The Devil’S Eucharist

By James Morris

This is the fi rst in a trilogy of books based on occultism in modern
times. Occultism has been with us for centuries yet in these modern
day fast moving times the prospect and impact of occultism is viewed
as heresy and fantasy. Occultism is very real within our society, it is
hidden and constantly waiting in the wings for an opportunity to
raise its evil head.
Paul Warren is the central character, SAS trained and sceptic of anything
that he cannot feel and touch or easily rationalise. However his opinions
are seriously challenged and his views on the occult take on a new
meaning and direction as he confronts the darker side of evil followers
of Satanic demigods.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris UK
• Release date: Apr 26, 2012
• ISBN: 9781469195711

James Morris

James Morris, recently retired from various Chief Executive positions within the Logistics and Support Services Business sector within the United Kingdom, has had an interest in occultism for several years and has transmitted this into fi ctional thrillers for others to enjoy. His interest in children’s fantasy and his books on ‘The Magical Adventures of Fairy Petal’ also introduce ‘soft magic’ for children to enjoy. His Grandchildren Niamh and Eoin love the characters in these books. Happily married for over 42 years to Jennifer whose support for his writings have made these publications possible.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

THE SLEEK, SMOOTH silver lines of the new Boeing 757 of British Airways’ ageing fleet buffeted strongly against the sudden turbulence that had appeared out of nowhere from a storm that was never expected or forecast by the meteorological office. The storm had developed at an alarming rate since takeoff from Belfast Airport.

Beads of perspiration appeared prominently on the brow of Helmsley, the Boeing’s first officer. The suddenness of the storm worried him, but the rugged and steady features of Phil Sharpe, next to him, never flinched, and he seemed as relaxed as ever despite the way the aircraft was being thrown about in the sky.

‘This storm has come out of nowhere. Those bloody weather boffins want to get themselves sorted out,’ Helmsley said with a definite tremor in his voice. ‘It’s so sudden!’

Sharpe laughed. ‘Don’t worry, old chap. January is always a bad month to be crossing the Irish Sea. It is not unusual. I have seen it dozens of times. It’s the cordite and smoke still hanging around from the past Irish Troubles,’ he joked.

‘Really, Captain, that is in very poor taste to be sure!’ retorted the auburn-haired cabin stewardess in a strong Belfast accent as she entered the confines of the small cockpit area. ‘You should be a bit more sensitive.’

‘Sorry, Mavis, I didn’t know you were there.’ Sharpe seemed humbled by her presence.

‘Well, I just came to see if you wanted some coffee, but I can see that you would not want any assistance from a poor deluded Irish girl!’

‘Mavis, your coffee is the best on the airline. Of course, we would like some. It may settle Michael’s weather nerves!’ he said, looking at his first officer. Sharpe put his hands together in mock prayer, adding, ‘I do not want to die of thirst before we reach Newcastle Airport!’

Helmsley looked at Sharpe and Mavis and wondered if the rumours were true about Sharpe being a bit of a rake and of having been involved with several of the airline’s female staff. Still, he was the type of person to be relied upon, very self-confident, and in difficult situations the type of man to have at your side.

‘What do you think about this weather? It’s come on very quickly and some of the passengers back there are getting a bit twitchy.’ Mavis looked concerned.

‘As I was just saying to Michael, it’s just the time of the year, and we are over the Irish Sea, which can create sudden depressions and unexpected air turbulence. We’ll contact Newcastle Air Control to get a rundown on the situation there. Okay? Coffee, please?’ Sharpe signalled by grabbing his throat in pain through acute thirst.

Mavis smiled at him and gave a mock courtesy before turning towards the cabin door and swished out with a wiggle of her very ample buttocks.

Cheekie, cheekie, thought Helmsley. Maybe she has heard about Sharpe too. The plane gave a sudden, violent lurch to starboard, causing him to pull hard on the controls to ease off the sudden drop. The aircraft was becoming difficult to hold on a steady path, and both pilots gave each other a concerned look. Sharpe had his mind quickly back on to their situation and forgot about Mavis’s ample buttocks and peered intently at the continued deterioration of the weather outside the cockpit. Although it was only two o’clock in the afternoon, it was extremely dark and seemed more like dusk.

‘Better contact Newcastle Air Control and get a forward weather check, Michael.’

