The Wrath of God

By Chris Kellett

Aziz believes he is God's agent on earth and that God is telling him to avenge the innocent dead of the War on Terror; blood for blood, death for death. Backed by a super rich Kuwaiti businessman with a private agenda and by a dissident Islamist faction within the ISI, Pakistani military intelligence Aziz is supplied with the most powerful dirty bombs ever made; capable of spreading deadly radiation over a huge area. Detonated in the center of a major city they will irradiate thousands causing chaos and economic meltdown. He smuggles his bombs into Europe by a devious route through North Africa, targeting them on centers of political and economic power. If they explode the cost in blood and treasure will be incalculable.

GH12, the most secret department of British military intelligence picks up an early trace of the plot and pursues Aziz across three continents. Many die on the way but the bombs reach their detonation points. Only GH12 can avert a disaster.

The pursuit is led by Major Paul Boynson, a brilliant but ruthless operational commander. His task is to read his enemy's mind but the evidence he has to guide him is terrifyingly thin. If he gets it wrong the consequences will be horrific. In a thrilling climax their battle reaches the streets where, for both men, the difference between triumph and disaster is counted in seconds.

Who wins? Read the Wrath of God and decide.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Chris Kellett
• Release date: Mar 4, 2014
• ISBN: 9780957658714

Chris Kellett

Born in the north of England Chris has had successful careers both in business and in Academe. He has been CEO of 5 companies, 3 of which he founded and in 1992 was the winner of the GK Jackson prize for Academic Achievement. A noted researcher he now blogs regularly about: current affairs, politics, intelligence and military related topics. He is the author of the Wrath of God and later GH12 thrillers that combine high octane action with complex plots well seasoned with: dirty tricks, dirty politics, dirty money and dirtier villains. Chris loves the wines of Burgundy, the cliffs and coast of Cornwall, classic Maseratis, wooden sail boats and cooking. Chris loves to hear from his readers and enter into discussions with them. Contact him at: Twitter: Christo 6111948 #GH12 E-mail: [e-mail] Blog: http//kellettpublishing.com

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

4th MAY 2011

Pakistan.

The Citation X crossed the Arabian Sea at 32,000 feet and 500 knots, its flight time from Damascus to Karachi three and a half hours. Six were on board: Mohammed Dashti, the plane’s owner, his guest Aziz, his male assistant, a female flight attendant, the pilot and co-pilot. The flight passed in almost unbroken silence. Dashti was absorbed in stock market and financial reports, his assistant busy on a laptop. Aziz spent the entire flight reading from the Koran, his lips moving silently as he read the familiar verses. The peace was broken only when the pilot announced they’d entered airspace controlled by the Pakistan Air force and were on final approach. The Citation touched down at the biggest air-base in Asia, PAF Masroor just outside Karachi at exactly 10.15AM local time.

The pilot taxied the plane into an empty hangar and cut the engines. In the luxurious cabin the flight attendant opened the hatch and lowered the short boarding ladder. Dashti and Aziz walked down the steps to be greeted by Brigadier General Gajani of the ISI, Pakistan Military Intelligence. He was a big barrel chested man with a severe un-smiling face, his greying hair cut regulation short. He was dressed in a business suit, white shirt, discreet tie and highly polished oxfords. He greeted his visitors with proper formality before escorting them to a black Toyota Land Cruiser; parked, engine running just outside the hanger.

From the crumbling concrete steps leading down into a disused weapons bunker a grey clad figure aimed a compact Nikon digital camera at the Toyota. With its lens set to maximum magnification he pointed it across a hundred yards of open ground toward the car. He managed to snap each of the three men as they climbed aboard. As soon as the Land Cruiser pulled away he emerged from the stairwell, lifting an aged bicycle after him. He pedalled after the big four by four, the camera concealed under the folds of his grey shalwar kameez.

