The Gossamer Intervention

By Steve Moody

An intriguing and exciting thriller in which a simple group of recovering alcoholics and addicts are drawn into the corrupt and ruthless world of the mysterious Potamus organization. Only these one time ne'er do wells it transpires, and with nothing but their native wit and network of friends, can stop Potamus from its ultimate objective of global domination. If they fail the world will never be the same again

**The eBook is available in the AuthorHouse Bookstore. http://bookstore.authorhouse.com/Products/SKU-000596115/THE-GOSSAMER-INTERVENTION.aspx

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Mar 14, 2013
• ISBN: 9781477219522

Steve Moody

Dr Steve Moody is the author of 10 books, 4 works of non-fiction and numerous academic and self-help essays/articles. He has also written and produced an extensive series of organisational/personal development programmes for a variety of organisations and individuals. Steve is the founder of The Happiness Initiative – a not for profit organisation which supports people with depressive and addictive illness during their recovery and throughout their rehabilitation into fuller and more satisfying lives. Born in Halifax, Yorkshire, in the UK, he now lives beside the sea in south-west England.

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© 2013 by Steve Moody. All rights reserved.

The right of Dr Steve Moody to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Design and Patents Act 1988.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 03/13/2013

ISBN: 978-1-4772-1953-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4772-1952-2 (e)

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Contents

About the Author

Definition

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Epilogue

FOR GARETH

Also by Steve Moody:

THE GOSSAMER INCREMENT

THE GOSSAMER IMPERATIVE

THE GOSSAMER ASCENDANCY

THE GOSSAMER LEGACY

THREE BLIND JELLYFISH

THE SEXUAL WEB

THE STORY OF J

THE DISSOLUTION OF PER LAMENT

Children’s stories:

THE ADVENTURES OF SAMMY SAUSAGE

Non fiction:

BRECHT AND THE CONCEPT OF TRAGEDY

THE MEANING OF HAPPINESS

THE PARADOX OF HAPPINESS

LIVING THE PARADOX

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About the Author

Dr Steve Moody is the author of 10 books, 4 works of non-fiction and numerous academic and self-help essays/articles. He has also written and produced an extensive series of organisational/personal development programmes for a variety of organisations and individuals.

Steve is the founder of The Happiness Initiative – a not for profit organisation which supports people with depressive and addictive illness during their recovery and throughout their rehabilitation into fuller and more satisfying lives.

Born in Halifax, Yorkshire, in the UK, he now lives beside the sea in south-west England.

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Definition

gos.sa.mer:

• a film of cobwebs floating in air in calm clear weather;

• something light, delicate, or insubstantial gossamer of youth’s dreams> (Andrea Parke)

–noun

• a fine, filmy cobweb seen on grass or bushes or floating in the air in calm weather, esp. in autumn.

• a thread or a web of this substance

• an extremely delicate variety of gauze, used esp. for veils

• any thin, light fabric

• something extremely light, flimsy, or delicate

• a thin, waterproof outer garment, esp. for women

Examples of GOSSAMER

1. a butterfly’s wings of gossamer

(Merriam-Webster)

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Prologue

The land-locked jewel of Kyrgyzstan lies in the very heart of the vortex that is today’s Central-South Asia. A heady combination of huge and craggy mountains together with their associated glaciers and gorges, it is dominated by the ice-blue waters of the lakes that cover some 90% of its surface. It is an untamed country that is divided into seven distinct provinces or ‘oblasts’. Although historically part of the Russian Empire, the country emerged as an independent state following the collapse of the USSR in 1991 and convened its first parliament in March 1995 as a signal of its new found freedom. Talas Province in the north west of the land-mass is the poorest and most destitute area in this stunningly beautiful but also stunningly desolate geographical and topological treasure.

By convention a feudal and patriarchal society, the democratic principles that the recent administrations have sought to introduce, and which are modelled on the flawed and inappropriately labelled ‘democracies’ of some of the smaller countries in the western world, have received scant support since their inception.

Corruption, dramatic natural beauty and the disarming hospitality of the indigenous population remain to this day the key characteristics of this scarcely known region.

