrust the scissors into his face. ‘And you dare tell anyone you’re a boy and so help me.’ His father motioned with the scissors. ‘Snip – snip – snip…you got that you bedwetting little shit?’

Francis slobbered, ‘Yes Dada…please don’t cut it off…I won’t tell. I’ll be a good girl like Roxanne…’

*

In 1965 Annabel Potting had just celebrated her seventeenth birthday. One of her presents had been a large leather bound diary. Annabel was a diary person. Always had been; wrote in one religiously every day. To Annabel, a diary was important, she never went anywhere without one. Either she carried it under her arm or it was always in her shoulder bag. With one exception, on walks she let Zita her pet Golden Labrador carry it in her mouth.

Annabel put everything in her diary, thoughts, ideas, feelings, all food for a budding poet. She loved poetry it captivated her. She would read Shakespeare, Milton, Blake, Byron, Keats, Tennyson, Browning, even Greek and First World War poetry. She consumed it all with a ravenous hunger. It was her lifeblood.

As a student, it was Annabel’s chosen career to teach, with a burning ambition to write a book of poems and get published. She’d done well in her final year exams and had gone to Ewell College to study A Level poetry and literature.

At this moment in time her diary was her most valued possession. It was her confidant, best friend, big sister, second mum, even substitute boyfriend. All these things rolled into one.

With this in mind and the private thoughts she would sometimes document, Annabel had to be assured it was kept in a safe place away from prying eyes.

How all this secrecy came about was due to her over protective mother. While Annabel was at college, her mother had begun searching her bedroom. After reading too many tabloids and watching too much television about the sixties sexual revolution, her mother had got it into her head that every female student was a cannabis smoking, alcohol swigging, pill-popping nymphomaniac Rolling Stones groupie. Her worry bordered on hysteria.

Looking for drugs, contraceptives, booze, even cigarettes, she rummaged through drawers, searched in the wardrobe, under the mattress; but found nothing. Of course her mother meant well. However, Annabel like all teenagers when they reach a certain age, wanted her privacy.

Annabel used to set little traps so she always knew when her mother had been nosey. Clear Sellotape was very effective when discreetly laid across doors and drawers. The problem was, hiding the bulky diary. Although she kept it with her most days, there were times when she had to keep it concealed in her bedroom. Then at last, she had a brain wave. She found the perfect hiding place. A loose airbrick in her bedroom high on the wall. Her mother would never dream of looking there.

Annabel was slim and petite with long dark hair from her mother’s side. At five-foot-four-inches, she had the figure for shorts. With her model looks, she was every young lad’s dream. Annabel knew she looked good. A girl gets to know from the glances. She didn’t have a regular boyfriend at the moment although her interest had increased since she’d started college.

On Saturday afternoon, wearing the latest fashionable hot-pants and a skimpy top, Annabel walked down her back garden path carrying a small fold up chair with her shoulder bag swinging from the hip. Her dog Zita padded ahead with the diary in its mouth.

The weather forecast for August 1965 was warm and sunny. So, after chasing sticks and her favourite ball for an hour, Zita was quite happy to lie at Annabel’s feet.

Annabel had parked herself in her favourite spot surrounded by dense hawthorn and juniper trees just out of sight from her parents back gate on the south side of Nonsuch Park. It was a quiet place, away from the steady drone of traffic, only broken by the chatter of finches and magpies. Being some distance from the path, no one ventured here. Now she was in one of her creative moods, full of inspiration and ideas.

It had just turned 4:30 p.m. The sun was still high, the rays making short shadows on this hot afternoon. Perspiration was already forming on Annabel’s forehead as she sat busily making notes in her diary. The smell of wood and dry earth filling her senses.

A lone cricket buzzed behind. Its back legs grinding together like a motor constantly revving up. Annabel’s mouth was dry. Reaching for the bag she pulled out a Coca-cola. The cap hissed off as she quenched her thirst with a satisfied smile. Her dog lifted its head nonchalantly then lowered it again.

A plane faintly droned overhead leaving its fluffy trail.

She looked up. Surrounded by tall oak trees with the summer heat and the quiet, it had gradually become claustrophobic. It was as if the branches were whispering overhead. Their secrets contained in a majestic stillness, constantly exchanging what they had seen, witnessed over the long years.

