by KC McLaren
The public image was one of closeness and united on all fronts with the father being at the helm. It was far from the truth though and it did not take him too long to search out why. After looking into their past Strickland’s aides dug up hidden police reports. Domestic violence towards his son at a young age and the possibility of Stewart’s first wife dying in mysterious circumstances.
It didn’t take too long putting it altogether. The reports showed Stewart had direct or indirect involvement for her death thirty years ago. And no doubt all because of his numerous occasions of infidelity and threats of divorce. Divorce which would have cost him tens of millions of pounds and being a greedy bastard, not one cent would he have wished to part with. So for Strickland it was with ease to get the son who had harboured a hatred for his father all those years, James Henry Stewart II, on board. The son was as an open book and gave Strickland what he wanted and the exact cards to play. As Stewart senior removed his own father, his own son asked for one main condition. Like father like son, Strickland repeated in his mind.
The two agents left the room. James sat himself in the vacant chair pulling it back into position like a king taking to his throne for the first time.
“Shall we carry on gentlemen?” Strickland said as he watched Brown shuffling in his chair. “The financial institutes throughout the EU have ignored every chapter, every will of their governments to be brought in line. The EU central executive have allowed this to gain control of each indebted country. Forcing their population to accept everything that our history fought against, a Federation of Europe. Our country is undermined at every diplomatic step from the faceless bureaucrats of the EU threatening our way of life, our heritage and our culture as a sovereign state. Today we set in motion plans to put Britain back in its rightful seat on the world stage. The world is ready for another world war, history dictates it, but this time, it will not be fought with tanks and guns. If we can’t stop a Federation of Europe happening, then there is only one alternative, we will control it.”
The body of the billionaire James Henry Stewart senior was already on his way to a well-earned rest in St Tropez, Southern France. A permanent vacation as David Strickland thought of it.
Strickland noted that Brown, the Chancellor of the Exchequer, had become anxious about the proceedings and it showed through his lack of interaction. His mind seemed elsewhere. Most likely, Strickland thought, on the realisation of his dirty secrets known and now used against him. Brown looked as if he would vomit with every breath he took.
The atmosphere in the room became tense.
Strickland looked across to Brown, “Roger, you need to get your mind back into this room and do it now. What’s done is done, past, gone. Inevitably, he would have had to be removed at some point, I explained all this to…”
“What you did not explain, removing him meant to murder him.” Roger said cutting in and spitting his words out.
“This stops now. Or…” Strickland paused as he got out of his seat, “You can wake up tomorrow morning to face being removed from office. No doubt by Sunday be found in your bath tub with your little lover boy. Both very much not breathing. Your family would never recover from it.”
“You didn’t have to be so ruthless. I’ve been on board from the beginning and committed to the cause. Its unequivocal blackmail and there’s nothing I can do about it. But,” Brown hesitated, “you’re a monster David. After all these years of knowing you. You are nothing but a monster. Fuck you!”
Strickland tried to keep his temper in check and walked over to the fireplace, bent down and picked up the poker-stick and prodded the fire. The ambers glowed and rose, the warmth to his face quelling the anger inside. He turned around facing Brown and smiled. “There you go Roger,” Strickland replied smiling, “anger will get the blood flowing. Get you back on track old boy. You can have all of Reginald’s files he has on you. On condition you’re a hundred percent on board and will not jeopardise our objectives.”
“I keep telling you. I’ve been on board since day one, you bastard,” Brown snarled. “Ever since your own party got thrown out of office. Our country has become far too soft and I’ve agreed with everything you have asked for, and you turn around and do this?”
“Guarantees old boy. Always have back up plans in case of the unexpected.” Strickland pressed a concealed button to the side of the fire place and above it two panels parted to reveal three plasma TV screens. The one in the center larger than the two either side.
Brown looked towards the side door. It amused Strickland to see the shock on his face. “Don’t worry Roger. We have none of your home videos. It was repulsive enough to read the files let alone have anything more disgusting in my home.”
Strickland walked over and stood at the back of Brown’s chair. He had known Brown for the best part of his life. Even though they were on opposite sides of the political spectrum, he considered him a friend. When Jacobs first brought the dossier to him he was shocked, disgusted and ashamed. The rumours of Brown’s homosexuality had been going around for years, that didn’t matter and no one cared. But young boys in their early teenage years? He placed his hands on the chair and lowered his head next to Brown’s ear. “You being a paedophile was not in the plans so don’t lecture me on being a loyal goodie-two-shoes.”
Brown, remained frozen in his chair said nothing.
Strickland walked back around the coffee table and sat back in his chair. “When this is all over you need not worry. You have my word you’ll be looked after. You can retire, do what you want so long as you keep away from your young friends, no-one will be any the wiser. But you’ll have no future in the rebuilding of our country’s dominance in the EU.”
Brown looked up.
Strickland could see the shame on his face. One way or the other he knew his career was over. And if Brown didn’t play along with his plans, not only would his life be over, his family and children’s lives would not be worth living. If Brown didn’t understand that, then the consequence would unfold, regardless.