‘Okay, Captain, will do,’ Helmsley said with relief in his voice, as they would be able to share their concerns over the sudden storm. ‘Some expert reassurance will not go amiss!’

‘Coffee time again, Mavis?’ queried Spencer, the male chief cabin steward. ‘It’s a wonder where they can put it. They each had two cups in Belfast Airport and I gave them another whilst doing the pre-flight checks!’

‘It’s good for the nerves, Spencer, and judging by the way we are being thrown about by this storm, I will need something a bit stronger than coffee!’

Spencer smiled, ‘Yes, I know what you mean. That’s why I have come up front as we have a lot of very nervous passengers and some are looking decidedly seedy. It looks as if we may have a lot of sick bags to clear when we land!’

The aircraft suddenly dropped altitude, causing several shrieks from the passengers close to the galley station, as they saw two coffee pots fly across the cabin, spilling the boiling hot liquid against the legs of two other stewardesses who were chatting excitedly about their planned night out in Newcastle.

Spencer and Mavis rushed to help wipe off the hot coffee with towels and cold dishcloths and at the same time looked up at the passengers in the front rows next to the galley area and reassured them that there was nothing to worry about.

The on-board intercom announcement chime sounded, and Sharpe’s voice coolly announced that they were going through some unexpected turbulence but that it was not expected to last. However, in the interests of safety, seat belts had to be fastened and they were asked to remain in their seats until the seat belt sign was lifted.

Spencer went forward into the cockpit area and became concerned at the oppressive heaviness of the electrically charged atmosphere inside the small confines of the Boeing’s new hi-tech cockpit area. The concentration of both the pilots was intense, and he saw how Helmsley’s knuckles were white as he tightly gripped the control column.

‘What’s going on, Captain? It seems a bit rough at the moment and the passengers are definitely getting very restless!’ Spencer’s normally level voice had become quite shrill, showing how his stress levels were becoming elevated.

Sharpe looked around and could smell the stale, sickly breath of Spencer as he leant over his seat; obviously, the strain was starting to churn up his gastric juices.

‘Wish we could tell you, Spence, but we cannot raise a damn thing on the radio.’ The crackling on the radio was very loud, but there was no response despite Helmsley trying channel after channel to get through to Newcastle Air Control.

Then suddenly out of the heavy static and radio crackle a voice came over, clear and authoritative.

‘BD236, this is Newcastle Air Control. BD236, this is Newcastle Air Control. Come in, please.’

Helmsely smiled, relieved that at last contact had been made. It must have been the strangled atmospherics caused by this bloody storm, he thought. He quickly responded, ‘BD236 to Newcastle Control, we are receiving you. We have been trying to contact you for some time, but obviously it is the atmospherics from this storm.’

‘BD236, repeat again, did you say storm?’ queried the young voice of the air traffic controller. ‘It’s a fine afternoon here, and according to our weather radar, your weather is clear too? You guys been on the tipple?’

Helmsley looked towards Sharpe and then both looked at Spencer and then the terrible weather raging outside the cockpit. Suddenly the whole cockpit lit up as a flash of lightning zigzagged across them.

Sharpe’s professionalism took over. ‘BD236 to Newcastle Control, we have been fighting a storm since we left Belfast twenty minutes ago. We are not having a pleasant time up here. It may be fine where you are, but it’s very serious where we are!’

The fresh, freckled young face of the air traffic controller crumpled into a confused grimace as he looked at the weather instruments and turned towards the senior air traffic controller to ask for advice. Either his instruments and feed-lines were in serious failure, or he had two pilots on the way to them who were hallucinating on drugs.

Mason, the senior air traffic controller with years of experience, looked uneasily at the recently recruited junior and leant over to take the microphone.

‘Control to BD236, our instruments show no sign of a storm for at least one hundred miles. Are you sure you are not in just some freak turbulence?’

Helmsley drew in a sharp breath and exploded across the airwaves, ‘Turbulence? Bloody turbulence! Of course it is not turbulence. We have lightning lighting up the sky all around us. It’s like the Fourth of bloody July up here. The crosswind must be seventy miles an hour. Please recheck, repeat recheck.’

Sharpe gently squeezed Helmsley’s arm and shook his head, at the same time giving him a reassuring smile. Ever the so cool customer, thought Helmsley, but it did the trick and he focused back on his instruments.