Suddenly, voices. Zita’s ears pricked up. Then some movement. Annabel’s hand froze around her ballpoint pen. Her head jerked to the muffled cry and panting from behind. The dense bushes that partially cocooned her, gave no indication of what it was.

Annabel slowly rose. Her dog was on all fours, already in anticipation looking up wagging its tail. She quietly folded the canvas chair. Wincing as the ground crunched under her feet, she tiptoed in the direction of the sounds. Annabel wiped her forehead, the perspiration now running down her cheeks.

The odour of earth and grass had become nauseating, heavy and thick with the humidity.

The panting and moaning grew louder. She crouched down and carefully parted the hawthorn bramble, wincing as it scratched her arms and wrists. It was a couple half-naked. At first appearances it looked like a woman was sitting on top of a man having sex.

Annabel recognised the person on top even though he was dressed in female clothes. It was an 18 year old boy from her college whose name was Francis Hodder. Annabel was close enough to see the ROXANNE tattoo on his arm. She’d seen it before and heard rumours the tattoo was his sister’s name.

Although big and burley for his age, the young man was dressed as a young woman wearing a black Cleopatra wig with green eye shadow and lipstick. A red Basque with matching suspenders and stockings finished off his transition.

Annabel watched them transfixed. Then in the heat of their buggering she heard the older man cry out, ‘Roxanne’.

After they’d finished they lay back on the blanket that was spread out on the ground. The older man lit up a cigarette and took out his wallet. Some money was exchanged.

Suddenly the younger man, Francis, stood up and snatched the wallet. The older man, shouted and grabbed his arm. With his free hand, Francis pulled out a cosh hidden under the blanket and hit him twice over the head. The man collapsed back groaning.

He looked around in case they’d been heard. Then Francis took off his wig and high heels and put on a pair of trousers and men’s shoes. From a bag he took a mirror and some tissues and proceeded to wipe off his makeup.

Without a moment’s hesitation, Annabel scribbled away furiously in her diary what had unfolded before her eyes. She couldn’t help herself even though she was scared.

Now to get away, she thought. Mustn’t let them see me.

Annabel turned to go but too late. Her dog started barking. She whispered, ‘Shush! Zita.’ Then in horror, she saw the face. The face she’d recognised. It was peering at her through the hedge and he had a look now, like a sky that could spawn a tornado at any moment. Francis recognised Annabel as well, from college.

Annabel dropped the diary and started to run, her legs were heavy with fear. The dog was ahead of her, barking. Francis stooped and picked up the diary. He saw her last entry, naming him and what he was doing. Buggering and robbery she’d written.

The dog, seeing the man with the diary, turned back and attacked him snatching the diary in its mouth, knowing that it belonged to its owner. The dog hung on and wrenched it from his hands, growling shaking its head. Francis yelled out and fell backwards to the ground in a flurry of earth and leaves. He cursed as he got up brushing himself down.

With the diary in its mouth, the dog scurried back to catch up with Annabel who was running in blind panic. Annabel ran until her temples pounded. Ran until her eyes pulsed in their sockets. Ran until she had a hot stitch in her left side from the bottom of her ribs up to her armpits. Ran until she could taste blood at the back of her throat. Then she tripped and fell sprawling, twisting her ankle. Annabel stood up. Her dog came back but she yelled at Zita to run on. The dog faltered, not wanting to leave her, still with the diary in its mouth.

Annabel started again, limping badly this time. The smell of dry earth thick in her brain.

Then the crunching of earth and twigs with heavy panting behind her. Someone shouting, ‘Come here, You Bitch!’

She started to scream, ‘Help me someone?—Please!’ She looked over her shoulder, the sound of running was getting nearer.

Her house was now in sight. If only she could reach it in time. Annabel was in excruciating pain dragging her left foot. Must get to the back gate.Oh God! Please let me make it.

Fumbling frantically for the latch, the gate swung open with Annabel falling through onto the concrete grazing her knees. Faithful Zita still with her, dropping the diary, licking her hand and then picking it up, waiting for the next command.

Annabel looked behind. Still no one in sight. With Zita ahead she limped up the garden path to the kitchen door.

Now inside, she turned the key and relaxed as the lock snapped into place.