A few minutes later the car stopped outside an isolated bungalow near the base’s northern perimeter. The pedalling civilian saw it stop and knew immediately there was no-where he could hide to take more pictures. In every direction the ground was pan flat. There wasn’t even a small bush he could use as cover. Thwarted in his efforts he knew the Englishman wouldn’t pay much for the few snaps he had. Cursing the fates that conspired to keep him poor he turned and cycled disconsolately back toward the base’s main administration centre.

Outside the bungalow Aziz guessed it had once been a senior officer’s married quarter. Now it looked unused and un-loved. The pale blue paintwork was peeling and the windows were dirty. Stepping from the air-conditioned car Dashti found himself enveloped in what felt like a warm damp towel. The heat and humidity made his expensive designer clothes stick to his plump sweating body. Aziz, dressed in a loose cream dishdasha had no such problem. Gajani hurried them up the short drive, across the ballustraded veranda and into the apparently empty house. Sluggish fans tried and failed to cool the cloying air.

Aziz wondered if the house was unfurnished but after following Gagani to the back found the dining room held a plain rectangular rosewood table. A matching sideboard sat next to the grimy curtain-less window. Four comfortably upholstered dining chairs had been placed round the table on the bare hardwood floor. Large bottles of coke and water together with four glasses stood on a wooden tray at the centre of the table. Waiting for them was a middle-aged, bespectacled and clearly nervous bureaucrat introduced only as Dr. Shirani.

Gagani took the head of the table, helping himself to a glass of water. He was in good spirits. Today marked the culmination of many months’ work. Months he and his staff had spent painstakingly researching both Dashti and Aziz until they were certain neither was a CIA or MI6 provocation.

The deep investigation had quickly discovered the Dashti family’s origins were in Kuwait where they’d begun accumulating a huge fortune in the 60’s. They supplied everything the oil driven economies of the Gulf wanted. Over the years they’d sold construction materials and weapons, office equipment and fully equipped schools and hospitals. Dashti himself was the product of the best western education money could buy. Eton followed by a first in Philosophy, Politics and Economics from Oxford all topped-off by an MBA in International Finance from Harvard Business School.

But now, in the age of militant Islam the ruling families the Dashti’s had served so profitably were under threat all across North Africa. Worse, there was increasing discontent in the Gulf itself. The Dashti’s and their ilk feared for their futures. Their nightmare was of a domino effect spreading through their world. They calculated that if one of the Gulfs’s ruling families were to fall the rest could collapse like a house of cards. Dashti and his friends, Gajani had come to realise, were seeking to take out a form of insurance; ruthlessly playing both ends against the middle. By supporting a terrorist like Aziz they were demonstrating their Islamist credentials. They hoped this would ensure their continuing prosperity even if the ruling houses were overthrown. If they survived it would be business as usual and the money would keep rolling in. Either way they couldn’t lose.

Aziz was an altogether more complex character. Despite intensive efforts Gajani had failed to definitively pin down his origins. He claimed to be an Afghan, a Pashtun, but Gajani knew this was untrue. The evidence pointed toward him having grown up among the desert peoples of Arabia. Like many others he’d gone to Afghanistan to defend it from the Godless Russians and quickly earned a reputation as a clever, resourceful and successful leader. After the Russian defeat he’d remained in the country developing his own action cells. He’d worked in parallel to, but not in contact, with Al Qaeda and Bin Laden. In Gajani’s estimation Aziz was potentially more dangerous to the West than the infamous Saudi. He had no ego, no desire to attach his name to the cause or become a household name. He was everything Gajani could want: clever, cunning, meticulous, invisible and totally ruthless. Gajani just wished he could get under his skin, even a little so he could fully understand what drove him.

Gagani and his team had spent many more weeks checking-out the audacious plan Aziz and Dashti had proposed. He’d fully expected to find it half-baked, totally impractical and riddled with holes. But to his astonishment it had checked out. It was well thought through, thoroughly planned and properly resourced. He’d reported his findings to his boss and been surprised when only six weeks later he’d been ordered to proceed. Deniability had been the key, that and the small tanker full of cut price oil Dashti had offered to lubricate the deal. Aziz, Dashti and the daring plan they’d conceived were all plausibly deniable by those who mattered in Islamabad. So now the die was cast and Gagani was under orders to move the plan ahead with all speed.

