Deniable Assets: Hostages

By Terence Gibbons

Within the United Kingdom there has always existed a secret organisation, answerable only to the residing Prime Minister. It has no official budget because nothing it does can be recorded in any archive. Its intelligence sources are MI6 and MI5 but it is part of neither.

It is England's oldest secret service and, because it is unknown, it is above and beyond the laws of the land. Its mandate is to provide solutions to problems that cannot be resolved by political means or through the law of the land.
The organisation is run by only one man, usually a former army officer of high rank. Its agents are recruited – hand-picked for their specialist talents – from various arms of the military. Some come from the ranks of the SAS, others from the Parachute battalions while others are from the Royal Marine Commando's elite SBS. All are volunteers and dedicated to the ‘Group’ they are assigned to.

For identification purposes the units are known as Groups. There are a number of such groups but none know the identities of members of the other Groups for security reasons. If a member of a Group is killed then he or she is replaced from outside but never from another group. If they are killed on foreign soil efforts are made to bring them back to Britain – if possible – if not they are left behind in unmarked graves. Their existence is always denied and their actions deniable.

Groups have been known to assassinate foreign leaders both in this country and abroad, organise rebellions to bring down unfriendly regimes, support chosen foreign governments. A Group is a deadly force made up of ordinary people who are prepared to forfeit their lives in the interests of their country.

All work to one rule: Do not get caught! They are Deniable Assets!

Group Alpha, who first appeared in Book One of this series, are sent into Lebanon covertly to rescue the British Foreign Secretary who has been kidnapped by a splinter group of the PLO. Lacking reliable intelligence they never the less continue in their mission. From their High Altitude Low Opening insertion into the country they struggle against all odds to bring their their mission to a successful conclusion by finally escaping from a soviet submarine off the coast of Cyprus.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Terence Gibbons
• Release date: Mar 28, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301465255

Terence Gibbons

I have been writing seriously for many years having some success with BBC Radio Humberside who broadcast some of my short stories. I have lived a very complete life having done many things others don't have a chance to do. This, together with my avid reading habit, have served to provide me with knowledge of the world which is a great tool to a writer. Having said this, I still maintain that a writer worth his salt should do thorough research and not try to rely on his own experiences alone. I am rapidly approaching pension age now but my hunger to write has if anything increased. Who knows what the future has in store for me?

Book preview

Book #2 in the Series

DENIABLE ASSETS

(Hostages)

by

Terence Gibbons.

Copyright © Terence Gibbons 2013.

Smashwords Edition.

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Deniable Assets

(Hostages)

Introduction

Within the United Kingdom there has always existed a secret organisation, answerable only to the residing Prime Minister. It has no official budget because nothing it does can be recorded in any archive. Its intelligence sources are MI6 and MI5 but it is part of neither.

It is England's oldest secret service and, because it is unknown, it is above and beyond the laws of the land. Its mandate is to provide solutions to problems that cannot be resolved by political means or through the law of the land.

The organisation is run by only one man, usually a former army officer of high rank. Its agents are recruited – hand-picked for their specialist talents – from various arms of the military. Some come from the ranks of the SAS, others from the Parachute battalions while others are from the Royal Marine Commando's elite SBS. All are volunteers and dedicated to the ‘Group’ they are assigned to.

For identification purposes the units are known as Groups. There are a number of such groups but none know the identities of members of the other Groups for security reasons. If a member of a Group is killed then he or she is replaced from outside but never from another group. If they are killed on foreign soil efforts are made to bring them back to Britain – if possible – if not they are left behind in unmarked graves. Their existence is always denied and their actions deniable.

Groups have been known to assassinate foreign leaders both in this country and abroad, organise rebellions to bring down unfriendly regimes, support chosen foreign governments. A Group is a deadly force made up of ordinary people who are prepared to forfeit their lives in the interests of their country.

All work to one rule: Do not get caught! They are Deniable Assets!

Chapter One

Sunday, September 3rd 1972. Limassol, Cyprus, 0800 hours.

Sir Alistair Freedmont, the Foreign Secretary for Great Britain, had flown to Cyprus from Cairo where he and his opposite numbers from the United States, France, Germany, Israel, Egypt and a number of other countries had met to discuss the burgeoning problem of the Palestinian refugees. With official business concluded he joined his wife, Kathleen, at a friend's villa on the outskirts of the small village of Pissouri.