Annabel leant with her back against the half-glazed door. Her chest moving up and down rapidly, breathing in snatches. Zita looked up at her. She patted the dog. ‘Good dog,’ she said. Then she stiffly bent and kissed Zita fondly on the head. Annabel took the diary from Zita and patted her again. ‘Well done, Zeet.’

She looked into the garden through the window. It was all clear. The house was quiet. Her parents were out shopping. Get up to your bedroom, she thought. Lock yourself in until dad gets back.

At the rear of the house, Francis was panting hard from the running, already knowing where Annabel lived. He’d just seen them disappear behind the kitchen door, the dog still with the diary in its mouth.

The garage doors were open. There was no car. Hopefully the parents were out. At the side-entrance of the large detached house was a builder’s skip sheltered by a high fence. The skip was filled with old paint tins, carpets and a three-piece suite. It looked like they had the decorators in.

The sound of breaking glass made Annabel look up from her diary. A nervous tick fluttered her cheek. She pressed her ear against the bedroom door, straining, listening.

‘Ring the Police. That’s it,’ she mumbled nervously. Annabel picked up the extension. Hand shaking, the finger misdialled. ‘Shit,’ under her breadth. This time she got it right, 999.

There was a slight pause, then a voice, ‘Emergency Services.’

‘Police! Get me the police!’ she shouted, ‘I’m being—’ Annabel heard a click. Then nothing, just silence. She tapped the receiver bar frantically. Only her own breathing could be heard.

Francis stood at the bottom of the stairs. His hand clutched the pulled telephone wire. Then he called out to her, ‘Oh Annabel. I know you’re up there. I just want to talk. Explain things. It would be awkward if people found out, you know, my little preferences and what you put in that diary. My father can’t afford a scandal you see. He’s high up in government security. You know what I mean? Come on Annabel, don’t make me come up there.’

He heard the sound of something being dragged. Probably the bed? She was barricading thedoor with her bed. Francis bounded up the stairs to the large balcony landing. Spotting the only bedroom door closed, he gave it a hefty kick.

Annabel started screaming. She tried pushing up the large sash window in desperation. The noise jerked him into panic; he couldn’t afford her shouting out, attracting someone.

Using his shoulder, he took a flying leap and the door caved in. He went sprawling headlong onto the floor.

Annabel shrieked. As she stepped over him, he grabbed her leg and pulled her to the floor. She wrestled with him and raked his face with her nails.

He shouted at her, ‘You Fucking Bitch!’ wincing with the pain.

With her foot, she shoved him back down and ran from the bedroom. Zita was in a barking frenzy ahead of her. Annabel reached the stairs and then tripped over her dog. She screamed as she somersaulted repeatedly down the marble steps, crashing into the right-angled wall, leaving a bloody smear and then bouncing down the remaining flight. The brittle snap of her neck as she hit the bottom echoed through the quiet hall.

There was silence. Francis came out to the balcony and looked down the stairs. Zita was by the side of Annabel. She began to whine, wagging her tale, not understanding the staring eyes, the twisted head at right angles. Zita licked off some blood from Annabel’s face hoping to waken her.

Francis had to act fast. He knew her parents might be back soon. That fucking diary was somewhere. He quickly rummaged through her bedroom. Nothing. ‘Shit,’ he whispered. Too late to look now, he couldn’t afford the time.

There were two things he had to do, and quickly. Torch the house and hope the diary burnt with it. Then get rid of the body. Forensics, his hairs, his scratches, her fingernails with his skin. He was a dead man if anybody found her or the diary.

The dog was still pining. Francis shouted at it to shut up. He needed a clear head. And then he muttered, ‘Yes, of course.’

Protected by the high fence, he made his way out of the back door to the side entrance. Francis looked into the skip and saw a big rolled up carpet. Then he heard the noise of a vehicle at the front of the house.

At that moment a skip truck with chains clunking, pulled up. Too late now. ‘Shit! Shit! Shit!’ His fist banged in desperation against the steel container. However, the driver didn’t get out of his cabin. Instead, he decided to take his afternoon tea break. He opened his lunch box and started reading the newspaper.

Francis’s luck was in. It was now or never. He pulled out the old carpet and unrolled it behind the skip. Then he went back for Annabel’s body. He rolled the body up and then lifted the bundle with some heaving and slid it over the edge into the skip.