The population of Kyrgyzstan, which numbers just over five million souls, choose to live in small rural enclaves and eschew large village or small town life. Their lives depend on what meagre resources they can glean from rudimentary agriculture, a few cattle, fishing, and the occasional tourist. Drug and people trafficking is an increasingly attractive source of alternative income-streams.

The large majority of Kyrgyzstanis are Muslim (75%) or Orthodox Russian (20%) by faith. Genetically the Kyrgyzstanis are virtually indistinguishable from the indigenous populations of the surrounding countries of Uzbekistan, Kazakstan, Tajikistan, and they share an amazing genetic similarity also with the peoples of Pakistan and Afghanistan.

The legacy of the fabled Mongolian Empire and the hereditary traces of its all-encompassing march through Asia is still clearly etched into, and defined by, these various independent, yet uniquely bonded, nations.

The Som is the local currency of exchange.

It is here in Kyrgyzstan that Cullum, international entrepreneur and diplomatic attaché, under the patronage of the mysterious Pilgrim, takes forward a proposition of such monumental proportions that, should it succeed, will finally provide Potamus with its life-long aim of absolute world domination. Ironically it will also lead to the ultimate destruction of mankind.

What is it that Cullum and Potamus, an anonymous group of immensely powerful international figure-heads, have unearthed? What is it in this globally insignificant backwater that provides Potamus with the key they have been seeking for so long?

Ever since the end of the Second World War Pilgrim, through the labyrinthine network of the Potamus group, has been intent on absolute power – total control of the world’s resources – and, following a number of unsuccessful initiatives, now believes that the ultimate aim can be achieved.

Meanwhile, in this polarised world and in a parallel reality, there is a different network being unwittingly formed – a network of socially stigmatised and vilified individuals for whom life, at one point in their various histories, had lost all purpose and all hope. These are the men and women of ‘Gossamer’ and, as their own anonymous and invisible web extends, it transpires that only they can stop Potamus . . .

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Chapter 1

Everything had suddenly gone deathly quiet, and the silence that prevailed could only be described as ‘stunned’.

This apparently ‘total’ absence of sound was both eerie and almost palpable in its all-encompassing reality and, for the moment, seemed to be strangely infinite. It was the sort of silence that typically succeeds a serious road accident; where the scenario is somehow drawn in surreal sepia, and the plumes of smoke are static in their deathly magnificence. The silence made manifest everything that needed to be said and yet, at the same time, mysteriously concealed everything that was being thought. Yes, the silence was quite literally stunning as reality and time itself stood metaphorically still…

‘What the ‘kinhell!’

It was Christof who had broken the spell of the moment and who, uncharacteristically for him, had come within a hair’s breadth of uttering an obscenity. Christof had been born: William Wolverson Junior but, for some reason best known to him, had always been called Christof.

‘What the ‘kinhell!’

There had been no forewarning and no hint of a problem as the Boeing 737 had taxied towards the runway at Bristol airport. Gratefully the two travellers had noted happily that the plane was only two-thirds full and that the seats next to the emergency exits in the middle of the aisle had not been occupied or allocated. Good, more leg-room for them both and an opportunity to avoid the frightening prospect of deep vein thrombosis! It was also an opportunity to maybe even get a moment or two of sleep in preparation for their arrival at Kazantzakis International Airport.

There had been the usual security checks and other administrative delays to contend with prior to the flight but, then, what else did you expect these days? At least the short trip to the small regional airport which, somewhat prematurely and arrogantly perhaps, chose to refer to itself as Bristol ‘International’ Airport, had gone without a hitch and the two men had arrived at the terminal in good time to check-in and go through the usual procedures.

Because of the recent collapse of XL Airways, which had been one of the major carriers flying from this particular airport, the air-traffic volume had reduced over the last week or so by a staggering forty percent and the resultant stultification in the departures end of the single terminal building was clear to see. The long, straggling queues of holiday-makers that had characterised previous visits; the inexplicable and needless pushing and shoving of self-important people seeking a momentary ‘advantage’ in the line of otherwise patiently waiting passengers; the anger of parents impotently seeking to quieten their excited children by shouting at them to be quiet or worse, striking them, all of this and more was missing…

Even the still incongruous looking police security personnel, with their heavy-duty, but nonetheless still ‘action-man’ like armoury seemed to be somewhat thin on the ground.