Mason was now more concerned following Helmsley’s outburst and turned to the young air controller to ask BD236 to hold whilst they checked the weather with the met office attached to RAF Carlisle.

Mason’s face developed a white pallor as he listened in to the report from RAF Carlisle. He put the telephone down in an abstract manner so that it missed and fell off the cradle of the telephone base. His assistant looked pale as he put down his telephone. Mason explained to Helmsley that the meteorological station at Carlisle had confirmed their view that the weather was clear and only moderate winds were affecting the area. In fact, the radius of clear and ambient weather was stretching for a radius of two hundred miles, which was quite unusual for this time of the year. The only poor weather that could be highlighted was a depression building up around the North Sea, which was then moving rapidly east towards Finland.

The atmosphere in the passenger compartment of the Boeing was now electrically charged and at boiling point, owing to the severe bucking of the aircraft; two children were whimpering and clutching their mother at the front end of the craft, and the sickly smell of vomit permeating from the rear did nothing to discharge the hypertension that was building amongst the passengers at a rapid rate.

An elderly woman, obviously severely distressed, sat furiously wringing her hands as though she was trying to remove an ingrained stain from her arthritically swollen knuckles, and seeing the stewardess’s ungainly stagger up the aisle, she called out, ‘Miss, Miss, what’s going on? This isn’t normal, is it?’

‘Don’t worry, dear,’ the stewardess gave a comforting but very strained smile. ‘We are just going through some unexpected turbulence, but it doesn’t usually last long. We should be through it quite quickly.’

Another sudden lurch of the aircraft threw the stewardess against a bulky, well-proportioned middle-aged man who was sitting next to the still worried, hand-wringing elderly lady. She apologised to him and noticed his deep brown eyes and his healthy bronzed and tanned face, which was heavily lined as though he had been constantly out in all weathers for years.

He smiled at her, showing two rows of perfectly formed white teeth, which would have been more appropriate to a teenager rather than a man of forty-two years of age, who had just completed a gruelling undercover tour of duty in Londonderry.

‘No trouble,’ he assured her, admiring the perfectly kept blonde hair, which, despite all the hustle and bustle of the flight over the past forty minutes, was still in a perfectly neat and orderly style. His voice was strong and deep and reflected a cultured Southern England accent.

He lay back against the hard upright aircraft seat, watching the stewardess busily check and reassure passengers about the temporary buffeting of the aircraft as she staggered side to side down the aisle to check upon the boy who had been sick at the rear. Massey sighed to himself, closed his eyes, and let his thoughts drift back over the last few chaotic days in Londonderry. The words spoken to him by the dying IRA officer vividly came back to him in an almost prophetic and haunting manner, ‘Massey, you are a perpetrator of death and dishonour, and you have committed the sins of your father over and again and have thwarted me from completing my master’s work. Your meeting with your maker will come sooner than you think. My master will send the maelstrom against you, and you will perish by his hand. You will die in agonising torment!’ The words were spat at him with blood-speckled spittle spraying against his face as the man’s life force left him, a spout of blood erupting from his mouth covering Massey’s arm as he cradled the head of his dying adversary.

God, thought Massey, I was sure he had a gun. I was convinced I saw it glint in the bright moonlight, and Martine’s movements suddenly dropping into a crouching firing position signified the classic pistol-firing position. He must have had a gun.

Massey had not intended to kill him, as it had been a reflex action that night. His nerves had been taut as an overstretched violin string, ready to snap at any moment, and the sudden movement of Martine had left him little choice. He had seen too many of his comrades die because they had hesitated.

The SAS had prepared him well for deep penetrative covert operations; he had been accepted by the Irish community, even though it had taken eighteen months, eighteen long, long months. He had been on Martine’s case all that time, trying to prove his killing links with a major IRA cell in Ulster, and at last had identified him as a top ranking officer with links to the strategic planning arm of the IRA terrorist hierarchy; it was to be a major bust, but somehow Martine got wind of it at the last moment. Martine’s run from the pub that night proved someone had told him that it was the night the jaws of the SAS trap were to be closed. Massey’s shot had caught Martine squarely in the chest, and the impact of the heavy calibre bullet from the Colt had thrown Martine backwards, towards the edge of the breakwater. He must have dropped the gun into the river, which had been a torrent in full winter spate. There was no chance at all for the marine specialists to look for it. Even metal detector equipment hadn’t turned up anything. The matter was speedily dealt with by the army top brass; the SAS would look after their own, despite the furore it created amongst the politicians and the local community. However, he wouldn’t be able to show himself in Londonderry or Ulster again for a very long time.