He took control from the start. Speaking in English, the only language they all had in common, he spoke slowly and quietly but there was no mistaking the force of his words. He told them a decision had been taken at the highest level to punish Pakistan’s enemies for their meddling and incursions.

I need hardly remind you what happened in Abbattabad just two days ago. American special-forces entered Pakistan illegally and killed Bin Laden. This was just the latest of many incursions onto our territory. The Americans seem to believe their so-called war on terror gives them the right to do whatever they please. Our support for your operation marks the point at which they begin to learn such arrogance comes at a price.

He paused for effect, his penetrating gaze resting a moment on each of their faces. Dashti he saw glance away, refusing to meet his gaze while Shirani seemed physically to shrink; only Aziz met and returned his stare with interest; a glint in his dark raptor’s eyes.

That’s why you’re here. We feel your plan, given the high level of preparation that’s gone into it, has a real chance of success. In addition you gentlemen are totally deniable so we propose to support your operation. We realise you aren’t targeting the Americans but the fight back has to begin somewhere and we’re confident they’ll get the message. If this operation is successful there may be further opportunities to deal the Americans a blow. He paused before adding portentously. There is however an absolute condition you must all be totally clear about and accept.

He paused again and stared hard at each of them in turn. If any one of you should ever even hint, much less speak freely of my or my government’s role in this affair you will all be hunted down and killed, wherever you try to hide. There will be no escape, no exceptions and no mercy. I trust that is clearly understood. He was gratified to see three heads nodding. Good, so now to the practicalities. He turned to face Shirani. Describe the work you have carried out and explain the arrangements you’ve made.

He stared back at Gagani through the thick lenses of his gold rimmed spectacles. They seemed to enlarge his eyes lending his face a startled expression. He was a fragile looking man in his late fifties; thin with a cadaverous face and thinning grey hair. He was dressed in a grey suit that hung from his sparse frame, a white shirt and a dark blue tie. He was clearly ill at ease. He cleared his throat before speaking and began tentatively in very precise English delivered in an educated accent.

I can’t go into the details but last year we completed a major overhaul and modernisation of one of our nuclear reactors. Normally every ounce of contaminated material taken from the site would have been meticulously logged. The full details would then have been passed to the International Atomic Energy Authority. Their inspectors would then have satisfied themselves everything was accounted for, its whereabouts known and its security guaranteed.

He paused and with a shaking hand lifted a glass of water to his lips. He sipped and set the glass down with exaggerated care. Before continuing he cast a nervous glance at Gagani.

I must emphasise that no-one set out deliberately to divert any nuclear waste or to falsify the logs. By an unfortunate over-sight 500 kilos of medium to high level waste was removed from the site without being logged. The waste was never lost, never un-secure. He explained with emphasis. But when the discrepancy came to light several months had passed. It was felt we would look foolish and incompetent if we reported it. It was feared we may even lose the trust of the IAEA. He glanced at each of them in turn as though seeking their understanding.

Gagani cut him short. Our friend’s aren’t interested in how the material came to be available Dr Shirani. Let’s stick to the practicalities shall we.

Shirani looked even more miserable but gave a weary nod. The difficulty is transporting the material. He glanced at Dashti. For what I can only assume are operational reasons you have asked for the radiological dispersal devices to be housed in standard 55 gallon steel drums.

Both Dashti and Aziz nodded.

The use of such containers makes it impossible to fully shield the emitted radiation against technical detection. This is particularly true for the radiological portals that are now installed at all major ports and airports around the world. Shirani stated flatly.

We know this and have planned accordingly. Aziz informed him.

Good. Shirani commented briefly. But in order to avoid none technical detection; such as some nosey official physically checking them, the drums have to be modified so the contents seem innocent. We suggest the use of mineral oil.