After fifteen minutes when the driver had finished his break, he watched from a side window as the container was lowered onto the truck. As it pulled away, he knew he had to finish the business.

Her dog was gone. It had run after the truck; still faithful to the end.

The decorators had left a two-gallon can of white spirit. Francis started upstairs shaking the fluid from room to room. Then he took one last look and flicked a match.

Twenty minutes later, Annabel’s parents came home from shopping to see the fire brigade tackling the upstairs inferno. After a brief search, they reassured the hysterical mother there was nobody in the house.

A short time later, with Annabel still missing, the police were called and found the kitchen door had been forced open with down stairs drawers ransacked and furniture kicked over. Initially it looked like a robbery or vandalism, or both.

Two days later after Annabel had failed to return, the CID came to Ewell College and set up an interview room. All her known friends and acquaintances were called in one by one. With no other leads, the police turned their attention to a forty-eight year old male named Reginald Stanton.

He was a local man with a previous record of robbery with violence and had been released several months earlier after serving a seven year jail term. Annabel’s parents had hired decorators shortly before her disappearance. Company records showed one of the men to be Reginald Stanton.

A neighbour had placed this man at the scene on the afternoon in question. He was picked out instantly in an identification parade. When arrested, the police had searched his rented room and found stolen items from Annabel’s house. With Annabel still missing and scratches on his hands he couldn’t properly account for, the case very quickly became a murder enquiry.

Eventually, after three months, even though Annabel’s body had never been found, the jury at the Old Bailey took six hours to convict him of murder. In sentencing Reginald Stanton to life imprisonment, his lordship, Justice Anthony Farquason Q.C. had called him a wicked and depraved man for taking such a young life away from a loving family.

Amongst emotional scenes from the gallery with many relatives in tears, Reginald Stanton, forcibly restrained while shouting and protesting his innocence, was led away to start his life sentence.

CHAPTER TWO

‘Look I’ve got the build and it’s the top bodyguard course so I might as well put my muscles to good use. It makes sense to have me trained up to improve our security.’ Francis and Isaac had just finished racing each other and were resting.

Sitting back on their bikes sweating profusely in Isaac Constantine’s state of the art gym annexed to his secluded mansion, Francis added, ‘You’re a famous star now, you need someone close to take care of you. Even if it’s just warding off over eager fans or reporters, including the paparazzi.’

Isaac reached across and put his arm affectionately around Francis’s shoulder. ‘I know you mean well, sweetheart. You do the course if it pleases you.’

Francis said anxiously, ‘I know you have those other minders and bodyguards around at concerts but it’s just, I feel so vulnerable sometimes when we’re out together in private. I’d kill myself if anything happened to you.’

Isaac hugged him affectionately. ‘Nothing’s going to happen to me, You Silly.’

Still sounding anxious Francis added, ‘I know but you can’t take chances. Look at Bobby Kennedy. If he’d had a trained bodyguard close by he might be alive today.’

‘Okay–Okay,’ Isaac laughed and hugged him. ‘You’ve convinced me. So where do you go for the training?’

Francis said excitedly, ‘It’s a Close Protection Operations Course held at Briar Lodge Manor near Lymbridge Green in Kent. It’s the most recognised establishment in the Bodyguard industry. This would lead to me obtaining the government standard SIA close protection licence.’ Then he hesitated and said sheepishly, ‘Only thing is, it’s a whopping three-hundred pounds.’ Then his face brightened. ‘But it’s for twenty-one days and fully residential. In fact the isolated manor it’s held in has a history of training SAS and British secret service agents.’

Isaac fondly squeezed him again. ‘Listen, Sweetheart, if that’s what you want, to protect me, I don’t care how much it cost. I’ll pay for you to have the best course on offer.’

At six-foot-one and weighing a hundred and sixty-eight pounds with a full head of blonde hair and a set of features any male model would be envious of, twenty-two year-old Francis kept himself in good shape. This was using Isaac’s private gym situated in the east wing of his eleven bedroom mansion set amongst the south-downs in Surrey.