After a year of having to deal with tense political situations a family holiday was desperately needed and this had been booked since the beginning of the year. That it was less than thirty kilometres from Limassol was an added bonus with RAF Akrotiri just outside Limassol. He used his official position to take full advantage of this perk, at least for his own flight. The situation back in Britain was dire with the sectarian violence in Ulster at an all-time high. He very much needed a respite from things before they broke him. The conference in Cairo had not been demanding in the least. There were few who attended had any genuine sympathy for the Palestinians or felt any urgency to find a solution to their self-imposed predicament. After days of deliberations they had reached no fresh conclusion and most looked forward to the next meeting, whenever that was to be.

Dressed in a sports vest, shorts and trainers he emerged onto the stone patio and began running on the spot as he took in the unobstructed views over Episkopi Bay. At fifty-three years old he prided himself on his fitness. Cigarettes were a thing of the past now and he felt a new man for it. He pulled a towelling band over his head and adjusted it so that it did not pull his large ears down. He was still quite sensitive about the one feature for which he had been mobbed as a child. He was tall and, since he had taken up jogging, his body was trim and muscular. The tummy that had quickly grown to spoil his physique through too many rich luncheons was now a perfect six-pack – something he had never known even as a younger man. Five days in Cairo had given him a good start for a tan that was just holding off from peeling thanks to the restorative cream Caroline had recommended.

Ah! Caroline! he said softly to himself. His whole life had changed since meeting the wonderful, fit and young Caroline. She was his personal trainer at the gym he frequented and had set him out on the road to fitness and recovered youth. Now she was a very big part of that youthfulness when the quickly became lovers. He looked around him peevishly. Where the hell was his damned escort? Bloody MI6! They needed more discipline.

Four muscular men in their thirties joined him in tracksuits adjusting their shoulder holsters against chafing.

Come on, for God's sake! The day will be over before we start! Ten sharp I said not a quarter after. Soon it will be far too hot for running, he called as he made a point of looking at his watch. For jogging he always wore an Omega Sea Master watch which he had owned for more years than he cared to remember. It was robust and accurate and when on this kind of holiday one did not have to worry about swimming in it. Water tight to … how many meters did it say on the stainless steel back? Without waiting for them to reach him he set off down the slope towards Pissouri at a pace he judged would test his guard dogs and teach them a lesson. They would soon be uncomfortable in the tracksuits they were obliged to wear to cover their weapons.

He ran like a seasoned athlete, leaning into the curves, adjusting his body to cover the slightest irregularity in the ground. Just as Caroline had taught him. No twisted ankles for him – or strained muscles. He breathed deeply and regularly feeling the fresh air feeding oxygen to his muscles.

‘I'm a machine, a bloody running machine,’ he thought, ‘how I wish I had done more of this as a younger man.’

A narrow baked earth and stony lane took them through a slight band of olive trees that offered a welcome shade before they came to the village itself where he had rented a small cottage for Caroline. Somehow he had to ‘lose’ his escort at the beginning of the village. It was something he was confident of doing as he increased the pace. He would show those youngsters. He had left them behind every day so far and what did it matter? They knew where he was going.

He hit the narrow winding streets of Pissouri and took a sharp left down an alley which he knew would lead him to the old Apostolos Andreas Church, then another sharp turn into a narrow street where most of its tree-lined width was taken up by the tables and chairs of a restaurant. By running along the narrow pavement nearest to the restaurant he was in the semi-darkness of strong shadows and out of sight until he reached another alley that serviced the old cottages that backed on to it. Caroline was waiting for him in one of these. He felt a sudden tug inside his chest. Had he fallen in love with her? Yes he had though he had struggled with his growing feelings for her. It would be far too complicated to fall completely for her. His position within the British Government made a divorce from Kathleen undesirable to say the least. What would the media do with such a plumb but tarnish it with sleazy reporting? It was at times like the present he regretted his ambitions in politics and as a ripe target for the press. His life was not his own. It was a wonder they had not yet discovered where he had slipped off to after Cairo. He smiled smugly as he thought that he had somehow hoodwinked them. They would be hunting around Westminster for him. The trip had not been booked through any travel agent so that was one line of inquiry at which they would meet a blank wall. He knew, however, that in reality they would soon pick up the scent. They all had people within Westminster who fed them titbits of information. It would not be long before they were arriving on Cyprus to plague his life with their long lenses and sneaking journalism. Oh well, he thought, enjoy the peace while it lasts.

As he swung at full pelt round the corner he tripped over something and a blow to the head plunged him into an almost complete darkness. He was aware of a sharp pain in his right knee then a pair of strong arms lifted him from the cobbled road and another joined in to throw him easily into the back of a Citroën 2CV utility van. One man leapt in behind with him and began to bind him while the other joined the driver in the front. He expected to hear a screech of tyres and feel the vehicle surge away at speed but neither happed.