Why mineral oil? Dashti asked in obvious surprise.

Because it’s an internationally traded commodity often shipped in steel drums. Shirani answered simply.

He went on to explain his thinking. Our starting point was that a drum filled with mineral oil would weigh almost exactly 200 kilos. For entirely practical reasons we felt the number of drums should be kept as small as possible. Given this weight constraint we aimed for 6 drums but it didn’t work. In the end we found that 8 was the minimum practical number.

He went on to describe his ideas with some pride. Each drum will contain 50 kilos of nuclear waste in the form of a dry powder. It will be wrapped in heavy industrial grade polythene forming a sealed parcel. This in turn will be totally encased by a larger parcel holding powdered lead to a thickness of 20mm. It will reduce the emitted radiation by seventy-five percent. This will allow your operatives to drain the mineral oil, install the propellant explosives and make the bombs operational in safety.

He glanced around checking his listeners had taken all this in. Satisfied, he continued. This large parcel will be placed in the bottom of each drum and will be 180mm in depth. Above it we will fix an inverted closed cone made from aluminium. This will be bonded to the inside of each drum creating a false bottom. The space within the cone will be filled with mineral oil. If a drum is checked by dipping it will appear to be full of oil. The space between the cone and the drum sides will be filled with Fullers Earth. Shirani explained he would have preferred to use ordinary soil or sand but the increased weight made this impossible. The weight of each drum is exactly 200.8 kilos.

Aziz permitted himself one of his rare gap toothed smiles. This is all excellent news Doctor. We will have eight potential dirty bombs at our disposal……. but without a propellant explosive they are useless.

Gagani too smiled. You will have 500 kilos of C4 plastic explosive at your disposal. It will be fitted in the space formally occupied by the mineral oil and Fullers Earth. The conversion and arming of the bombs will, of course, be done by your own people at a time and place to fit-in with your plans. The C4 will be transported in boxes and should be more than enough for your purposes.

Aziz merely nodded. What will be the output of the bombs?

With a look on his narrow face that could have been pain Shirani took his time replying. When eventually he spoke his tone was one of deep sadness. We estimate the output at between 150,000 and 175,000 Curies, roughly 6,000 Gigabacquerels. He let that sink in a moment before adding. You must understand our estimates are imprecise. But our researches suggest that if detonated in the centre of a major city the cost of repairing and replacing damaged and irradiated property and infrastructure plus all the consequential costs could come to as much as $10 billion per bomb.

Another rare smile illuminated Aziz’s hawk like face. Dashti, by contrast looked awed by the realisation their efforts could cost Europe a cool $80 billion.

Gagani merely said. I trust that’s all satisfactory. Seeing nods from both his guests he continued. I’ll need an address here in Karachi I can have the material delivered to.

Not a problem. Dashti assured him. He took a small notebook from his jacket pocket and wrote something down before tearing out the sheet and handing it to Gajani who glanced at it and nodded.

When can you accept delivery?

There’s onward shipment to be arranged. I need to talk to some people….. His voice trailed off as he pondered the logistics. Eventually he said. We can accept delivery two weeks from tomorrow.

Gajani’s dark mask like face betrayed nothing of his thoughts. In the tone of a senior officer addressing the other ranks he said. It’s agreed then provided you fully understand that once the material is in your possession you take total responsibility. My department will help you get the bombs aboard the ship for onward transport but if anything goes wrong here, if you’re caught with the bombs, you’re on your own. You’re a bunch of terrorists and will be treated accordingly by everyone in Pakistan, including me. He looked hard at each of them, his dark eyes locking onto theirs. Satisfied, he got to his feet, smoothed down his jacket and walked toward the door.

Dashti, blessed with a mind for figures like a super-computer, was happy with the deal. The oil that had literally lubricated it he’d got illegally from Iraq for nowhere near its market value, helped by readily corrupted Iraqi and American officials. Gajani would have to be paid a slice off the top and four million dollars would be deposited in an account to be set up for him in the Cayman Islands. But Dashti calculated he’d still break-even. Importantly, he and the half dozen friends he represented would have the insurance they wanted for a remarkably cheap premium. That was the advantage of dealing with men like Aziz. They weren’t in it for the money.