It was one of the perks of being the boyfriend of Isaac Constantine who was currently the most famous black recording star Galaxy Records Inc’ had ever had. Last year’s record sales for 1972 had outstripped any other recording artist. This success was reflected in Isaac’s other three palatial homes. Two in the UK and one in Los angles.

To keep in trim, Francis’s gym favourite was the cross trainer. From here he could get an erection just looking at the black and white life size posters of his lover on the wall. Tall and shaven bald with a kind face like Harry Belafonte and the physique of a light weight boxer, the posters, taken from his European tours, showed Isaac in various stage bondage attire. From tight leather shorts and a zip up mask to being naked while on all fours. Other raunchy posters revealed him tethered by a lead and a spikey dog collar to some beautiful blonde in a figure hugging rubber suit.

His risqué stage acts that reflected his gender didn’t just appeal to his huge gay following; the girls went wild over him as well.

Wanting an autograph, Francis had met Isaac at the stage door of a concert seven months ago, and it was love at first sight. Isaac Constantine at twenty-five years old and currently the most successful black soul singer in the UK and Europe with album sales increasing steadily in America, was smitten with Francis.

The singer had tried to keep their relationship under wraps, hiding from reporters and cameras when they were out together. The heavy minders had seen to it. Francis always maintained Isaac didn’t need these brainless apes to look after him. He would do it.

Keeping a low profile on his love life, Isaac had kept the usual threats by telephone or mail, mostly from National Front and anti-homosexual groups, down to a minimum. His agent and secretary screened all his fan mail. If a threat looked serious it was referred to Isaac’s head of security, a huge black man called Marvin. It usually finished there. Only a couple of times had they been on standby with the police, when some nutter had threatened to shoot or hurl a bomb. They’d all finished up as a hoax; sickos hiding behind their fantasies.

When Isaac Constantine first came out, the hate letters were smoking – He’s not only a nigger but queer as well they’d written. Now of course with Gay Pride Rallies being held in London and Britain’s first gay newspaper being launched, the racist remarks had dwindled to a trickle.

*

The Director General of MI5, Sir Geoffrey Hodder, had every reason to look worried. Recently this March 1973 there had been a cabinet reshuffle and it was known the new Home Secretary, Ruth Torrington, would be considering making changes in some top security positions.

Sir Geoffrey and the new Home Secretary had never been the best of friends since the accusations she’d made in the house while in the shadow cabinet. She had once asked for his resignation over what she called, “Lack of basic security,” concerning the IRA car bombings outside The Old Baily. Since her ten month term in the new cabinet, relations had been frosty between them. Even more so now with a new kid on the block - Desmond Harrington, currently a director on the board for Northern Ireland Terrorism and tipped as a strong candidate for Sir Geoffrey’s position – especially as one of his rich uncles had donated one million pounds to the party election campaign. More than once at meetings without Sir Geoffrey, she had hinted on a department reshuffle.

Sir Geoffrey knew, a strong show of senior department hands for a vote of confidence might sway her decision, perhaps curb her enthusiasm for a while. However, if he could ride out this latest MI5 reshuffle and maybe just keep his head above water on his £17,000 a year salary, he might be able to pay back some of the money on the loans he’d taken out.

Unfortunately, these were on numerous bad choice stock-exchange shares that had crashed in this year’s Bear Market downturn and could force him into bankruptcy. Some of this investment money, which he vowed to pay back, he’d skimmed off the department’s expenses budget and if not rectified, would show up as a deficit at the end of the year accounting period. Knowing of course, this would bring embarrassment to his department and further her call for his replacement and even prosecution. So he had to sit tight and remain squeaky clean.

Two weeks later, Sir Geoffrey received in his mail a summons for a meeting with the Home Secretary. He had expected it of course. He had five days grace to organise a vote of confidence and to make sure it was documented.

Although he was Director General, his five deputy staff that were responsible to him including, the Deputy Director General, the Assistant Director General, the Director for Joint Terrorism Analysis, the Director of National Protection and Infrastructure and Commander Gregory Potting, former head of MI6 and the governments most senior advisor for internal affairs, constituted the management board for the MI5 service. Chaired by Sir Geoffrey, they would hold regular meetings to consider policy and strategic issues. Fortunately their next meeting was in two days’ time.

Sir Geoffrey knew he could also lean on a couple of retired Director Generals he played golf with, one of whom sat in the House of Lords.

