by Daniel Kemp
“Under the combined influence of the three men Henry Mayler met in New York that fateful weekend, the plan to decimate what we currently know as this world was unrolled, but remember these were only three of the Circle of Eight I've mentioned. Razin referred to twenty names and they too all played a role.
“Do you recall the name the House of Cilicia; the place that Suzanna paid a visit to before she died? That house where she shot Moshe Gabbai dead belongs to one of Razin's outer circle of twenty. It's far from important that we know his name, that is retrievable anytime we need it, what is of importance is the name he chose for the estate. You, or anyone else for that matter, may think Cilicia to be a woman's name, it would make a beautiful one if it was, but in this case it's not. It was an area in south-eastern Turkey that was once ruled by the Kings of Egypt and before them it formed part of the Assyrian Kingdom. It would not have much connection to Henry if it wasn't for the fact that it also formed part of what became the Armenian Empire.
“Henry's plans intertwine with those of the Circle of Eight; his to start a war to rebuild his lost empire, theirs to build an even bigger empire. Mayler intends to use the munitions on Tiran Island and those in the north-east of Afghanistan to amount to his declaration. You know of the targets, Patricks. The problem you have is when to disclose them and how much of what you and I know to disclose. The clue will come from Lebanon. Yes, as we both know, Henry's target will be American, but sometime before an American-led coalition attacks Iraq, Lebanon and Syria will sign an agreement to formally recognise the Assyrians as an ethnic race deserving of a home. The endorsed home they will advocate will be based on the anachronistic region of Cilicia and, of course, Turkey will never agree to such demands.
“Any alliance that acknowledges Assyrians as an ethnic group will antagonise Turkey so much so that a war will be the inevitable result. Russia has recently ratified and signed a defence treaty with both Lebanon and Syria. If either of the two nations are attacked by Turkish forces then Russia will be required to come to its aid. If that aid amounts to the death of Turkish troops, or destruction of its lands or equipment then it will instigate its own defence treaty with NATO and call on its support. As you can see if the plan that the three devised in New York is made manifest, then we have the start of the meltdown process the second Gladio B file predicted.”
The Third And Final Part Of Chapter Thirty-Three: Patrick's Explanation
I had the restricted counselling that only the Chairman of the Joint Intelligence Committee was privy to. I also had the information that dammed Geoffrey Harwood to a life of degradation and contempt. Both those pieces of seemingly unconnected knowledge were all I had to save parts of civilisation from a calamitous event of huge proportions, but in consequence, allow a smaller one to take place. The American Fifth Fleet were due to sail through the Suez Canal in the early morning hours of the third day of January 2003. The first ships would be clearing the Island of Tiran around midday on that date. The company of American Rangers in Kamdeish, Afghanistan, were unaware of the threat of the phosphorous barrage that awaited them and would still be ensconced in their camp at the same time.
The anthrax and the phosphorous ammunition posed a problem, but not one that was unsolvable, whereas Henry Mayler had too much data sensitive material on too many important people to be allowed to remain alive. There was also the matter regarding the weapons of mass destruction that the US incumbent along with the Prime Minister of this country believed to be in Iraq. I could allow them to think that the anthrax and phosphorous were all part of a sinister plan of Saddam's, or wipe the board clean and tell of Mayler's mysterious Rosicrucians.
Mysticism and the reality of the political pursuit of a holy grail are not a mixture that would fuse together amicably. To apologise for the mistaken belief that an autocrat wished to destroy all that he did not own, could not be considered and blamed on a fanciful Circle of Eight of which there was little proof. In times of peace governments required excuses to invade, and anthrax and phosphorous shells provided those excuses.
* * *
To get close to wherever Mayler may be I needed Geoffrey Harwood's cooperation as he was the only man I knew who might have that information. I feared that I would have to prise it from him. As regards the remaining members of Fraser's Circle of Eight, I judged that could wait until more pressing worries had been sealed in a box and buried somewhere safe. I knew I was gambling, but the whereabouts of Henry Mayler took precedence over all things until that American fleet neared Port Said and the mouth of the Canal.