The meeting broke up with warm handshakes. Shirani left in a car by way of a little used gate on the bases’ northern perimeter. The others reversed their course back to the hanger. The aircraft had been re-fuelled and took off only minutes later.

In the late afternoon Masroor’s small army of civilian workers formed a ragged queue almost a hundred yards long, casting a deep serpentine shadow across the grass scrub fronting the low admin buildings. They waited patiently in the sun’s glare, slowly shuffling forward like a frightened animal unsure of its escape route.

Shaheen Massood, a slight bow-legged figure with thinning grey hair and two days growth of stubble on his sunken cheeks was dressed, like all the rest, in a plain grey shalwar kameez. He waited patiently, pushing his ancient bicycle along beside him and chatting quietly with his workmates. When at last he reached the head of the queue he grinned toothlessly at the sergeant in charge who nodded to the airman manning the gate who swung it open. Shaheen pushed his bicycle unhurriedly through the narrow gap, placed his left foot on the pedal and swung easily onto the battered saddle. As he pedaled slowly away he checked the pendant suspended from a silver chain around his neck. Satisfied all was well he headed for Clifton Beach at his customary unhurried pace.

The restaurants and cafes lining Clifton Beach Road cater for all tastes and pockets. The place where Shaheen dismounted, wheeling his bike to the open counter, was little more than a garishly painted shack. Its specialty was ferociously hot street food but in the late afternoon he was the only customer. When it grew dark his cousin Saleem would struggle to keep up with demand but for now he was happy to chat and share a mug of steaming tea.

Their animated conversation lasted twenty minutes before Saleem beckoned his cousin to join him inside the shack. Once out of sight Shaheen slipped the pendant over his head and handed it to Saleem. He split it open removing the precious memory card from its concealed compartment then pushed the two halves together and handed it back. In hushed tones Shaheen said. I don’t think we’ll get much for these. They’re just some civilians who flew in this morning.

Younger and quicker witted than his cousin Saleem saw instantly what Shaheen had missed. Civilians? He demanded.

Shaheen nodded.

Why would civilians land at Masroor? It’s an air force base not an airport.

Shaheen shrugged, he had no explanation.

You say these civilians flew in?

Again Shaheen nodded.

In what? The younger man demanded; beginning to suspect the pictures might be worth more than his cousin’s lowly estimate.

It was one of those small jets. I think they’re called executive jets. One of the ground crew said it was a Citation something or other.

You saw this plane? Saleem asked with mounting excitement. He noted his cousin’s nod and pressed on. Do you know what the registration number was?

Shaheen’s face was blank. He obviously didn’t understand the question. Saleem explained that he wanted to know the number painted either on the plane’s tail-fin or on its side. He was disappointed. Shaheen had no recollection of seeing any number. Shortly afterwards he bade farewell to his cousin, mounted his bicycle and pedaled home.

That evening in a luxurious villa just outside Islamabad Gagani reported to his boss, General Aashif Beg. He was a man with dark penetrating eyes set in a sharply featured narrow face. He listened attentively to the report nodding approvingly before firing questions at his subordinate in his usual brusque manner.

You think they’ll do it?

Gagani nodded. Certain of it. Aziz has spent years pulling everything together. He has his people on the ground and is ready to move.

And western intelligence suspects nothing?

We get to know most of what they know about this part of the world and Aziz is well below their radar.

But they knew of him in Afghanistan. Beg stated flatly.

"Knew of him but didn’t know him sir. The difference is critical. Once the Russian’s left he dropped out of sight."

Suddenly changing tack Beg demanded. And the targets?

We don’t know the precise locations sir. It’s better that way, so no-one here is tempted to warn friends or relatives living in Europe; warnings that might be intercepted. But I’m sure we’re talking about major targets in Western Europe.