All in all it was a perfect back-drop for a terrorist attack.

Bob Launig had often marvelled at the naivety of the ‘herd’ – the UK government’s disparaging and highly insulting description for the people whom they were supposed to govern and of whose health and safety they were, nominally at least, in charge. On many occasions, and even during ‘high security’ alerts, he had simply passed through the various procedures that were, so the public was informed, designed to minimise or remove any risk of terrorist activity, and he had passed through these procedures with fluids, cigarette lighters, mobile phones and other assorted electronic gadgetry. It had been so easy and he had gone completely unchallenged on every occasion. All it took was to arrange anything that may come under scrutiny alongside your mobile telephone… and, although he had a PhD in some wonderfully esoteric specialism to his name, Launig had not required rocket science to work that one out. In fact he had overheard two middle-aged women sharing their secrets of security evasion quite openly with each other as he was waiting to pass under the ‘electric arch’ at Leeds/Bradford airport one day a couple of years previously. So much for security, eh?

He had been amazed also when he had read about the various terrorist ‘outrages’ that had apparently been circumvented and heroically prevented by the British security forces: the tank fiasco at Heathrow; the vehicle crashing into the terminal doors in Glasgow were two that immediately sprang to mind. Why on earth would any self-respecting terrorist, intent on causing maximum carnage, fear, or terror carry an active bomb in the sole of his shoe; fly half way around the world – changing planes en route – only, upon his arrival at Heathrow – the busiest airport in the world – to walk off the aircraft, through the departures terminal, and into the street beyond the airport without detonating his device? Why too, when anyone could freely walk into the arrivals terminal at Glasgow airport carrying whatever they wanted, would any similarly self-respecting terrorist, crash a vehicle into the front doors of this same building? The logic here would have been to walk into the airport carrying a suitcase or similar holiday bag and to have caused the intended mayhem prior to any inspection of said suitcase or holiday bag, wouldn’t it? Surely, on either occasion, had the intention been to explode any device – if any device had indeed been carried by the persons whom the government announced that they had arrested – this device would have been exploded inside the area where it would have most effectively served the terrorist’s purposes… wouldn’t it?

No, as with the twin towers episode of modern legend, Launig knew that there were distinct occasions when the film did not coincide with the reality and when what the public was being told did not correspond with the truth. There had been sufficient documentary evidence provided around the atrocity of September 11 to totally discredit what the western powers alleged had happened on that historic day, and there was mounting evidence on an almost daily basis that the British government had a less than healthy relationship with the truth in just about every area where they made any sort of public pronouncement.

No, terrorism, as it was presented to the masses by respective governments via the media of their journalistic lackeys had become somehow too glib, too inconsistent, too proscribed… and altogether too convenient to withstand the scrutiny of any rigorous investigation. It was not dissimilar to the way that they presented the issue of global warming or, God forbid, ‘carbon footprints’ whatever they may happen to be!

Launig knew this. He had suspected it from the outset… and in this he was not, and had never been, alone.

The two men looked at each other searchingly. Whatever mild shock they had experienced had almost immediately disappeared as they acknowledged that the plane was not about to disintegrate and that the flight had, for the moment, been temporarily aborted. By reflex they scanned the cabin area alert for any untoward movement or unexpected activity. Apart from the nervously amplified decibel levels of the collective passengers all was very much as it might have been expected.

Both men relaxed back against the shiny, black leatherette of their seats and smiled silently. They almost laughed out loud when, literally only a few moments later, an announcement came over the tannoy:

‘We apologise for the sudden braking and trust that this has not alarmed you unduly. There has been a temporary malfunction found in our operating system and this is what caused us to take the action that we have. This technical problem now appears to have been rectified and so we will be returning to our original spot on the runway for take-off immediately.’

Now it was Launig’s turn to comment quietly and almost inaudibly:

‘The wonders of modern technology, eh? Malfunction occurs; no one checks it out; warning light goes off as quickly as it came on - problem magically disappears! Yeah, Gods!’