I finalised the arrangements to visit Beaulieu that I'd discussed with Hannah on the Thursday before Christmas. As we were preparing to leave I received the standard notification from the Foreign Office that would arrive on my desk whenever senior ministers of state of foreign counties met one another. This message told of the Lebanese Foreign Minister announcing that a meeting was to take place in Damascus on the third day of January next year with his Syrian opposite number. Pieces of the jigsaw were falling into place. I was trying to think of ways to make them fall as softly as possible. Neither Jimmy nor Frank were scheduled to return to their duties until New Year's Day but I knew that as both were single the boredom of freedom was probably wearing thin by now so I gave it a try in recalling them. Both agreed! In the purgatorial state I was in I didn't know whether to conduct a carol service on the drive to see Geoffrey Harwood or to weep over the bodies that lay in the path of a speeding juggernaut.
Geoffrey had been told of Henry Mayler's resurrection and of Razin's demise. I had used that as an opportunity to lever more information from him. I had sent prepared questions to put by those at Beaulieu asking of Bohdan Dimitriyevich Valescov's son's death, Liam Catlin's coded name being Antelope and Fyodor Nazarov Razin's get me out of here card. All were met with full cooperation and a confession of his participation. I had offered incentives for that information but only if he was also to collaborate with me whenever we were to meet. That moment was drawing ever more close as the unexacting journey passed quickly under clear skies and a low sun. Harwood was fully dressed and expecting me.
“I wish I could say you're looking well, Geoffrey, but sadly I can't as you don't. You look decidedly out of sorts and missing a good old Christmas roast with a few glasses of brandy to wash it down. All things considered I've had a great time and I know you've had a lousy one. I believe you've been told of a possible present in the post that may change your future. Let's see it can be delivered.
“I have nothing but praise for your performance in the confessional, and I'm hoping for all our sakes we can look forward to concluding our business today, thereby starting the New Year afresh. I have the power to grant you freedom from prosecution and the willingness to resettle you in Australia with all pension rights if you tell me where Henry Mayler can be found. If, at the back of your mind, you hold some far-off fantasy of rekindling your affection for Mayler when in a new place of freedom then, yes, that may be a possibility, but only if we can tell Henry of your new address, Geoffrey. You can see that, can't you? Another thing to bear in mind is that Henry has made some powerful enemies. It will be in his, and your, best interests if we find him first. Do you agree?”
“What I think is not important, West. The only thing that is important to me is getting out of here. The chances of you allowing me to see Henry Mayler again are zero even if he did live, and you and I both know that may be impossible to achieve. Henry has sort of dropped me in it, hasn't he. He hasn't thought of my well-being in the least. Why should I consider his? My one consideration is how can I be sure you will honour your word regarding my avoidance of prosecution? But don't trouble yourself, dear boy, in answering. I know there is no guarantee you can give me. I'm going to take your word, West, because funnily enough I believe you to be an honourable person.
“It's my belief that Henry is at a place called Sharanish, an Assyrian village located close to the borders of south-eastern Turkey, in Iraq Kurdistan. Henry told me of
a religious connection he'd found there to the Armenian Kingdom of Cilicia. He spoke often of it when we shared moments on the phone together. Another thing he mentioned was of a straight friendship he has with a Lebanese Assyrian billionaire who has promised Henry astronomical amounts of money to rebuild the village and contribute to Henry's ultimate aim of a place for what he calls his people. I'll add this for what it's worth, and then leave it there, Patrick. Henry expressed serious worries about a genocide of Assyrian Christians by the Iraqis after any invasion by the US. I doubt there's anything that can be done about it but it eases my conscience now I've told you and made you aware.”
“Two final questions before I go and confirm your story, Geoffrey. How did you have the telephone you gave Henry Mayler configured into NSA signal trafficking?”