Capitals?

Probably sir but I repeat we don’t know the details.

When can we expect to see a return on our investment?

A month, six weeks at the most. Gagani replied with certainty.

Beg nodded and twisted his handsome moustache between long, delicate fingers. And you’re sure the materials can’t be traced back to us?

Gagani shook his great head. Certain sir. There’s a detail to be taken care of here but once that’s done nothing can be traced back to us.

Beg nodded slowly. Keep me informed of any developments but barring those stay away; particularly from my home. He added with emphasis.

Talking of being kept informed sir; may I ask if our political leaders know of this operation?

A predatory smile appeared on Beg’s narrow face. Shall we say that in their case Gagani, ignorance truly is bliss.

Moments later a uniformed servant showed Gagani out.

CHAPTER TWO

4th MAY 2011:

Karachi

Mike Freeman did what all really successful intelligence operatives do. He blended in, lived his cover and led a generally blameless even pretty boring life. A staff sergeant in GH12 his allotted territory was Pakistan and he’d spent most of the past eight years there. His cover was as a free-lance journalist. His articles, suitably polished and edited by professionals were regularly published in North America and Europe. Over the years he’d cultivated a lot of local contacts, including some Pakistani security would get uptight about if they found out.

He was in Karachi chasing down a rumour about some Iranians. The word was that they were connected to their country’s nuclear weapons programme and in talks with the Pakistanis. These, the rumour went, were happening in Karachi because Islamabad had become a hotbed of spies. After three days tapping into every source he had Freeman had satisfied himself the rumour was just that, a rumour. It had no more substance than the Loch Ness monster or the Yeti. But in the growing atmosphere of distrust surrounding Pakistan and Iran this hadn’t been the first scare story and wouldn’t be the last.

He was in the small flat he kept in Karachi trying to decide whether to cook his own dinner or visit a nearby restaurant when he got a call from a regular contact. Saleem Masood was a seller of generally low-level information eavesdropped from his customer’s conversations at his beach-side café. But he also had a cousin who worked as a cleaner at PAF Masroor who occasionally lucked into some useful intelligence. He’d supplied the cousin, Shaheen, with a compact digital camera that had proved a worthwhile if not spectacular investment. Saleem said he had something he felt sure would interest him. He couldn’t be drawn into what it was over the phone so Freeman had agreed to visit his café later that evening. Masood urged him to arrive before 9.00 when it started getting busy.

Freeman’s flat was in Gulistan-e-Jahor, a neighbourhood of the striving and ambitious lower middle classes. The address said he was doing well but not too well; not well enough to attract attention. It was an area of low rise apartment blocks; many slightly dilapidated in a cosy sort of way. It was quiet and friendly with good places to eat and it suited him well.

He left the second floor flat a little before eight and drove into the Clifton Cantonment, a large residential area built on a strict grid pattern. The traffic was light and progress quick. He headed for the coast road, amused that six decades after independence it was still called Sea View Road. He passed the campus of Greenwich University, the gaudy retail complex of Dolmen City and on as far as Clifton Beach. He parked his old Land Rover Discovery at the road-side.

He cut an inconspicuous figure as he climbed from the car, just another European looking for somewhere to eat. He was in his late thirties and of medium height and build. His dark brown hair was unfashionably long. His face, neither handsome nor ugly, was instantly forgettable. His gold rimmed spectacles covered calm grey watchful eyes. Suspecting that Saleem may have some pictures to sell he pulled a Nikon D800 from the glove box before getting out of the car.

Outside he felt the sea’s cooling breeze on his cheek. He leaned against the front wing and lit a cigarette. The road was quiet, the rush wouldn’t start for another hour when hordes of locals would descend to eat, show off their latest finery, compare mobile phones and ogle the girls. The area had a frivolous easy-going atmosphere. It was easy to forget his very serious reason for being there. In all his time in Pakistan he’d never run into any trouble from the ISI but, he reminded himself as he finished and tossed aside his cigarette, there’s a first time for everything.