Both men offered a silent prayer to their respective Gods.

Neither Launig nor Christof were religious men. Maybe, some time in the annals of whatever, they had endured some Christian, Muslim or other form of socially and politically indoctrinated economic brain-washing, and had dutifully studied whatever literature appertained to their particular brand of social engineering and politico-economic conditioning. Such was the nature of the two men, and one of the keystones that bound them so inextricably together. Both were open-minded ‘free-thinkers’ and neither ever fell into the trap of ‘contempt prior to investigation’. They had learned the hard way that enlightenment could, and usually did, emanate from the most unlikely of sources, but, as all truly enlightened men and women of all ages before them, they never claimed to be enlightened.

For his part Christof presented something of an anomaly: he was at once both extremely attractive and also totally forgettable: a true chameleon. Sitting to the left of Launig, his seat in the reclined position and with his eyes apparently closed as the plane succeeded in its second attempt to take off, his profile contained elements of Sean Bean, Bruce Willis and Mel Gibson. Christof could have been anything from thirty five to fifty five years old, thought Launig and, although he shaved twice a day, he was one of those men who never managed to completely dispel the inherent darkness of their beard and moustache. This was particularly remarkable since Christof was a natural blond. Ilya Kuryakin from The Man from Uncle occasionally came to mind when Launig studied his friend’s appearance, as he was doing now but, unlike that TV and film celebrity from the past, Christof’s features were almost statuesque: chiselled, determined, and firm. He was what most people would have referred to as ‘a man’s man’ and his physique, although well disguised by the loose-fitting clothes that he habitually wore, reflected this.

In his time Christof had lived many lives and, in his time, Christof had come closer to losing his life more times than he cared to remember. That he had survived was testament enough to his physical strength, resilience and truly awesome skills.

Launig, on the other hand resembled everyone’s idea of the middle-aged professor: slim; elegant but with an element of the bohemian, and with a sallow and clean-shaven complexion, he had about him seriousness and a sense of natural ‘gravitas’ that could, to the uninitiated, be mistaken for disapproval. No more than ten stone soaking wet, and without an ounce of unwanted fat on his body, Launig almost seemed to defy nature. He was fifty nine years of age and yet looked ten years younger and he had the stamina, both mental and physical, of a thirty year old. Where Christof was blond Launig was dark and, whilst he had once sported a Grizzly Adams style beard, his beard-line was all but invisible.

Of the two, most people initially deferred to Christof as the elder and the more senior. This is what both men had come to expect and to welcome – they had simply planned and worked hard to ensure that it should be this way.

Christof was a couple of inches taller than six feet and Launig stood at around five feet and ten inches. Where Christof had muscle in quiet abundance Launig was all sinew and, where Christof had hands like hammers Launig had slim, long, and delicate fingers: he had often been told that he should have played the piano…

Both men were fluent in various languages which they managed to speak without any accent whatsoever. This, too, they had planned and worked hard for, since both spoke English – their native tongue – with the heavy resonance of their respective birth-places.

If Christof was the perceived leader then Launig fell into the role of perceived adviser and personal assistant with an aplomb that was commendable… he even carried the lap-top computer that had become an indispensable tool in their armoury.

Both men were tired. This was the third trip that they had made within the last week, and it was the first opportunity that they had had for any real rest for nearly sixty hours. Almost as if by osmosis a silent message passed between them. Christof tossed a coin. Launig lost and Christof worked the rather clumsy, silver coloured button on the side of his arm-rest.

Launig checked his watch, a Seiko with a wind-up mechanism. Compared with the lap-top and other technological items that he had in various forms of camouflage or concealment, the wrist-watch was archaic or, if you chose to view things from Launig’s perspective, a collector’s piece. It was the watch that he had bought himself so many years ago – when things had been different. Archaic and obsolete? Collector’s item? It actually didn’t matter. All that mattered was that it mattered to Launig. It was special.