A few days later, with the ammunition tucked inside his briefcase he was shown into the Home Secretary’s office. Sir Geoffrey had been a visitor here many times but was always astounded by the enormous length of the boardroom table and its thirty-two surrounding chairs. With an air of importance, Ruth Torrington sat at one end stamping her authority immediately on anyone that entered her domain.

Looking up, the pretty white face with the thin red lipstick smile beckoned him to sit. ‘Ah, Sir Geoffrey, please take a seat will you.’ At thirty-six years old, she was medium height and attractive with long dark wavy hair cascading down her shoulders onto a slim figure hugging lime green fashionable suit. Ruth Torrington looked as though she could be an advert for cosmetics in Vogue magazine.

On the other hand, fifty-eight year old Sir Geoffrey with his thinning silver hair and six-foot four-inch frame, engulfed the boardroom Chippendale chair.

Always with a serious expression on his lined face and wearing a dark blue pin striped suit, he cut a distinguished pose clutching his Aspinal crocodile skin attaché case.

Ruth Torrington had her notes set out. She was going to tell him tactfully, as Home Secretary she had decided changes were needed and the MI5 department required a fresh approach where its leadership was concerned.

However, before she could launch into her dismissal dialogue, Sir Geoffrey interrupted and pulled out the signed vote of confidence the department had in him. ‘If this meeting is for my yearly appraisal, Home Secretary?’ He knew the coming Monday would be the anniversary of his third year in office. ‘I would just like to add, I wasn’t happy with the department’s current strategy to counteract terrorism. So I’ve been re-evaluating the overall structure of mainland security and wanted to make sure the senior board of MI5 were behind me on this.’

Sir Geoffrey had done his homework and produced an initial 6 page report for his proposals. He explained to her, ‘This report shows the threat of the IRA and Black September attacks require two major changes in counter-terrorism. The first is to set up offices closer to the regional centres of extremist UK activity and the second, to improve collaboration with local police forces.’ He passed her the buff folder. ‘You will see the list of signatures endorsing my proposals including two of our most senior advisors, Lord Pendleton and Lord Manning.’

Ruth Torrington listened with a stunned look on her face. It wasn’t so much the signatures from his department but the one from the former Director General, Lord Manning. He just so happened to be her husband’s current boss. Ruth Torrington had to back pedal and quickly find an excuse for the meeting.

Sir Geoffrey even helped her with this. ‘Do you want to discuss further actions that need addressing on this year’s appraisal, Home Secretary?’

Her face lit up at the get-out and without hesitation she went into her usual summing up speech of the department’s efforts and how satisfied she was. The same speech she used before the house and in front of the cameras. ‘I’m pleased with the department’s performance and their response to terrorist situations.’ She quickly flicked through a folder in front of her and began reading from it. ‘We must address the whole spectrum of terrorism and that applies to our communications response as much as anything else. It also means that the response isn’t just about delivering a ‘counter-narrative’. It’s about promoting a whole set of positive values that define who we are and what the security service stands for. We only have to look back a few years to the threats we faced before the emergence of Black September - just imagine what could happen in the next few years if we don’t act now. Imagine how the IRA and Black September threat may yet transform into something even more grotesque and inhumane - or more powerful with greater capability and reach, if we don’t take action. In fact it is vital that our response is clear and consistent at home and abroad, because there is no longer any distinction between domestic and international terrorism when it comes to radicalisation, which is the communications methods used by the terrorists and the threats we all face.’ Ruth Torrington carried on for another full minute and then glanced at her watch.

Sir Geoffrey yawned mentally and thanked her for her time.

At the door she shook his hand with a pleasant smile but very much aware, Sir Geoffrey had won the day and they both knew it.

*

Sir Geoffrey could relax a little even though he still had his investment problems. Then as if matters couldn’t get any worse, the following day his son Francis dropped a bombshell. Sitting in his spacious Director General’s office, Sir Geoffrey’s telephone rang and he was asked if he would like to take a call from his son.

‘It’s me, Father.’

‘Oh, hello.’

‘Don’t sound too excited. Will you.’

Sir Geoffrey matched his sarcasm. ‘What is it, Francis? Phoned to tell me you found yourself an honest job at last instead of sponging off that pop idol bitch of yours?’

