“Who is she?” asked Edge. They were sitting in a car outside a closed garden centre, just off the A41 near Bicester.
“She’s Charlie Dorking’s niece, Alice Warboys. She’s a uniformed copper who wants to be a detective, so she’s a probationer. It didn’t take her long to become disillusioned and Dorking reckons she’s as pissed off as we are. He reckoned it might be useful to have an insider.”
“Why is she pissed off, Henry?”
“Because she’s found out there’s a conspiracy involving the police, social services and local politicians to keep the incidents of child rape out of the public spotlight. For the sake of “social cohesion.” They are very worried.”
Edge craved a cigarette, “So would I be if someone started slotting Muslim taxi drivers on my patch.”
“Manor, it’s my Manor you slaaaaaag,” Morrison said in his best Ray Winstone voice.
“We’re the Sweeny, son. And we haven’t had our dinner,” Edge agreed.
They were quiet for a while, wishing for a police force like that portrayed by DI Reagan and DS Carter that had never existed.
Edge broke the companionable silence, “But this is a rare form of madness. Why are we doing this? Wayne isn’t even an Inkspot.”
“I did a tour with Wayne in Afghanistan, back in 2001 and 2002. We were in a team that cleared the Tora Bora caves. Wayne was a natural fighting underground, while I was scared shitless. He was an inspiration and kept us going. He should have got the MC.”
“He can have mine,” Edge said with more than a trace of rancour, “For all the fucking good it did me.
“Nevertheless, Wayne is a comrade and we have to do our best to stop him making a mistake. I hope he gets sick of the whole thing, because you just can’t kill everyone. I don’t have kids, but how would you feel if it were your daughter?”
Edge was silent for a while, “I’d find out who had done it to her and post pieces of the bastard back to his family.
“But the problem is there are just so many of them. It’s like a pandemic. It’s the way they subjugate us in our own country, by targeting our children. And it’s all done with the consent of the ruling elite and the very people who are supposed to protect us. For the sake of social fucking cohesion.”
A car approached from the north, taking the slip road off to the garden centre and retail outlet. Henry switched on the lights briefly and the car pulled up close by. Edge got out and checked that the car hadn’t been followed. A young woman got out of the vehicle and walked over to where they were parked, getting into the passenger seat. Edge joined them after a short time, getting in the back.
“Hello, Alice. Good day at the office?” Morrison asked.
“Interesting. We’ve got a new member of the team. He arrived this morning, a DI called Hope. He’s been sent to us because he pissed off his DCI at the Kidlington HQ and he’s facing a disciplinary investigation. He was on the team investigating the shooting of that lawyer. His name’s Hope and everyone calls him “Forlorn Hope,” because they reckon he’s useless. So naturally, they have partnered him up with me. I heard Reid call it “damage limitation” on the phone, because an old, fat and useless DI and a stupid, little probationer can’t do much damage.”
“Should we be concerned, Alice?”
She delved in her bag for a tube of mints, offering them around. Edge took one. Henry shook his head.
“Yes, I think you should,” she told them, “He comes across as an unfit, bumbling buffoon who couldn’t catch a cold. I’ve found out in less than a day that he’s as sharp as a dagger and doesn’t miss a trick. I think he already knows that Reid is making no effort to find out why Muslim taxi drivers are being murdered. He has spotted the connection between the girls being trafficked out to the cities from childrens’ homes and the local taxi firm. He knows the murder sites were sanitised by someone with forensic knowledge and he’s been copying stuff from the files.”
“What did he do to get suspended?” asked Edge, intrigued at this new dimension.
“When asked if he would attend the Oxford Gay Pride event, he said, “Only when the Chief Constable attends, wearing a pair of arseless chaps.””
The two men laughed. Alice didn’t join them, “You don’t realise just how seriously a comment like that is viewed in the Police Service,” and because she wasn’t a fool either, she added, “And he reckons he knows who shot that lawyer. It was either an ex-SAS guy called Edge, but as he was in hospital in Portugal when the shot was taken, he said it was another ex-SAS guy called Morrison.”