Launig kept his seat-back in the upright position and reached for the newspaper that he had stored in the safety information and magazine pocket at his knees. He had already read the airline’s own self-congratulatory magazine from cover to cover on previous trips and was grateful not to have to resort to such reading material on this journey. When he had duly finished with the newspaper he had the latest Baldacci to pretend to read and, reassured that his cover and his alertness were catered for, he reached out his left hand, felt under the seat in front of him until he located the side pocket of his travel bag, and extracted a bottle of Evian that he had purchased at W.H. Smith at the far end of the departure lounge in Bristol, underneath the balcony area where people had once been allowed to smoke.

Nothing appeared untoward. There was nothing that caught Launig’s attention or that troubled his ‘second sense’ for trouble. Neither was there anything untoward about either himself or Christof that would draw unwanted attention from the other passengers on the flight. Everyone was far too relieved, it seemed, to have avoided a premature death and to have taken off safely the second time around to be even in the slightest aware of, let alone concerned about, anyone else on the plane except themselves. It was all to be expected in the primary stages of mild shock, Launig knew, and he took some reassurance from the apparent normality of the situation.

Certainly, sitting there in his well fitting mid-blue and slightly faded jeans, with his pale cream, loose-fitting shirt with the twin breast pockets, and with his casual, fawn ‘Cotton Trader’ loafers, Launig looked every bit the middle-aged and modern businessman who was grabbing a few days away from the office, a few days in the sun, whilst he could. Clearly he and his business-partner had not been able to leave work behind completely, nor had they been able to bring their respective spouses or partners or whatever with them on this occasion but, hey, what do you expect these days? That is just a fact of life in the twenty-first century, isn’t it?

No, there was nothing at the moment to cause alarm.

An hour and a half into the flight the stewardesses began their trawl along the aisle to dispense what was rather amusingly regarded as sustenance to the hungry passengers. They had already done the drinks run, which Launig had declined. He still had some of his Evian and, anyway, there was a second bottle of water, unopened, in his bag. Launig had never ceased to wonder at the rationale that made people pay ten pounds sterling – or even more if you were paying in Euros – for something that was scarcely digestible and had a unit cost of something in the region of fifty pence – ninety percent of which was swallowed up in the completely unrecyclable and totally synthetic packaging.

‘So ist das Leben’

Today’s transitory feast was ‘full breakfast’ and Launig made a mental note not even to ask. Instead, mindful of the fact that, with stewardesses closing on him down the aisle from both directions, and thus effectively imprisoning the entire plane-load of passengers in their seats for probably another half an hour until the feeding run had been completed, he nudged Christof; rose fluidly from his seat, and made his way to the single toilet at the front of the cabin. He or Christof would make a similar visit to the toilets at the rear of the plane sometime during the final stages of the flight.

Christof opened his eyes and simply smiled. He had rested but not slept, yet he was grateful for the short respite that had come his way. Not a word was exchanged between the two men as Launig rose and silently made his way forward.

Although wearing light-weight and frameless ophthalmic spectacles Launig’s eyesight was anything but blinkered and, indeed, his peripheral vision was nothing short of amazing. Accordingly, as he passed through the cabin, apparently focused only upon his ultimate destination, he was aware of everything and everybody that was to be seen on either side of the aisle whilst they, of course, were not aware of his scrutiny.

Nothing and no one caught his critical and anonymously searching eye.

Once in the toilet – he had had to wait until a rather overweight and somewhat rotund lady had extricated herself from the confines of what must have been, for her, an overly restricted and not very convenient ‘little girls’ room’ – he wasted no time. The pouch that he had carefully strapped to his inner thigh, just below his scrotum, had worked slightly loose and had begun to chaff against his flesh and one of the ‘odour eater’ pads that he wore as insoles in his loafers had developed an uncomfortable crease. His loafers had been specially personalised for him by a friendly shoe-smith in The Fellowship so that, with one deft twist in the proscribed direction, the sole could be slid back and the insole removed easily and quickly. With a crease this operation would be hindered and, anyway, the loafers were beginning to feel uncomfortable.

Having made the necessary adjustments, Launig sluiced his face in cold water by holding the tap down with his left hand whilst scooping water in his right, shuffled his hands under the residual flow, flushed the toilet gratuitously, and left the cramped space within three minutes of entering.