‘No father, on the contrary. Myself and that pop idol bitch, as you call him, will be organising the annual London Gay Pride March this coming June. As you know it’s for the anniversary of the Stonewall riots of ١٩٦٩. It’s important to us. Many of those people gave their lives for what they believed in.’

Sir Geoffrey replied sarcastically, ‘So what are you telling me for?’

‘I’m telling you because there will be over two-thousand people at the march this year going from Trafalgar Square to Hyde Park and they want to be assured of a friendly police presence, as opposed to their aggressive intimidation to the marchers last year. Also we want guaranteed police protection against anti-gay campaigners. It will be a great march and we’re determined to have a fun time and make our point that gay is good. As usual it’ll be a carnival-style parade with lots of extravagant costumes and cheeky banners poking fun at homophobes like the morality campaigner Mary Whitehouse.’

Sir Geoffrey was not amused, he told his son, ‘To police the march costs a lot of money and this year with the extra security needed in place against another IRA attack, we can ill afford to keep an eye on a bunch of queers and those druggy friends of Isaac Constantine.’

‘My friends aren’t druggy and Isaacs been clean now for over six months.’

‘Oh yes? As clean as the inside of a tramps underpants I bet,’ Sir Geoffrey scoffed.

‘It’s up to you, Father. Be it on your head if there’s any trouble.’ With that, Francis terminated the call.

He’d known of course for some time his son’s gender leaning. It hadn’t mattered then. Francis, his fourth child had been the black sheep of the family. With two Mongol sons hidden away in an institution and a dead daughter who had drowned at seven years old, Francis had been a disappointment to him. Sir Geoffrey would have preferred a daughter. His mother would still be here if he’d been a girl.

After the mother’s first two boys, the thought of Francis turning out to be mentally handicapped as well had made her run off at the outset before she could be convinced he was normal. However, Sir Geoffrey had always thought she’d produced a muscular poof whose physique could have been put to better use instead of being a lapdog to a rich nigger.

Sir Geoffrey replaced the receiver slowly. It suddenly dawned on him, the Gay Pride March publicity involving pictures of Isaac Constantine and his son could be damaging to his career. It could create an awkward situation. He’d just hoped this rich doped-up gay nigger singer would tire of his son and move on.

Ironically, he couldn’t have given a monkey’s toss about his son. They hardly ever spoke, and for Francis, lack of money was not an issue. Francis had all the money he could ever wish for being shacked up with a famous singer.

Everyone had read, including Sir Geoffrey, the newspaper stories surrounding Isaac Constantine’s coke addiction. They’d seen the pictures from endless paparazzi vigils outside rehab clinics of him coming and going while being snapped with a hand hiding his face. Then there were the two prison sentences; one for drugs and the other for drink driving while twice over the legal requirement and injuring a motor cyclist. MI5 already had a file on Isaac Constantine because of death threats to him from The National Front.

However, most damaging was the property deal linking Sir Geoffrey with Isaacs Constantine.

Sir Geoffrey, already with a blossoming property portfolio and not backwards in spotting an opportunity to make a killing, had before his rise to Director General acquired at a rock bottom price a private residential care home. This eleven bedroomed property for the elderly situated in a picturesque secluded part of the South Downs in Surrey, was purchased by him as an anonymous buyer three-years ago. The owners, a family that had inherited the business, had not spent money on its upkeep. Consequently it was looking run down and needed major investment spent on decorating the outside and inside.

With redecorating costs taken into consideration, Sir Geoffrey had worked out an initial payback exercise before purchasing. The declared business profits, if he kept it as a care home, would show it would take seven years to break even. He decided the care home business was a nonrunner.

However, greasing the palm of a surveyor friend, Sir Geoffrey had a dodgy building society survey submitted to show the property to be a health risk. When the owners called for a second survey, Sir Geoffrey greased further palms and had that survey nobbled as well.

On purchasing the property for £15,000 below the asking price, the residents were given notice of eviction. Therefore their relations along with local authorities had to find alternative accommodation for them. Sir Geoffrey, still keeping his anonymity, spent the next five months having the property refurbished into a very desirable luxury residence and sold it to pop star Isaac Constantine, making a £25,000 handsome profit

A local member of parliament at the time started asking questions after a half-hearted petition was submitted to him by residents and staff following the eviction. However nothing came of the enquiry and the matter was soon forgotten, so Sir Geoffrey had hoped. Now the deal had come back to haunt him.