Edge and Morrison went quiet.
“Plus he called a junior detective, “a pathetic bloody snowflake,” Alice said as though this was a heinous crime.
“Clearly we are dealing with an extremely dangerous individual,” Edge said light-heartedly.
“I need to protect myself, gentlemen. I know that British policing has become somewhat of a joke shop, but I am still young and idealistic enough to believe in having a career and perhaps making a difference. I don’t want to be caught in any cross-fire.”
“It’s OK, Alice. We promised your uncle to keep you safe,” Morrison told her, “You should build a cover story and perhaps start tipping off your DCI about what Hope’s up to.”
Alice Warboys bit her lip, unseen in the darkness, “It’s not easy. I really like Mr Hope and I think he’s a bloody good copper. Reid is the useless one.”
“Sometimes you have to do unpalatable things to stay safe. Hope sounds like he’s big enough and ugly enough to look after himself.”
“Do you know where Hope lives, Alice?” asked Edge.
“Chinnor, but he’s staying in the Premier Inn out near the M40 for a few nights. You’re not going to do something bad to him, are you?”
“Of course not! Just the opposite in fact. Tell us what he looks like,” Alice did, “All right. Thank you, Alice. Play it nice and easy. Let’s make it 18:30 in two evening’s time, Wednesday night. Make it Bicester Business Centre next time. Look after yourself.”
They watched her get out, go to her own car and drive off. Nobody was following her.
“This rather complicates matters,” Morrison said thoughtfully, “Wayne’s going to slot Hussen tonight, or rather the early hours of tomorrow. “
“The bastard who drove his daughter to Bristol where she was raped, injected with heroin and threatened with being burned alive. She went under the train two days later.”
“When will all of this stop, Henry?”
Morrison leaned on the steering wheel, “Fuck knows, mate. I can clean up on my own if necessary. You’d better keep an eye on Mr Hope, Forlorn or not.”
“I bet the thick fucking plods don’t even know what a Forlorn Hope is.”
Edge spent an uneventful evening after Morrison dropped him off at where he had parked his car, lurking in the hotel car park, and waiting. Alice had described Hope and if he went out, Edge would have expected him to take a taxi. However, a man matching Hope’s description left the hotel and set off on foot down the A422.
“Shit!” Edge exclaimed to himself. He wasn’t sufficiently recuperated to follow him on foot, so he gambled that Hope would walk to the town centre. He drove west then took the second left down towards the town centre, pulling in near a Halfords store. Twenty minutes later he saw Hope in his rear view mirror and waited until he had walked past, got out of the car and followed him on foot.
The policeman went into a Bangladeshi restaurant and Edge waited outside for half an hour, then went in and ordered a small take-away meal that he neither wanted nor needed. Hope was sitting on his own, drinking a coffee as he had finished his meal. He paid the bill just as Edge’s take-away arrived. He left and Edge followed him at a distance. He spotted someone sleeping rough up an alley and gave him the meal, keeping Hope in sight. The policeman seemed to be dicking the town centre with its clumps of underage children and prowling taxis. He even took a picture of a police van full of bored, disinterested coppers with his mobile phone. Then seemed to head back to the hotel.
Edge went back to the car, drove to the hotel and waited. When Hope appeared, Edge took a few photographs of him, then followed him into the hotel. He sat in the foyer and read a newspaper while Hope went into the bar. Edge gave him some time, fairly sure that the policeman was in for the night, then left.
On the Wednesday evening, Alice arrived earlier than expected. Morrison and Edge were waiting and she hurried across to their car. She seemed quite agitated as she slipped into the passenger’s seat.
“Shit’s hit the fan, Gents,” she told them breathlessly, “The IOPC will be all over us like a rash in the next few days.”
“It’s Hope. He went into the Chief Superintendent’s office this morning. He’s been asking his contacts about Operation Bullfinch in Oxford and found a clear and obvious correlation between child exploitation in Oxford and abuse centred on the Muslim taxi firms in Banbury. He’s accused DCI Reid of wilful negligence and the senior management of complicit cover-up. He threatened to arrest the head of Child Services for obstruction. He’s sent his evidence to a law firm that specialises in police corruption and the foreign media, Russia Today I think, if they try to shut him down.