Christof eyed him questioningly as he returned to his seat.

When the proscribed signal was not forthcoming he simply turned to look out of the window and Launig now, having regained his place, reached for the clumsy, silver-coloured button that was located in his arm-rest.

An hour and a half later, shortly before the announcement came over the intercom that the plane was about to commence its descent, Launig opened his eyes and Christof made his way aft towards the stewardesses’ retreat and the two toilets that were on either side of the aisle at the rear of the plane.

Moments later there was the sound of laughter and of animated conversation. Launig, as though innocent of what was happening, turned to see what the commotion was all about. Christof, acting as if he had had at least a couple of glasses of wine, had been chatting with the most attractive stewardess on the plane and was now trying to persuade one of her colleagues to take a photograph of him with his new found ‘dream girl’ on his mobile ‘phone. Both girls were obviously more than willing, although the one now holding the phone would clearly have given a year’s salary to have changed places with her colleague. Amongst much light-hearted and innuendo filled chatter, Christof was manoeuvring the situation until he got precisely the correct light and exposure for the shot. At least that is what he was telling the girls. Not content with the first picture, he then insisted on a further two being taken and then, out of deference to the stewardess who had been taking the shots, he insisted that the roles be reversed and that his ‘dream girl’ should return the favour and take a couple of shots of him with her colleague.

Amidst much manoeuvring and banal chit-chat, flirting, and general laughter, the desired number of photos had been taken; the ‘dream girl’ had more than willingly given Christof her mobile ‘phone number; preliminary details had been given for a first date, and Christof had returned to his seat in apparent good humour and ‘conquest mode’.

‘Let’s have a look at the pictures, then.’

These were the first audible words that Launig had spoken since getting on the plane.

‘Ok, but you can’t have the ‘phone number,’ responded Christof, maintaining the playfully innocent role that had been adopted between the two men for the moment.

Launig scrolled through the photos leisurely and made various complimentary comments about the young lady and how she was too good looking to be with his friend and that she could surely find someone better looking than him, couldn’t she? Meanwhile his critical gaze was devouring every detail of the photographs without paying any regard whatsoever to the central characters in this little stage-managed performance. It was on the fifth photograph that he saw what he was looking for, and the hackles on the back of his neck began to bristle. Checking back through the photos, he found further confirmation that he had missed on his first run-through, of what he had suspected but not been sure of.

Here, on photo shot number three, he could plainly see the back of the head of the man in the aisle seat of the last row of seats in the plane. Everyone else was turning round and smiling in the direction of the flashing of Christof’s camera and at the girlish laughter of the two stewardesses.

Launig made an audible comment to his friend about needing to quickly visit the loo again before the plane’s ‘fasten seat belts’ sign came on and, as promptly as he could do so without drawing unnecessary attention to himself, he made his way aft. This time he kept his eyes on the seats on the opposite side of the aisle from the man in the third photograph.

In the third row from his destination the man in the aisle seat had pulled a baseball cap low over his eyes and was clearly pretending to be asleep. No one could have remained undisturbed by Christof’s flirtatious playlet and yet this man was presenting the very image of the original, and somewhat clichéd, ‘slumbering man’. Launig had time to spot the almost ‘shocking’ ginger hair that had been swept behind his ears and the discolouration below the left ear that ran for nearly five inches towards his throat and beneath his chin. No amount of cosmetic surgery and no amount of make-up would ever completely hide the damage that had once been done to this man’s throat by someone who could so easily have killed but who chose only to warn.

In the toilet Launig pondered whether to use his mobile ‘phone and then immediately realised the impetuosity of his proposition. No, better to respond rather than to react, he knew, and a few moments later he left the closet just as the ‘fasten seat-belts’ sign went on. Better too, to know your enemy, he thought, as he took his seat next to Christof once again.

This time it was Launig who pressed the clumsy, silver-coloured button in the arm-rest on Christof’s seat. Christof simply smiled and, as though a mistake had been made by his colleague, reciprocated the gesture by depressing the similar clumsy, silver-coloured button on Launig’s arm-rest.