“Knowledge is not only confined to what you know, dear boy. It's where to go to find the answers to what you don't know that's important. I had those around me who could do such things.”
“And why did you include Razin's 'Help Me Escape' code in the signal that bounced from Erbil about Arif Belmokhtar's death?”
“Yes, that was an overplayed hand of mine, wasn't it? I haven't a real answer on that one other than I wanted to prove how important I was in knowing things above my pay grade, old boy!”
Needless to say, Geoffrey never made it to Australia, nor did he expect to, but part of me admired the way he accepted his end; perhaps he even welcomed it.
* * *
In the early hours of the morning of December 30th, three boats containing twelve members of 6th Marine Corps, Special Boat Squadron, landed on the Island of Tiran, took control after a short fire-fight capturing the whole garrison and then decommissioned the American manufactured howitzers. The anthrax shells were loaded into the naval vessels the terrorists had arrived in and sailed off towards Port Tawfiq, Egypt where I had a team of expert scientists from QinetiQ at Fort Halstead waiting to disarm the biological weapons. The occupying garrison was left unarmed on the island for the Saudi military, who I'd notified after the raid, to deal with.
At precisely the same time as the successful raid on Tiran, three teams from B Squadron, 21st Artist Regiment, Special Air Service, took over the site at Paprok and dealt with the camp peaceably, decommissioning the M114, 155mm artillery pieces in a similar fashion as their colleagues on Tiran had done. Once again this mission was concluded without casualties on either side. The banned artillery ammunition was loaded onto an American helicopter and flown to Kabul.
* * *
By mid-afternoon that day Great Britain's position as number one in the espionage charts had been underlined by every nation who in any way had been put in danger several times over. Our diplomatic standing ratcheted-up tenfold, with the telephone lines at the Foreign and Commonwealth Office in danger of exploding from the workload. I was flown to a secret location in Italy where the Prime Minister was spending his Christmas, to be present when he spoke with President Bush on the telephone. The conversation ranged from complimentary to one of passive acceptance of the inevitable. Iraq was still to be invaded. President Bush allowed Group the use of a US satellite to pinpoint Henry Mayler's precise location. In the cinema room of the Italian multi-millionaire's home the PM and I watched images relayed from the monitors in the Hub of a hellfire missile fired from a US drone that killed Henry Mayler as he walked towards the picturesque waterfall at Sharanish. He was alone when he died.
I was not alone when my future was discussed. It was midday on New Year's Eve. Hannah and I had been invited to the home of the American Ambassador in Regent's Park that evening to see in the New Year with a grateful ally, as he'd put it. I could wait no longer. One thing I try hard not to advertise is my desire for power. In order to achieve that prize I have come to learn that the investigation into those that become close to me should be undertaken at an early date and not a late one. I had learned of Hannah's secret three days after accepting the Directorship at Group. Her ancestry went back centuries to an old European dynasty called the House of Hesse. The family's history could be easily traced back as far as 1264, but it was a more recent date that had impacted on my life. I had discovered that all three of Hannah's godparents were related in one way or another to the famous, and previously mentioned, Rothschild family. She and her two siblings had wanted a life where they controlled its outcome, not one lived within the shadow of their godparents' reputable name. There was no animosity towards anyone, just a simple wish to manage their own destiny.
As I have plainly said before in this narrative, I did not consider the fate of the commercial world as my direct responsibility. I have seen governments come and go and do nothing other than line their own pockets with influence or shower its potential on their supporters. None have been different. Why would any future government decide to tackle those that supply their financial needs? I was not about to start a fight I could not win, however if I was close to the centre of the decision-making machinery then maybe, just perhaps, I could steer it in a way to benefit this country.
* * *
“I have confirmation back from Samuel Rothschild that he will organise the meeting you've asked for, Patrick. What is it you propose to do?” she asked on returning to the bed in which we lay together sharing a bottle of champagne. Fraser had asked the same thing when I told him of my intentions on the telephone after I'd told him of my wish to involve Samuel Rothschild.