“All our IT log-ins have been frozen and the filing cabinets locked with different combinations. We were all separated and told we couldn’t leave the building. A team from the Cumbria Constabulary are coming in tomorrow. Everyone’s shitting themselves.”
“Goodness, a bit of a boy then, our Forlorn Hope,” Edge observed from the back seat.
“Sorry Gents, but it’s over as far as I’m concerned. We’ve never met.”
Morrison nodded, “Understood. Goodbye, Alice and good luck.”
They watched her leave, looking nervously around her, like she was being hunted. Edge leaned forward and cleared his throat, “Well, Henry, it looks like Mr Hope has just become one of us.”
Two years later, in the headquarters of the MoD’s Main Building on the Embankment, opposite the London Eye, Wing Commander Ryan O’Byrne contemplated the pile of files on the table in front of him. O’Byrne had just finished his Advanced Command and Staff Course and this was his first tour in what the Civil Serpents described as “Head Office.” He knew he was destined for higher things, he had ticked the right boxes through luck and sheer hard work and the loving support of his wife. Perhaps his own detachment and then his own Station. Maybe a DACOS (1) at Air Command, then ACOS (2) Ops, who knows? Never CAS (3) though, he wasn’t a fast jet pilot.
But O’Byrne missed flying, “sweating the metal” in No 7 Squadron’s CH47 Chinook Helicopters. He missed the easy banter and being an essential component of Britain’s Special Forces community. Here he was, Duty Officer for the week on the 5th Floor, having to complete the weekly nausea of checking the Secret and Top Secret file enclosures, making sure they were all there and cross-referencing them with the secure documents log. Just to check some numpty hadn’t enclosed them in the wrong file, or worse removed them. It would take the best part of the morning.
He was on a Top Secret UK Eyes Only file annotated as Op TELIC VI. O’Byrne was interested in this file as he had been on Op TELIC VI in Basra in 2005, so he took the time to read the enclosures, the memories flooding back. It was all there, the SAS undercover team being compromised, the assault on the police station, the shooting down of the Puma, the CSAR to recover the bodies and the rescue of the Loadmaster. O’Byrne had been the co-pilot of the Chinook that had carried the medics and the rescued Loadmaster for the trip to the field hospital. And he remembered the piss-up in the Camel’s Toe bar afterwards and he smiled.
Most of these files should have been marked for disposal years ago, but because of the collective, hysterical paranoia surrounding the Chilcot Enquiry into the Iraq war and collective arse-covering by the Civil Serpents, they remained on charge. O’Byrne was tempted to mark them for disposal, but he was only security checking and only the files’ owners or originators could make that decision.
And then he came across some earlier enclosures about an undercover operation at Amarah, involving an SAS sniper team. This section was rather odd, as it didn’t conform to the usual JSP 101 writing protocols and seemed to have been originated by the FCO. Most of the pages were heavily redacted and seemed comprised of printed e-mail traffic between the FCO and the Directorate of Special Forces. Operation HUSSITE was mentioned a number of times, but the enclosure that curdled his guts was dated from 2014 and was a later enclosure to the much earlier Operation HUSSITE enclosure from 2005.
With regret it is deemed the events surrounding the elimination of GADWALL are of such great sensitivity, that their disclosure would compromise national security. Unfortunately the very existence of HUSSITE team members who were involved with the planning are themselves a dangerous threat should their roles be compromised. However unpalatable this might appear to the SoS, we should regard Staff Sergeant [ ] and Warrant Officer [ ] as a clear and existing danger to national security that must be contained. They were operating outwith their agreed ROE and the parameters of the mission. [ ] will present a COA to the departmental heads on 12 March 2012. Suggest this would involve leaking their names to ongoing war crimes investigations.