It was a cloudless and turbulence free descent and, as the plane came in from the North West of the island, passengers craned their necks to enjoy the view of Santorini and the islands in the more southerly archipelago of the Greek islands and the relative monolith of their destination: Crete. Santorini, immediately to the north, had become something of a ‘Costa Smeralda’ over recent years as it had been developed to vie with the Agha Khan’s millionaire playboys’ retreat on the east coast of Sardinia. Unlike the Sardinian playground where, if you needed to ask the price of anything, then you could not afford it, the undisputed ‘places to be’ in Santorini were most definitely on the west coast. From here the views of the sunset were simply breathtaking and, some would say, more than worth the extortionate premium that was being charged for the privilege of witnessing them.

Both Launig and Christof, however, preferred the unspoiled paradise that they had accidentally discovered in south-east Crete, and which had, over time, become the unlikely base for their operation. This was, by default, the international home of The Fellowship. It had been meant to be.

Mirtos had once upon a time been a favourite landing place for pirates to unload their ill-gotten gains since, nestling in a rather ‘flat’ bay of maybe one kilometre in length, it enjoyed tranquil waters and an easy beaching opportunity. It was also sufficiently isolated not to attract attention from anyone who otherwise had no reason to be there. Approximately 12 kilometres from the nearest large town, Ierapetra, which in turn was about 60 kilometres from the now ‘de rigeur’ tourist centre, Agios Nikolaus, for the more sophisticated holiday maker, Mirtos was one of those classic Cretan villages that had withstood the devastation of modernisation and had retained its essential character and integrity.

Yes, it still was as it had been meant to be.

As usual, neither Launig nor Christof carried any hold-luggage and, as the plane came to a halt on its stand at Heraklion airport they, unusually for them, joined the throng of humanity who were all instantly on their feet and apparently desperate to disembark as quickly as possible. It was as if they either had some life threatening reason to evacuate the plane or that they believed that they must always be at the front of whatever queue they happened to be in. Launig had never understood this philosophy and, under normal circumstances, both he and Christof would have preferred to simply sit and wait patiently for the other passengers to leave before they even thought about getting to their feet. Launig’s logic was simple: everyone had to go through passport control and, if you had hold-luggage, everyone had to wait at the carousel. What, therefore, was the point in simply rushing stressfully from one queue only to join yet another queue which, in turn, would simply metamorphose into yet another queue? Something about ‘la condition humaine’ crossed his mind on these occasions and he could only smile gratefully that he and Christof, at least, had found another and far simpler solution.

These were not, both men now knew for certain, normal circumstances and they had ensured that they had vacated their seats such that the swell of bodies around them naturally propelled them forwards along the inside of the plane and away from the two individuals whom they had identified at the rear of the aisle.

Within moments the two men were being almost bodily being transported along the aisle towards the front exit of the plane. The swell of bodies seemed to have a momentum of its own as they were encouraged on their way by the implicit dynamic of the human snake.

During the descent neither man had enjoyed the opportunity of taking in the views over Crete, or of inspecting the sprawling metropolis that Eraklio had now become. Both men had had other things on their mind and, once they had successfully disembarked down the stairs at the front left of the plane, they silently and quickly parted company, both men entering the airport building some twenty metres apart. Both men had rescued their mobile phones from their pockets and, since they did not want to attract attention by breaking the law and actually speaking into their phones before they were in the terminal, they were furiously hitting the digits of their phone-pads with a dexterity that only came from years of clandestine practice.

This was a routine that had been followed on other occasions and in other locations in the past – occasions and locations that had been far less civilised than the apron of Eraklio airport and both men, having successfully transmitted their respective messages, were now keeping a watchful but completely unobservable eye on each other.

If Launig began to clean his glasses with a white handkerchief then his messages had been received, understood and acted upon. Similarly if Christof accidentally dropped his travel bag it meant that his messages too had also been received, understood and acted upon. Should neither of these actions take place then both men would join the small queue that had usually collected at the kiosk where they picked up the keys for their rented car. This was located across the road from the terminal and doubled as the pay kiosk for the airport car-park.