Massey’s thoughts came back to Martine’s dying rhetoric, which, if he didn’t know better, sounded more like a curse, but now his understanding of the threatened maelstrom gathered a new perspective as he felt the aircraft suddenly plummet against the storm raging outside. He had enquired at the base camp about the meaning of maelstrom and was told by an older learned colleague, who had a part-time interest in ancient folklore, that the maelstrom was a fabled whirlpool that caught ships in ancient times off the coast of Norway; but there was another meaning, which had more sinister revelations, ‘A resistless overpowering force of evil destruction enacted by Satan’. Massey shook his head in disbelief that this storm could have any connection with this. Pure fantasy, he thought. Years of hardened life in a deep undercover world had trained him to only accept the tangible things in this world, and this was sheer bunkum. He closed his eyes and took several long breaths to settle his nerves and gradually fell into a fitful doze.

The storm was increasing in intensity by the minute and the lightning had become fierce, with severe flashes coming one after the other without a break. Sharpe’s hands were gripped strongly on the control column as he fought to keep the Boeing on a level flight path. The lightning bolt was sudden and cut through the cabin with such force and speed that neither of the men could assimilate what was happening. The electric discharge incinerated Helmsley and then passed immediately to Sharpe, striking him in the chest and causing his heart to arrest. Sharpe fell forward on to the instrument panel, causing the aircraft to slowly nosedive towards the shoreline of the Solway Coast.

The passenger compartment erupted into a major area of panic and mayhem as passengers jumped out of their seats as baggage fell out of some of the overhead lockers. Spencer shouted to everyone to keep calm and return to their seats and ran towards the flight deck cabin.

The nauseous stench of burning flesh hit Spencer in horror as he opened the cabin door. He could not believe the sight in front of him, as the flight deck was in complete carnage and smoke was coming from Helmsley’s remains that were now hunched against the cockpit wall. But more incredulous horror could not be absorbed by his now overtaxed brain as his gaze was drawn to the cracked windscreen through which he could see in morbid fascination the fast-approaching electricity pylons straight ahead of them.

The Boeing’s starboard wing caught the base of the pylon’s superstructure and the once-sleek new aircraft cart wheeled in a spinning slow motion as the rear caught the deadly and very live electricity lines. The fuel tanks ruptured, covering the rear of the aircraft in a deathly shroud of liquid fire for those seated in the rear of the aircraft. Simultaneously, the middle section of the aircraft buckled and ripped away from the main structure as the starboard engine exploded and the whole mass of strangled segments of the aircraft fell towards the Solway Firth coastline.

Massey held on to the elderly lady next to him more by a basic instinct to help rather than as a comfort and stared in incredulous horror at the sight of the shoreline rushing to meet them. Thoughts of the maelstrom came back to him in a split second, haunting and mocking him as though he could hear Martine’s words again, and then blackness and oblivion met him as the middle section careered into the shoreline.

The crash had taken only seconds, but the wreckage had been thrown widespread over the whole of the estuary; the only movement came from a barn at the side of the estuary, which had been enveloped in flames from the falling fuel tanks. The flames leapt out hungrily from the barn and snaked their way to the other outbuildings on the desolated farmstead. Cattle and horses fought with each other to avoid the rapidly spreading flames, knocking over the half-rotten neglected fences and scattering madly down the entrance road to the farmstead. There was no response by the occupants of the main farm building; the rear of the Boeing’s fuselage had landed squarely on the roof of the house, and where there had once been a two-storey building, all that remained was a pile of rubble. It was hard to distinguish that it had been a substantial farmhouse that had seen five generations of owners. This was definitely the end of the line for this generation.

It took over an hour for help to reach the remote site, and the wail of the sirens from the emergency response vehicles were somewhat superfluous, as there were no living beings to attend to. All that was left there was the distasteful task of piecing together the dismembered corpses and collating the scattered belongings. Nothing could be moved away from the crash site until the Aviation Accident Investigation Unit had completed its survey, and that would take several weeks to try to reconstruct the awful last events of BD236 and then confirm the demise of all one hundred and fifty-three passengers and crew.