The autobiography of Isaac Constantine was soon to be published. Preview snippets had been released in newspapers, music and book magazines. The rags to riches story of Isaac Constantine. From his humble beginnings as a kid brought up in a council flat in Hackney to the fabulous pop star mansion he’d acquired deep in the heart of the Surrey downs, with pictures included. However, all it needed was that MP to see the pictures of the mansion in the autobiography soon to be released and contact the owner.

For a while he stroked his chin deep in thought going through the alternatives. Then he decided, there was no other way. It would be best if Isaac Constantine were removed; that is, removed for good. It would have to look like an accident. He couldn’t afford any comebacks. He’d be the first in the frame if anything went wrong. However, who would do it?

Sir Geoffrey looked across to the filing cabinet. Sliding his director’s chair along the deep piled carpet he pulled the second drawer down. He thumbed through some buff folders and then pulled the file stamped Martin Lavender.

About to get engaged to his wealthy girlfriend Victoria Buxton while still having an affair with the Home Secretary Ruth Torrington; thirty-three year old agent Martin Lavender still liked the company of expensive call girls. And MI5 were aware of Martin Lavender’s colourful life style.

Sir Geoffrey sifted through photos of the agent caught by telephoto lens coming and going from expensive hotels with a beautiful screw at his side. He couldn’t help himself. There was even one of him in bed with a well-endowed mature woman, taken by a maid who was cleaning and forgot to knock. She was paid £100 to snap them with a small hidden camera mounted on her work cart.

These photos were for insurance, in case the agent got out of order or threatened the department in some way. They were probably never going to be used – but now? Sir Geoffrey smiled to himself.

Martin Lavender also ran a very successful nightclub in London. It had recently been refurbished with no expense spared. MI5 knew the club was financed with drug money as with the agent’s life style. However, the club was useful for department entertaining and a discreet place to collect information from snouts and pay them off. Even the Police had been advised to keep a low profile, which sat well with the Commissioner who used the club for the odd night out with his young mistress knowing that questions wouldn’t be asked.

They’d let Martin Lavender have his fun for as long as he was useful.

Sir Geoffrey would leave it up to Lavender to devise a plan to kill Constantine. The least he knew about it the better.

Agent Lavender would be pleased. His secrets of expensive call girls and his affair with the Home Secretary would be safe from prying eyes and his wealthy girlfriend. And there was the code red contract bonus of five-hundred pounds to wet his appetite.

Sir Geoffrey picked up his telephone and dialled the number for the Vincent Hotel, Shepherds Bush. He asked reception to put him through to room thirteen.

*

‘Of course I love you. Look you know the setup, Ruth. We’re having fun aren’t we? Let’s just enjoy it while we can.’

‘So what do I do, Martin? Wait ten years until my daughters are grown up and left home while I’m greying up with more wrinkles.’

‘You’ve got too much to lose, Ruth, at the moment. Your position as Home Secretary. Your husband?’

‘My husband,’ she scoffed. ‘I don’t give a damn about him. And I’m sure the feeling is mutual.’

He stroked her chin. Their legs were still entwined after going at it for a full twenty minutes. Both of them were still sweating and her mascara had run.

The busy Shepherds Bush road outside had drowned out some of her wailing during the heat of it all. The double bed took up most of the basic room and the cracked wardrobe mirror reflected a tatty modest hotel tucked away from prying eyes.

‘You haven’t got wrinkles, My Love.’ His hand moved down and cupped her breast affectionately.

‘I suppose your right,’ she said. ‘I’ll wait until the youngest has finished her GCSE’s, that’ll be later this August. It wouldn’t be fair on her, be too disruptive if I filed for divorce now. But next year?’ She leaned across to the bedside table and lit a cigarette. Ruth Torrington lay back and inhaled deeply. ‘So what am I supposed to do in the meantime? Play the tart going from one hotel room to the other?’

‘Look, it’s only for a few more months, my Love. And then you can divorce him and we’ll always be together.’

‘Oh I know, Martin, I’m a grumbling bitch, but it’s been over a year now and you