In the event it was Christof who stumbled first and grounded his bag. Without losing Launig from his field of vision he muttered angrily to himself and, clearly relieved that his stumble had caused no obvious damage to himself or his bag, he was even more relieved when he saw his friend almost nonchalantly remove the handkerchief from his pocket and begin to polish his rather elegant, frame-less spectacles.

No further queuing would be necessary. Launig would pick up the car and Christof would take the bus. Simple.

The so-called motorway section of road that linked Eraklio with Agios Nikolaus was something of a misnomer. It was one of the most dangerous major thoroughfares that Launig or Christof had ever encountered, let alone travelled along. Brief sections of newly metalled dual carriage-way suddenly filter into three lane and two-way traffic; exposed and vertiginous sections disappear into ill-lit tunnels; what appear to be either cycle tracks, inadequate ‘hard-shoulder’, or simply narrow ‘escape’ lanes of hugely varying and un-signposted length or width, run alongside the road for most of the distance and, scarily, to the side of and parallel to these narrower strips there are often quite deep channels to be found which function as exposed drainage to keep the roads clear of rain. Unfortunately, given the ever increasing volume of traffic in Crete the narrower, ‘hard-shoulder’ and ‘escape’ lane is variously and inconsistently employed as an extra inside traffic lane, an overtaking lane, or a no-go area. The problem is, of course, that no one ever knows how the other road users are choosing to travel along this stretch of road at any given time.

Add to this a road system that boasts a plethora of road signs and directions which seem to rely on symbols normally found in prehistoric caves or on utterly disconcerting hieroglyphics, and combine this with a nation of road users who pathologically seem to ignore them anyway, and you have a recipe for serious problems. It is not until you turn right just beyond Agios Nikolaus, and begin the final sixty kilometres or so towards Ierapetra, that any semblance of order and of sense begins to prevail.

Now the road which runs through the lower mountains of south-west Crete is wide, metalled, and predominantly two-way. It too features some exposed, precipitous, and vertiginous drops together with one spectacular hairpin bend. The views over the sea are both apparently endless and endlessly spectacular.

But now too, in harmony with the decreasing bedlam, the traveller becomes increasingly aware of the beauty of the mountains, of the cypress trees and olive groves, and of the ancient, cultural history upon which the island was originally founded.

This part of Crete is not classically beautiful in the sense that, say, the north-west of Majorca or certain parts of Corfu, may be described. Even at its most attractive Crete retains a rugged charm and attractiveness that is curiously off-set by the results of some bizarre planning decisions: semi derelict buildings – cottages, farm-houses and the like – still struggle to stand alongside modern, and garish, villas and new hotels; modern and synthetic trading estates co-exist alongside ancient olive groves, and out of character petrol stations shout at the passer-by from their inexplicable isolation.

Sporadic and visually unspectacular ruins from the Minoan dynasty are famously and frequently sign-posted, as too are the monasteries and churches that proliferate throughout the island.

Then there are the anomalies of Chrissi Island and of Kai beach with its palm trees and its uncanny place in most people’s memories – a memory that was planted by the advertisement for Cadbury’s Bounty bar on the television.

The old and the new; history and technology; culture and consumerism – all are to be found in this part of the island. It is as though the Cretans are being dragged into the modern world of western influence and it is clear that they are resisting it with all their might. This is a fundamental part of the charm of the region and this, too, is a fundamental reason why Launig and Christof held it so dear. Change may well be a fundamental fact of life but, as they and their kindred spirits also recognised, change is not always synonymous with progress or improvement.

Launig had passed the familiar landmark that was Aldi on the northern edges of Ierapetra; had taken a right at the traffic lights, and he had headed west along the northern outskirts of the town. Sadly, this major town in the Lasithiou province had only recently become more widely known in the ‘civilised’ western world because of a tragic incident at one of the local hotels…

The road-surface from here on became less predictable and pot-holes featured more prominently, but not always more obviously, along this stretch of the journey.

Launig made the necessary adjustments to his road speed and gratefully enjoyed the now familiar sights that he was able to take in more fully as he manoeuvred carefully, and more slowly, past the randomly ‘parked’ vehicles and the various, and also random, obstacles that got in his way: stray cats; dogs, children, early morning workers,