“You also have my word,” Brown replied, “I’ll keep to my side of the agreement. I will continue to give my backing and commitment and will do all that is asked of me.”
Good, Strickland mused, total and absolute surrender. Some solace, but not good enough. Whilst he would keep his word to Brown, his little friends would have no such happy end. They would disappear, all trace of existence snubbed out. He could never risk his plans on anyone knowing about his old good friend, Brown.
“Yes, I have your word, Roger” Strickland replied. “This is the last conversation we will have about it. Ever.” Strickland leaned forward opening a small drawer on the side of the coffee table. In it he took out a remote control and pressed the on button. The three TV screens came to life showing the BBC News channel.
“We have more pressing matters to attend to. It’s time for some reality TV, let’s see how Greece is getting on.”
Chapter 13 | Girl Trouble
AS JONATHAN RESIGNED HIMSELF to his capture he noticed out of the corner of his eye a young girl approaching them. She seemed familiar, the blue eyes. He recognised her. It was the girl from earlier on, the one who had given him the USB stick. But she looked different, there was a deliberate purpose in her stride. He watched as she got closer and removed the backpack off her shoulders. She was getting something out. He glanced at the officers; they seemed to concentrate on getting Jonathan into the car than to notice anything else. The girl put the backpack back on her shoulders. In her hands she held what looked like two spray paint canisters. Before the so-called officers, that stood on either side of Jonathan, could react she was up close and in front of them.
With a wink and sparkle in her blue eyes, she barked, “Close your eyes, Jonathan.” She brought her hands up towards Jonathan’s chest and leaned in with one leg then stepped forward and pushed both canisters hard onto his chest forcing him backwards.
She brought the canisters up higher arcing and swivelling he
r arms towards the faces of the officers, depressed the nozzles and sprayed both into their eyes. With lightning speed, she turned around to the agent opening the car door. He turned to look at her but before he could do anything she sprayed both canisters into his face too.
“Run Jonathan, follow me now!” The girl shouted out. Jonathan opened his eyes as he struggled to keep his balance startled by the strength of the push which released him from his captors. He watched on as the three men were in distress holding their hands up to their faces and realised what was in the canisters. Pepper spray.
With a swift move she went through the middle of the two men who held onto Jonathan. She took hold of his arm and dragged him away. The taller of the two officers, eyes and nose streaming with tears and snot, made a grab for Jonathan. She turned, took hold of the officer’s coat lapels and pulled him into her body then brought her knee up into the officer’s groin. The officer let out a shrill of pain.
A smirk grew on Jonathan’s face. Oh my word that must have hurt. It was comical to watch. The officer did not know whether to protect his groin or wipe away the constant stinging flow of tears and snot. He resigned himself to defeat and grasped his groin with both hands as his knees bent inwards and collapsed sideways into a heap on the ground. The other two agents were in no better shape, both blinded by stinging tears and running noses rendering them useless to respond.
Jonathan realised this was his chance to escape. A fourth officer, the driver in the Range Rover, got out of the vehicle and race around to the back. He reached for something in his coat.
The girl shouted and pulled at Jonathan’s arm, “Follow me,” she demanded. “He won’t use the gun. You’ve got to get moving. Now!”
Jonathan, shocked at the change in the demure of the girl, tried to get his brain back into gear. But all he could come up with was, what happened to the Yorkshire accent?
Street pedestrians both confused and shocked looked on unsure how to react. Jonathan felt the same. Was this not the girl that set him up with the USB stick and the starting point to the day’s events?
She let go of Jonathan and headed for the tube station which was his original intention. He watched her as she moved fast, dodging the pedestrians and encouraged Jonathan to follow. If being shouted at like a naughty school boy encouragement. His sixth sense kicked in and whilst still hesitant, he followed. Those knowing blue eyes and commanding presence gave him a sense to trust her. But who was this action ass kicking girl? One thing for sure, she was not from the street.
Chapter 14 | Damn Americans
“DON’T FOLLOW THEM and put that damn gun away you fool!” Egil Finstad shouted at the fourth agent, another American. He saw him move around to the back of the Range Rover about to give chase after Jonathan and the girl. They were now running down Oxford Street.
Egil felt like he was having a really bad day. As he picked himself up off the ground the pain from the girl’s kick seared down his legs. His eyes streamed with tears, bloody pepper spray?
He didn't want to be here. It was not part of MI5s directive to pick people up off the street in such a way. It seemed to him and his colleague, Jason Richardson, they were running an errand for their boss. Not to mention babysitting two Americans. There was little information to go on and something not right. This was not standard operation procedure.
The American’s had CIA written all over them. Egil already had run-ins in the past with his so called colleagues. The last one a few years ago. It led to MI5 giving information that contributed to the seizure of two British residents by the CIA, who then flew them to Guantánamo Bay. The cross-party committee of senior MPs said in a damning report such a move created serious implications for the intelligence relationship between Britain and the US. Egil used the same words when he gave evidence to the committee. And not least in heated exchanges with his boss Reginald D. Jacobs, head of MI5. The first of many confrontations, fallouts and disagreements. It made Egil cringe at the thought of the typical reply from Jacobs, ‘You don’t get the bigger picture, son’. Yes, mate, and you don’t understand we’re not a police state either.