CHAPTER 2

THE CONSOLING MUSIC of Radio Two, interspaced with the bright staccato spoken words of Chris Evans over the radio alarm, signalled to Paul Warren that another day had dawned and it was nearly half past seven, ample time to get showered, shaved, and grab some breakfast before he joined the thousands of commuters fighting to get into the City of Westminster. He dozed, listening to the breezy and bright comments of Evans, which was such a contrast to Terry Wogan, who he had faithfully listened to for several years. ‘But times change,’ he thought to himself. Nothing ever stands still. Warren reluctantly manoeuvred himself out of the large king-size bed and stood stretching his well-built, hardened five foot, eleven inch frame.

In these days of economic survival and constant political uncertainty, it was a pleasant change to listen to the entertaining, if at times stupid, remarks of Evans. He had followed Wogan consistently and was pleased that Evans also applied early morning levity on the airwaves. Warren entered the adjoining bathroom accompanied by the more sedate singing of Katie Melua, who was one of Warren’s favourite singers. He mentally reminded himself to ensure that he went to see her when she was next on tour in London. Usually when he planned such events, there was always something that would crop up that stopped him attending, forcing him to give the ticket to someone else to use. Still, he thought this may be the time I can make it.

The comfort of the hot shower enveloped him and felt cleansing but especially highly invigorating when finished off with a blast of icy cold water to completely close his pores. Hot and cold showers were a self-inflicted torture he had developed whilst with the 40th Royal Marine Commando. Usually it was a luxury to get a hot shower first, as it was normally cold water in the field or nothing at all. He wished that he was back in the field now and being constantly exhilarated by the constant surge of adrenaline. The only surge of adrenaline now came from his training days with the MOD unarmed combat sessions which were usually every Friday. These sessions had now become very tedious to him, as they were restricted to Officers, many of whom were past their peak of fitness, something which Warren was determined would not happen to him. He yearned for a better class of opponent for these sessions, and for that he would be better positioned in the lower ranks where there was a strong competitive element, but his rank of Captain would not permit that option to occur.

He dressed quickly and decided to wear a dark blue blazer with a white shirt and his coveted Marine Commando tie as the meeting he had planned with the upper echelons of the Ministry of Defence (MOD) demanded respect at all times. This was Warren’s best compromise to conformity as suits were a drag to him, especially as over the past two years he had been used to wearing casual clothing to blend in on undercover work whilst attached to Special Air Services operations. Covert operations suited him, and he had gotten used to the casual approach to dress, so he felt distinctly out of sorts as he buttoned up his shirt tightly against his neck.

Warren was just finishing a thick slice of buttered wholemeal toast when the news came over the radio that there had been a major air crash over the Solway Firth, and it was feared that all one hundred and fifty-three passengers and crew had perished. It was expected that some announcement as to the cause of the crash would be made later in the day, but any further updates would be made through special broadcasts. An emergency contact number was given for relatives of the passengers and crew on the Belfast to Newcastle flight. The news announcer commented that there had been no suggestion that the accident was in any way linked to terrorist activity. The peace initiative between the British and Irish governments was seemingly still well preserved by assurances from Sinn Fein, the Ulster Defence Force and other paramilitary factions in Ulster and there was an anxious unease still surrounding all discussions in Ireland. Warren knew from bitter experience that some paramilitary factions still operated in Ireland, despite the claims of peace. Some of these could be bordering upon gangster tactics, but they were there just the same. Political unrest was still bubbling under the surface and probably would continue still for decades to come.

Warren could well imagine the panic that was now going on within the Air Ministry and the Air Investigation Unit as they mobilised their response teams at the crash site. ‘Better them than me,’ he thought to himself, for it could be very cold and bleak scouring around the exposed shores of the Solway Firth at this time of the year.

The journey to the bland and nondescript MOD building in Whitehall, which housed the counter-intelligence unit of the SAS, was slower than normal for a Tuesday morning. The underground seemed to be more crowded than usual, and it appeared that everyone wanted to be at their destinations earlier today as they were rushing and bustling each other. Warren nodded to the immaculately dressed commissionaire on the reception desk in the front lobby of the dull and age-blackened building and flashed his pass in a nonchalant and almost perfunctory manner borne through the repetitive daily visits to the administration complex over the last three months.