Wait! Don't panic, warned the one beside the driver. Let us see if he lost his minders. The driver, who was the youngest of the three, appeared to be nervous as he forced himself to wait. They observed the security detail jog past obviously angry at the Foreign Secretary’s ease at eluding them. It seemed interminable minutes until the leader spoke again, OK, drive now but slowly. And don't look so fucking hunted!

The driver did as he was told and drove slowly through the narrow streets until he reached a wider road that led them onto the A6 where they turned east. The driver was happy to be able to make better speed. The man in the back had now bound the Home Secretary with rope and taped his mouth with strips of wide adhesive tape.

<>

Major David Forrester sat at an elegant table in the Crowne Plaza hotel’s dining room with two of his colleagues, Sergeant Spike Phillips and Sergeant Major Archie Douglas. They had finished a full English breakfast and were now enjoying a pot of coffee bringing the meal to a satisfactory conclusion. Forrester looked over his coffee cup through the massive window at the endless vista of the Mediterranean. Limassol was sparkling beneath the early morning sun. Somewhere out there Sergeant Adèle Thompson was pushing her body through with her morning routine of physical torture. For it must be that for her. Group Alpha’s sniper was close on forty-eight years old – which was old for their kind of work. Even Forrester, at thirty-one, felt that he was getting past it. But it was experience that counted and that they had in spades.

They had been invited to Cyprus by Captain Joseph Collins who had, back in 1969 proposed marriage and been accepted by Major Gwen Hopcyn. Their wedding had taken place yesterday and Forrester was glad to see a former member of Group Alpha settled although it had meant losing him. Captain Joe Collins of the Royal Army Medical Corps had been their medical support for more than five years. Five years of pretty difficult covert missions in foreign lands. Now he had been replaced by someone much younger, and some would say, much less experienced with battle wounds. All of Group Alpha of 1969 had been invited except Donald Beech, who was somewhere out there in the world living a life that meant he must forever and always look over his shoulder. His nemesis was always that indefinable shadow. Beech had betrayed them, pure and simple. He had sold them out by giving their location to a mercenary; someone who had been hired to eliminate a professor whose safety Group Alpha had been responsible for. The mercenary, himself, had given them a clue with his dying breath. The professor was safe but the whole mission had been one of the most difficult Forrester had experienced, one in which it was impossible to know who was on which side. Forrester tried to shake the memory of Beech from his head but it never worked. One day there would be an accounting and he might be the one who put a bullet in Beech’s head.

That was the rule of the game: that was their law.

Sergeant Major Archie Douglas, whose choice of reading matter was always questionable, was good-naturedly explaining to Spike that 1972 was a leap year which started on a Saturday of the Gregorian calendar. Within the context of Coordinated Universal Time (UTC) it was the longest year ever, as two leap seconds were added during this 366-day year, an event which has not since been repeated. If its beginning and end are defined using mean solar time (the legal time scale) then its duration was 31622401.141 seconds of Terrestrial Time (or Ephemeris Time), which is slightly shorter than 1908. Spike was nodding and making sounds of agreement as though it was so obvious to anyone though Forrester knew that it was beyond Spike’s understanding – and his own come to that. What did it matter? Forrester blinked the thoughts away. The Scotsman was certainly a mine of information but whether it was ever useful was debatable. He was one of those people who could win a general knowledge quiz without thinking too much. For all that he was a settled member of Group Alpha whose company was always sought out. Having reached the rank of sergeant major since joining the colour as a boy he was a hundred per cent soldier. What he didn't know about the art was not worth knowing. He was skilled in both artillery and infantry techniques but was never showy and anyone could approach him for advice which was willingly given.