O’Byrne re-read the HUSSITE enclosures several times and noted two e-mail addresses from the enclosures that were on the government system. Later he would go on the global address list and find they were in fact FCO and therefore quite possibly MI6 addresses. One of the incumbents he would manage to trace by creative use of the global address list. He slipped a piece of paper into the classified documents log and made notes about the electronic addresses and partially redacted name in the file. He clearly remembered a well-oiled Staff Sergeant called Edge, showing everybody in the Camel’s Toe a huge, multi-coloured bruise on his chest, where he had been shot on his body armour whilst storming the house. He also remembered an impossibly handsome Warrant Officer called Morrison, schmoozing with a beautiful Pakistani woman, who he thought may have been a “Detette.” He had met with these two again, four maybe five years ago, when they had made him an intriguing offer.
That afternoon he interrogated the MoD’s Global email Address List and ran a search on DII, including electronic versions of the documents he had seen in the TELIC VI file. He didn’t want to push too hard to arouse cyber suspicion from the IT administrators, but by the end of the afternoon he had the name of the originator of the 2014 email enclosure, who was a Miranda Hollins, with a current location given as Hanslope Park. O’Byrne had no idea what Hanslope Park was, so naturally he asked Mr Duck Duck Go on his phone.
When O’Byrne got back to his nice flat in the East End, paid for by the taxpayer, he went into a safe in the wardrobe and retrieved a mobile phone. There was only one number in the Contacts list and he rang it and left a message. Then he poured himself a large bourbon with plenty of ice, went onto the balcony and looked out over a third-world city and the minarets of Stratford Mosque. Morrison and Edge had picked their self-preservation society members very astutely. Wing Commander O’Byrne was Inkspot 07 Ops (Air).
Miranda Hollins was too cautious to hope too much. Since her disastrous marriage many years previously, she had been in and out of unsatisfying relationships and had to admit, on occasions she had made a fool of herself. But that inextinguishable spark of hope told her that probably, no possibly (don’t build your hopes too much), he was the right person for her. The online dating agency was for professional people, like her and after so many disappointments he seemed to have come from nowhere. She worked in MI6’s Archive and Records Section at Hanslope Park, a far cry from when she had been a Field Officer, first in Afghanistan and then later in Iraq. Her current work lacked the supposed appeal of field work, what every officer aspired to, but at her age, they were welcome to it. Besides, it was convenient for her house in Kempston on the outskirts of Bedford. Thank goodness she only had to commute to London once a week. The allure of the capital had long gone.
She risked a sideways glance at her companion, Paul in the back of the taxi and felt a thrill. It was their second date, really a date at her age? Should she invite him in? The cautious part of her said no, one more time just to be sure. But God he was handsome. An NHS manager and he did know a great deal about hospital administration, because she had checked. He was kind, considerate and very courteous, helping her on with her coat when the taxi pulled up outside her nice, 1930s house. Which made it all the more shocking when he tazered her on the neck.
“Help me get her inside,” he said to the driver, “And disappear ‘till I phone you. I don’t know how long this will take and it could take a very long time. I hope not for her sake.”
They quickly carried the unconscious woman up the path, her companion had the keys ready and inside he turned off the alarm.
“Upstairs, spare bedroom. Then bring the holdall and go.”
When she regained consciousness she was cable tied to the bed. He was looking down at her and he was wearing police SOCO clothes and a surgical mask.
“You don’t remember me do you?” he asked, “Three hours in an intimate little restaurant, less than three feet away from me and you can’t remember.”
She started to struggle.
“Miranda, let me help you. Basra 2015. Do you recall the debrief in the SF compound? Admittedly I was younger, much smellier and dirtier then and you probably didn’t want to get too close to the people who do your dirty jobs for you.”
“Fuck you!” she hissed and opened her mouth to scream. He rammed a towel in her mouth.
“I’m really not pissing around.”
He put a wet cloth over her face and poured water from a jug onto it. The water had been heavily laced with tabasco sauce and was slightly orange in colour. Predictably she squirmed, gasped, choked and coughed. He left it for thirty seconds, removed the cloth and the towel and held her head to one side while she vomited. While she gasped for breath with burning mucus membranes and eyes, he produced a Dictaphone, an extension cable and a heavy duty electric soldering iron from the holdall.