The commissionaire smiled at Warren, ‘Morning, Mr Warren.’ his cockney accent was strong and clear.

Warren cocked a mock salute by touching his forehead with his index finger. ‘Hope it will be a good one, John. Are they in yet?’

‘They have just arrived, sir,’ remarked the old guardsman-turned-building minder, ‘and the General seemed to be in a foul mood, if I could be so bold as to say, sir!’

‘Just what I need today, John!’ answered Warren, not expecting or wishing a reply, as he hurried to the lift to take him to the sixth floor. He joined two young female administrative assistants in the lift and listened to their excited chatter about the handsome new graduate who had been seconded by the MOD to the research library section. He was amused at their whispering, for everyone in the lift was clearly aware of their conversation. They got out at the fourth floor, leaving Warren on his own to travel on to the sixth floor. Warren’s thoughts were interrupted by the chimes announcing his arrival to his floor.

Warren strode purposefully towards his office, but he was halted in his tracks by a call from the end of the corridor.

‘Paul, good morning. Can you grab your papers and come straight to the Senior’s meeting room. There is a bit of a flap on!’ shouted the gruff voice of his immediate superior, Lieutenant Colonel Smythe.

Warren responded with a smile and a wave to acknowledge that he would be straight there. He entered his office and was immediately accosted by Sally, his small but very attractive brunette assistant.

‘Paul, you have to go immediately to the Senior’s meeting room to…’ Warren interrupted her by raising his hand.

‘Yes, the boss has just shouted down the corridor to tell me.’ He looked at his desk piled with papers and went over and collected a notebook and a red file marked ‘Highly Private and Confidential—addressee only’.

‘See you soon, I hope,’ he bantered with Sally, hoping it would be a quick meeting.

Warren entered the Senior’s meeting room, aware that this austere room had been host to many important decisions over the years, which the public was never privy to or ever would be due to the imposition of the Secrets Act on everyone who served in the complex. He was faced with the familiar faces of his superior officers, but he was especially interested to note that there were two men in the room whom he had never seen before.

‘Come in, Captain Warren. Take a seat over here,’ beckoned the unusually abrupt voice of Brigadier General Hadley Jones, and he pointed to the chair next to him.

Warren sat himself down, placing his papers on the long table in front of him, and looked wistfully at the strangers, wondering what was going on.

The Brigadier General introduced Warren as a member of the SAS Counter-intelligence task force on temporary secondment to the MOD Strategic Planning Committee and then introduced the two strangers who were from the MI6 intelligence unit on Irish affairs, but he did not mention their names.

‘Gentlemen, this meeting has been convened as a result of a direct order from the Prime Minister as a result of yesterday’s plane crash in South West Scotland. I don’t need to remind anyone of the ongoing sensitivity of the current Anglo-Irish talks and maintaining the peace settlement. The PM and the Cabinet are very worried about the recent turn of events and the damage it could do if blame was misplaced for the air crash. I have to personally report to the PM later this morning as to the actions we will be taking to avoid any misinterpretations. Now, I will ask our two colleagues from MI6 to brief us on the events that have brought us to convene this emergency meeting.’ He gave a sharp cough and nonchalantly waved to the two MI6 officers to take the lead.

‘Thank you, sir,’ the smaller of the two men replied, and stood up and walked towards an overhead projector sited at the bottom of the long mahogany Victorian table.

Warren thought that he seemed rather short for the police service. He couldn’t have been more than five feet five inches, but then perhaps that would be a good blend for covert MI6 operations. Everyone expected policemen to be over six feet tall, which, in a lot of forces, was a minimum requirement some years ago, until the authorities developed common sense and centred more upon intelligence as a primary requirement rather than just physical brawn.

‘If you do not mind, I will get straight to the heart of the matter before us today. These notices,’ he pointed towards a slide on the overhead, ‘were received by our Irish intelligence teams during the last three months, and they portray an alarming situation.’

The notices were flashed rapidly, through a PowerPoint presentation, on the overhead projector to the assembled hierarchy of the MOD strategic planning team. As the presentation continued, the implications of the information being transmitted and the incredulity of it all showed on the stupefied expressions of everyone around the table, all that is except for the face of Brigadier General Hadley-Jones, who had developed a very sombre face and a severe scowl.

The MI6 officer ended his presentation and sat down to a room of utter silence. Warren could not believe what he had just heard and seen.

‘Well,