Café’s and restaurants stretched away into the distance, widely spread along a strip of land separating the road from the beachside promenade. Coloured lights strung between palms led his eye from one to another into the far distance where the setting sun laid a shimmering blood red carpet across the still waters of the Arabian Sea.

The café run by Saleem Masood was one of the more downmarket places along the strip. The shack was surrounded by shiny polished aluminium tables and uncomfortable matching chairs. The place was popular with the kids of the City’s richer citizens. They appreciated the mouth blistering food, the loud music and Saleem’s laid-back attitude to what they smoked. As Freeman approached there were only a couple of customers and the music was on mute.

Saleem met him by the counter, greeting him like a long lost brother. He held out his right hand. Assalam alaikum

Alaikum Assalam. Freeman dutifully answered. How are you?

Very well……….I have something I think may interest you. With that he clutched Freeman’s arm and led him inside the shack. The air was filled with the pungent odour of fried onions and exotic spices.

Away from prying eyes Saleem handed Freeman the memory card. After inserting it in the Nikon he found himself staring at the malevolent face of someone he knew well, Brigadier General Anzimum el Gagani. He flipped through the other two pictures but didn’t recognise either man. He asked. Where were these taken?

At Masroor this morning.

That pulled Freeman up short. Gagani was army and ISI, what the hell was he doing at an operational PAF base? He had no idea but felt sure it was bad news. In his experience everything to do with Gagani was bad news. It took another ten minutes to extract the full story from Saleem who was delighted to receive five crisp ten dollar bills for his trouble. In half an hour Freeman had returned to his flat, booted-up his laptop and, cigarette in mouth inserted the memory card into its slot.

He downloaded the photographs then composed a priority e-mail urgently requesting identification of the two unknown men. He ran the spell-checker over the e-mail before clicking the high security icon. It automatically encrypted the e-mail and scrambled its attachments. He then clicked the send icon that winged the message to England at virtually the speed of light.

At GH12 it flashed up on the screen of Private Claire Granger. She printed off hard copies, passing them behind her to the desk of Sergeant Janice Robinson. She glanced at them, noting their point of origin and decided they should be passed to the director without delay. The message, originated in Karachi, found its way to the desk of Colonel Simon Verner, director of GH12, in just six minutes.

Within an hour he identified the younger of the two men pictured at Masroor as Mohammed Dashti, a rich and successful businessman of dubious integrity based in Kuwait. About the Arab with the sharp features, hooked nose and raptor’s eyes he had discovered precisely nothing.

CHAPTER THREE

5th MAY 2011

GH 12 Essex

Compared with the other organs of British intelligence GH12 is a recent creation. Within two years of the end of WW2 the government had realised that closing down some wartime units and departments had been a mistake. The SAS was resurrected in 1947, three years later the last remnants of the Special Operations Executive were morphed into GH12 and given the Grove House Estate as their headquarters.

Colonel Simon Verner was its fourth director and he’d had the job for twelve years. The son of a wealthy land-owing family from the West Country he’d been educated at Winchester and Cambridge and had about him a donnish air but enjoyed the reputation of having one of the sharpest minds in the intelligence hierarchy. At fifty-two he was a lifelong bachelor and lived a very comfortable existence in a splendid apartment occupying nearly a whole floor of Grove House’s east wing.

The house itself is a large Victorian sandstone pile. It was built by a successful agricultural engineer who’d made an even bigger fortune in munitions during the First World War. Built to impress Grove House is big but not handsome. It sits heavily on the Essex countryside surrounded by a very well guarded estate of four hundred acres.

Verner’s large office is on the ground floor at the back of the main building. It could double as the reading room of a gentlemen’s club. The rural views from its tall French windows aside it could be in the heart of St. James’. It’s a totally masculine room; all well stocked mahogany bookshelves and panelling, landscapes in oils, thick carpet and buttoned leather seating in rich burgundy. A huge partners’ desk occupies the middle of the room. On it stand two telephones, a signalling device to summon his assistant, a legal pad, blotter and an ink stand. Of a computer or any other modern office equipment there is no sign. These have been banished to a secret sanctum concealed behind the panelling.