“I’m going to ask you the following questions and I expect you to be honest and give me non-evasive answers. There is no twenty-four hour rule here for you to hold out for. It’s Friday and we’ve got all weekend and probably until Tuesday before someone misses you and I don’t give a shit what state you’re in by the time I’m finished.
“What was the remit of Operation Hussite? Who sanctioned it, both within MI6 and at Governmental level? Was the DSF aware of the true nature of Op Hussite? Who was Gadwall? Why was he killed? Whose idea was it to throw Edge and Morrison to the wolves? Who is the person whose name has been redacted on the files and who was present at the meeting on 12th March 2012? Right, let’s start with the first question: What was the remit of Operation Hussite?”
The towel was in her mouth and the muffled screams started.
By 04:45 he had all the information he needed and the room stank of burned flesh.
“I want you to know that your organisation’s day has come. You and your political masters have pillaged this country and its people for too long. You have covered up the sexual deviancy of the ruling class and allowed degenerates to govern this once, fine people. You and your ilk have used this country and people as your own personal cash cow. We are fighting back and I’m afraid that you are just collateral damage on the long hard road to freedom. But for me, this is entirely personal. You made us murder a brave and probably honourable man at the whim of a hostile, foreign government, for a dirty, little trade deal. You drove Mark Edge to the brink of suicide. You destroyed his life and his family, because you thought us to be inconvenient, a clear and existing danger to national security. You’re an evil bitch and you backed the wrong side. Sorry.”
He tazered her, cut the cable ties, put her in the holdall, zipped it up and carried it through to the bathroom, before heaving it into the bath. He put in the plug and ran the cold water and while he waited for it to fill, he sanitised the spare bedroom and the stairs. Back in the bathroom he turned off the tap and waited for the bubbles to stop. He gave it ten minutes, pulled out the plug and made a phone call. While he waited in the darkened downstairs hall, somebody’s words came back to haunt him.
Is this what we do, Henry? Is this what we’ve come to? We’re part of this. Aren’t we just fucking great? And I thought we were supposed to be the good guys…
Russia Today website report dated 30th November 2015
A leaked file we have obtained, has shown that the British Security Services were complicit in the State sponsored murder of one of their own double agents in Iraq in 2005.
The double agent Muhammad Al Jazari codenamed Gadwall, was shot by a British Special Forces team in Iraq in 2005. His murder was ordered by the British Secret Intelligence Services at the behest of the Iranian government under an operation codenamed Hussite. During a later meeting held on 12th March 2012, it was decided that the British Special Forces soldiers involved in the shooting of Mr Jazari, should be referred for war crimes investigations. Present at the meeting were both Defence and Foreign Office ministers.
It is alleged that following their convictions, both Special Forces Soldiers were to have been confined in a prison with a high percentage of Muslim prisoners and killed during a prison riot. However, one of the soldiers committed suicide and the second went missing before a war crimes tribunal could be convened.
Last week two members of the British Secret Intelligence Service died under mysterious circumstances, both involved with Operation Hussite. Miranda Hollins was found in her home, drowned in a holdall in her bath, with multiple injuries to her body. She had briefed and de-briefed the SAS sniper team in Iraq in 2005. Timothy Peterhead was killed when a bomb exploded under his car at his home in Reigate. He is believed to have been instrumental at setting up Operation Hussite and providing the link between MI6 and the British Government. A British Government spokesperson has denied all of the allegations and stated that it is likely that the Russian FSV is responsible for the murders of the two civil servents, due to the sensitive case they were working on, regarding Russian cyber-attacks. They have refused to confirm or deny if the two murdered officers were MI6 employees.
1. DACOS – Deputy Assistant Chief of Staff (Colonel or equivalent)
2. ACOS Ops – Assistant Chief of Staff (Operations)
3. CAS – Chief of the Air Staff
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