“I will not be joining any fraternity to do with Freemasonry, not because I believe them to be evil in any way, because I don't believe that at all. It's just because I hate all that numerical rubbish and the idea of not being in charge of it. I'm looking everywhere now for the number 3. It's ridiculous. What I do want to do is stop this Tucker Stoneman achieving the aims of Gladio B, along with whatever the ambitions of Bohdan Dimitriyevich Valescov are. I can't prevent this coming war in Iraq or any others likely to arise as an outcome of it. But I can try to stop a war between Turkey and Lebanon and Syria.
“I want to meet with the head of the Rothschild family along with Aaron Simonin. The three of us can discuss how we could create a safe haven for displaced Armenians and Assyrians by utilising the assets that will be freed up when Iraq is defeated. I will raise the levels of awareness within the United Nations and the World Health Council of the practices of SanMonto and I will give their representatives the responsibilities of finding a resolution. On a world stage that is all I can do, but I change things on a personal front.”
That is how I ended my declaration of intent to Fraser Ughert, however I went a stage further in my explanation to Hannah when I joined her in a relaxing bath.
On the first day of 2003 Jimmy, with Frank sitting beside him, drove Hannah and me to the Ugherts' home in welcoming sunlit Chearsley, where I announced my engagement to Hannah Sofia Rachel Landgft. We married in June 2004 at St Margaret's Church, next to Westminster Abbey, within walking distance of our apartments at the Foreign and Commonwealth building in Whitehall. In the pews on my side of the church sat Molly with Fraser Ughert and a few faces from the intelligence community who happened to be in town. On Hannah's side was her aunt from Bermondsey and her sister and brother with his family. We had both wanted a quiet affair with little fuss and even less trappings of grandeur. Despite our request and the small circle of friends we had informed, we were presented with the keys to a small mansion in Sussex as a gift from an anonymous benefactor. The only pointer to whoever that was were the words engraved on the box that contained the keys; From the Home of Cilicia.
* * *
Some three years after our marriage I received an invitation from Fraser to meet with him and a friend who he declined to name at that stage, only telling me that I may have something in common with him. He said it was my interest in the analytical sciences that might be piqued, as he put it. I was intrigued. We met at my London Club; Brooks's in St James's Street.
Fraser's guest was aged around sixty, tallish, grey thinning hair, with nothing aesthetically remarkable a
bout him at all. His English was impeccable, but his accent was unmistakably Russian and his sense of dress both fashionable and expensive. Over drinks and a light lunch, he told a story of how of the head of a department reading American signals, inside Moscow Centre, had deciphered some NSA reports of what the Americans called Data Mining. This internal surveillance allowed Washington to spy on millions of emails, web histories, phone records and other personal data directly from telephone companies and internet firms around the world. Apparently, the aim behind the Data Mining was to create a programme whereby global hacking of international countries, both friendly or not, was both feasible and operational. He told me how the same person was willing to supply the intelligence community of this country with the ability to hack into the mobile phones of several international leaders. In exchange for the knowledge he asked for one thing; that the department head who discovered all this be allowed to live in England. As travel between Russia and the outside world was seldom restricted, I asked why he could not make the move himself. He was not a he!
“She is under the influence of a highly placed political leader in the Russian Government who will never allow her to leave the country. She is aware of too much. No, she must be helped to escape.” He offered photographs of her. Work addresses and those of her home, as well as written details of her life that he said were authentic and true.
“I am Nikita Sergeyovitch Kudashov, her grandfather. I have been a friend of Fraser's for years,” he told me before adding her name.
“She is known as Cilicia Kudashov. Our surname derives from the Armenian word of kudo, meaning home,” he innocently added as I racked my brain trying to recall that surname and his face from an earlier time. But I couldn't. I simply replicated Fraser's phlegmatic smile and wondered where this adventure would take me.