And now, what was an undercover operation to pick up the target and take him to Thames House had become a fart in a lift. He felt like an amateur. Took by surprise by what appeared to be nothing more than a street girl? But the way she attacked suggested otherwise. One minute he was escorting Jonathan to the car, the next he was on the ground. He had already had doubts about this so-called simple operation but there was no time to think. Out-manoeuvred by the girl hurt a lot more than the kick in the balls. Now he needed to get out of the situation and regroup. He was livid and why in the hell were the two American arseholes carrying weapons?
Egil barked orders out to the rest of the team, “Get in the car. We need to get out of here before the real police turn up,” he said looking at the Americans as he got into the front passenger side. The others stumbled into the Range Rover. He shook his head in despair, what a bunch of key-stone cops they were. Jacobs would have his arse in a sling over this carbuncle.
“There is a garage about a mile further down the road,” he told the driver. “Take us there, get out and get three large bottles of water and two litres of milk.”
The American, who was with Egil when they caught up with Jonathan, went on about needing to get their target. Egil turned around and cut him short. “We can’t do a thing at present with this crap in our eyes. I’m not even going to start on about what the hell you were thinking by threatening a UK citizen at gun point. Get moving,” he barked at the driver and turned back.
In two minutes they pulled into the garage and the driver got what Egil requested. “Now pull out of the garage and turn left at the next junction. There is a road behind the garage, stop there so I can get this crap out my eyes.”
The driver obliged. Egil told the driver to take the immediate next left which brought them into a small deserted road. They all got out. Egil took his bottle of water and poured it over his eyes and nostrils, the burning sensation subsided, but not much. He then asked for the milk and bent forward turning his head to his right and poured it over his eyes.
It would have to do for now. He hoped with the milk being a dairy product it would help to counteract the spray. Through the blur he watched as the other two agents did the same. It wasn’t perfect, but it was better than nothing and with time slipping away he needed to get back on track. Damn it, a simple operation which had now turned into a complete farce could bloody wreck his career. His boss would love this.
The driver came over to him. “I got these wet wipe things from the store it should help clean you down.” Egil looked back at him with some disgust but replied with a thank you.
He wiped away the water, milk, tears and mucus as best as he could but knew his eyes would look like piss-holes in the snow. He straightened back up.
“Right you two,” he shouted pointing at the Americans, “this has turned into a right balls-up. I don’t care where you're from, what your role is but one thing for sure. The guns, hand them over now.”
The two men looked at each other. “We can’t do that,” replied the first American. The tension in the air exploded.
Egil was in no mood to argue and took out his mobile phone. “Listen you shit-heads. One key-press on this mobile and I can have an SCO-19 Scotland Yard armed response team here in minutes. Then both of you either run for it or explain why you are carrying unauthorised firearms in the UK. But one thing I can tell you. I’m not covering for either of you regardless of what shit I may get into. Now hand over the guns or walk.”
He raised his hand with the mobile up towards his face with a finger paused on one of the keys. Hitting a combination of keys would in an instant send a coded distress call to the operations room in Thames House, then all manner of shit would descend upon his position. Yes, he cringed, landing him in much more trouble than the two gung-ho American John Wayne types. It was a bluff, but he didn’t care. There was a lot more to this than a simpl
e pickup.
The American who had helped stop Jonathan in the street replied, “You have quite the temper on you, Egil. We were of the understanding we would get your full co-operation.”
“Actually,” Egil’s colleague Jason began, “he is rather a calm guy most of the time. Maybe the pepper spray along with you two carrying has rather pissed him off. I suggest you do as he asks. Mind you,” turning to Egil, “I rather suspect being kicked in the balls by what looked like a sixteen-year-old school girlie has something to do with it.” Jason chuckled.
Egil looked over at the American’s who didn’t look too impressed. Neither did he, either way the tension in the air dropped a little.
The first American looked at Egil and took the gun out of his pocket in a gesture of ‘You want this, come and get it’ stare. Egil took a step forward.
The American paused looked at him eyeball to eyeball, lowered his gun to his side and walked over handing over gun butt first. “I will want that back, bud,” he said in his American drawl with a sarcastic smirk across his face.
Egil ignored him and put his mobile back into his inside pocket. He took the Glock 19 and removed the clip and put it into his pocket then checked there was no bullet in the gun’s chamber. With practiced skill he unlocked the tabs on both sides of the top frame, moved the frame forward and off of the top. Then turned the frame over and removed the recoil spring. “You can have it back now, bud.” He handed the gun and top frame to the American minus the spring which also went into his overcoat pocket.
“You did that very well,” the American replied.
“Yes, we may be British,” Egil said, “but when we need to use a gun, we can do it rather well. Unlike using it to threaten someone in the middle of a busy high street. Especially someone that is not flagged as a terrorist. Rather confusing wouldn’t you say?” Egil looked back at the now empty and dismantled gun in the American’s hand. “A Glock? Commonly used by the CIA no?”