Sergeant Steven (Spike) Phillips had been with the Group as long as Forrester. They had served in the same battalion of the Parachute Regiment before both going through the stiff SAS selection course. It was rare for them to be far from each other when away. It was the kind of friendship that lasted beyond all the trials a military career could throw at it. They were naturally comfortable together with a loyalty that went well beyond what could be considered normal between an officer and his sergeant. To look at they could have been brothers. The fact was that the members of Group Alpha were as close as family. The dangers they faced and how they always looked out for each other tightened that bond even further. Forrester was proud to be their commanding officer knowing they would go to whatever length was needed to bring a mission to successful conclusion. They were all the finest the British Army had to offer and he could not wish for a better team. Above and beyond that they had something that no other group of soldiers had and it was based on a mutual respect for one another’s skills in the field. That could not yet be said for the missing pair. They had joined Group Alpha to replace Joe Collins and Sergeant Beech. Joe had decided, when he proposed to Gwen Hopcyn, to leave the group which was rare but not unusual. A new life as a married man beckoned and he was so smitten he would not unduly risk his life preferring to settle as a Medical Officer. Beech had been something else. He had betrayed the Group and they had not seen him since. He had been replaced by Sergeant Andy Walters, an introverted man but good at his job. He would settle in once he found his feet. He was well thought of by the rest. Calvin Balfour was different. He seemed to lack any self-confidence and through this alone had a question mark over his head. Time, for him too, would judge if he was suitable for this kind of work.

Forrester turned his attention to a copy of the Times and the reports. On the political front, despite the newsworthy explosion of violence in Northern Ireland, the population in Britain was more interested in the new government’s talk of joining the Common Market. It was a subject of choleric controversy that could only be properly settled by holding a national referendum – for the people to decided democratically: something the ruling Conservative party was particularly reluctant to allow. Even they were split between themselves about joining a federal Europe. The British press was baying for a referendum. Let the people decide but it would never happen. The average British voter, perhaps, was not thought to be intelligent enough to make such a decision though every other Common Market country had held referenda.

<>

Sergeant Adèle Tennyson crossed the restaurant with steps that both belied her age and the aches she must be feeling in her body after her gruelling run. Her exercise routine had done her good. She was completely in command of herself as she sat at the table. A waiter rushed to her side and took her order in a flirtatious manner. She looked, perhaps, ten years younger with her flushed cheeks and unlined face. She was their official sniper though any of them could fill the role adequately if called upon. But she was proud of her status and the skills that had got her there. She had learned her skills the hard way in France where she was born to an English officer and his French wife. At eighteen Adèle had been a painful, and often lethal, pain in the occupying Germans sides. Now if she was beginning to show signs of her age her fitness belied it.

Good run? Forrester asked.

It was hot but God, don’t it give you a thirst? I think I drank most of the water in the shower. She flicked a stray strand of dark brown hair from her brow. She always wore her hair clipped short with just a small fringe. The rest followed the contour of her long neck.

You put us all to shame, Adèle. We too should be training but hey! What the hell! We’re on holiday, right? said Spike trying to make light of it yet knowing he would be rebuked.

You may be on holiday but your body should never be, Adèle answered gulping down a cold glass of fresh orange juice. Before the conversation could continue a waiter crossed determinedly to the table bearing a telephone. The long cable trailed behind him.

A call for Major Forrester, he said setting the phone on the table.

Forrester took the hand piece and lifted it to his ear. Forrester....

Hi, David, it’s Jeremy Darnley here. Sorry to spoil your leave but the shit has somewhat hit the fan and you seem to be, fortunately, in the right location. Forrester remained silent but his lips formed a grim line. He let the silence grow until Darnley filled it. The Foreign Secretary, who after attending a multi-national conference in Cairo, a week ago, to discuss the situation in Palestine, flew to join his wife in Cyprus for a brief holiday. It would seem that, while out for a jog, as is his habit, he failed to return. His security detail reported that he had deliberately evaded their cover while out for his exercise. It appears that it was quite normal for him to do so. Apparently that he has a ‘bit on the side’ if you follow me.

So what am I supposed to do? If he’s shacked up with someone surely he will return home soon?

Yes. Quite! At least under normal circumstances he would. But this cannot be treated as the normal ‘missing persons’ thing, David. We cannot wait forty-eight hours before we begin a search.

And that’s what you want us to do?

Well not quite, David. The general thinks you should of course check the home – the villa he is renting – and then proceed to Lebanon for a more intensified search.

Lebanon? What has Lebanon to do with it?

Our friends in Mossad suggest it, that is all, and their intelligence is usually quite good. Evidently they picked up a whisper that the PLO has something big planned in Cyprus.

This sounds like big trouble....

Hmm! Yes it could be. Look I am about to rush for a flight. I will be with you in a few hours. We can go into details later. I just thought I'd call you so you would be prepared. If you can do a basic check it might just speed things up a bit.

Roger! Call me when you know the time of your flight and I’ll have Sergeant Major Douglas meet you.

Splendid! The line went dead.

Forrester replaced the handset and looked up at three expectant faces. They had closely followed his one-sided conversation and waited for clarification. Without giving one he lifted the handset and dialled a long number. "Calvin. Sorry to