Verner, a tall patrician figure with short-cropped pepper and salt hair was dressed in his habitual dark three piece business suit. Seated on one of the supremely comfortable chesterfields with one long leg crossed over the other, an inevitable mug of coffee in his hand he was talking quietly to Major Paul Boynson his second in command.

About young Halliday…………How did his first visit to the killing house go?

The hint of a smile flitted across Boynson’s usually serious face. If this were a medical report I think the answer would be about as well as can be expected.

But you still rate him?

Boynson nodded. He has the makings alright. He just needs to think a little more and do a little less.

Verner nodded sagely. I recall thinking something similar about a certain Lieutenant Boynson about ten years ago.

Point taken. Boynson answered with a chuckle. Richard’ll be fine. What he needs is a project he can get his teeth into. He’s reached the point in the training cycle where he needs to apply some of the stuff he’s learned, make it seem more real world.

I may have just the thing. Verner replied. I was about to brief you on some news in from Karachi. There’s little enough of it but Gagani’s involved so I want us to keep on top of it. He spent the next few minutes briefing Boynson who at the end asked.

What do you want me to do?

Brief Halliday to act as your co-ordinator. Tell him to use his brain to instigate enquires where and when it seems appropriate. He paused then continued with emphasis. All under your direction of course, Richard doesn’t yet know enough to be left to his own devices. He again paused to take a sip of coffee. As for you, I want you to rattle a few cages………… you’re good at that. Jet aircraft don’t just appear out of nowhere. I want to know the point of origin of the flight that ended at Masroor

I’ll get on it this afternoon.

Why not earlier?

I’ve a lunchtime meeting in town with the family lawyers and bankers. They want me to adopt what they call a more aggressive investment strategy. In reality they want me to take bigger risks so they can charge ever higher fees. They don’t seem able to get their heads round the fact that I already have more than enough money.

It was, Verner knew, perfectly true. Boynson had inherited an estate counted in millions from his maternal grand-mother, a brewing and property heiress. She’d raised him from boyhood following the murder of his parents. The inheritance meant he could have lived in whatever style he chose without needing to work. Despite this he’d opted to make a career in the Intelligence Corps. He was damn good at it and over the decade they’d worked together the two men had become close friends, though the formalities of rank were always observed in public.

Verner said. Well get back as quickly as you can. I’ve a nasty feeling about this Gagani business.

Two minutes later Captain David Reid, Verner’s assistant bustled into the room. He was short, round and his uniform seemed a tight squeeze. He’d been Verner’s assistant for the whole twelve years of his directorship. But the medal ribbons on his chest showed he hadn’t always been a desk bound warrior. They included both the DSO and MC. He suffered, sometimes intensely, from a back injury he’d sustained during Desert Storm. Not that he ever complained or expected any sympathy. Reid was army to the core; a fully paid up member of the grit your teeth and get on with it brigade. He nodded a greeting to them both before addressing Verner.

Everyone’s in the conference room ready for the situation briefing sir.

They followed him into a dark corridor. The floor was of bare polished boards. The walls were papered in maroon flock and the institutional cream paint had faded to beige. Even Verner found it depressing. Ornate brass light-fittings suspended from the high ceiling at each end of the long corridor failed to lift the light level above a stygian gloom. Near the far end Reid threw open a heavy wooden door, light instantly spilled out into the corridor.

The conference room was large, rectangular and in marked contrast to the corridor that provided its only access. The floor was of the same polished boards but the walls were plain white reflecting the bright illumination from the screened neon tubes fitted into the suspended ceiling. There were no windows. The space was dominated by a pale wood conference table, able to seat more than a dozen with ease. Comfortable matching swivel chairs upholstered in royal blue were spread along both sides. To one side a desk holding a complex console was occupied by a uniformed sergeant. From the console she could access all but the