Hunter's Way

By Robert Swann

Who is Simon Hunter? Is he a wealthy international entrepreneur or a parasite preying on an unsuspecting society? Simon Hunter is a rare binary man. Some see him as the abductor of talented individuals and others as a liberator of down trodden ordinary people - but beware, with him nothing is quite as it seems. What he does and the way he does it excites the interests of intelligence agencies on both sides of the Atlantic; they want to use his unique talents to further their own devious aspirations. He is thrust unwillingly into a complicated life of intrigue and double dealing which takes him to the squalid back streets of London, the unsavoury ghettos of Africa and immerses him in the sinister world of international conspiracy. Can he come to terms with the the demands thrust upon him when his family become enmeshed in the danger of the shadowy world into which he finds himself? The answer to his dilemma unfolds in a series of unpredictable and fateful consequences which will leave him and those around him forever changed.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Legend Press
• Release date: Dec 14, 2015
• ISBN: 9781785075650

Robert Swann

Born and educated in the London borough of Hillingdon, I started my professional life as a student civil engineer in the Atomic Power Division of a major British Engineering Company. After three years in this environment, I decided that the constraints of formal engineering were not for me and opted for the more open arena of logistics, which, at that time, was virtually unexplored – except by the military establishments. Progressing through general management and directorships along my chosen path I ventured into the field of logistics management consultancy, first, with a British company and then as vice president of an American consulting group in their London office. Ultimately, I bought out the London practice and formed a close friendship and a joint working agreement with an American business entrepreneur, and we have worked together collectively and separately in around forty different countries. I feel eternal gratitude for the opportunities that I have been fortunate enough to enjoy through the extensive world travel my professional life has enabled. This literary work is populated by a selected amalgam of many of the fascinating people with whom I have had the privilege to meet both socially and professionally and the truly wonderful and, sometimes, extremely challenging countries it has been my great fortune to visit.

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PART ONE

UNWANTED LIAISON

Sunday 24th August.

I’m lucky. I know this because my friends tell me so and even people I don’t know, but who see the way I live, think it. Right now I’m sitting on the balcony outside the third story of my sanctum sanctorum which is tucked under the eaves of Riverside Roost my Berkshire home. Through the wrought iron railings of the balcony, the manicured back garden lawn sweeps gently down to the banks of the River Thames. It is from the Roost that I conduct my small highly specialised publishing business which goes part way to financing my affluent if somewhat complex life style. The other part of its finance is difficult to define and may even be illegal, I just don’t know.

Today is a rare day of rest, one of the last for a while as it turns out. Across the placid river on the far bank sporadic dog walkers have been replaced by an army of riggers, stage hands and roadies, who are frantically setting up stages and supporting facilities for the forthcoming annual rock festival. Soon the tranquil river banks will be vibrating to the wailings of musicians all vying to outdo their counterparts with distorted bursts of sound. By the time it actually happens I will be gone, my house will be shuttered as will the boat house which although empty will still be barricaded against potential all-comers. It will be empty because I will use my motor launch ‘Circadian Rhythm’, which it normally houses, to travel down river to Henley where my son Jake has an apartment which he uses during the week when he is attending College in preparation for entering university. The college is normally for boarders but his father had insisted on both our children not being boarders; his own experiences of the ‘board in’ school system had not been to his liking. I won’t be staying with my son; his apartment is small and has only a single bedroom which is not really even big enough for his six foot three lean and lanky frame so guests are out of the question. Circadian Rhythm will be my home for the few days of my visit.

This is the weekend of the August bank holiday when Caroline, Jake’s twin sister, takes time off from her college in Windsor to join us for a family weekend; she like her brother remains in college over the summer holiday period to hone her academic skills. As I think over my situation; running my own company, the house on a bank of the River Thames, the boat house, the yacht and my children preparing for either Oxford or Cambridge Universities, my son living part time in Henley and my daughter doing the same in Windsor, I can understand why people think I am lucky. There are essential elements in being lucky and luck is not so effectual if one or more of those basic elements is missing and for me there is a huge void which is unfilled and unfillable.

The missing element is my ex-husband. Following our divorce – and for some time before that - we led separate lives. He is driven by something I cannot understand and which he will not explain to me but whatever it is the driving force is stronger than anything I or our children can counter. He loves us, I know he does, but despite that still he is driven to inhabit the world stage in the pursuit of goodness knows what, as a strategist.

When we first met at university he was lecturing in business ethics and I was a lowly undergraduate. Our friendship blossomed into something more than just amity and like the mating of the may fly we flew around each other in an ungainly act of courtship for a brief, passionate, time. Within the first year of our marriage I gave birth to the twins; my business had taken off and I felt blessed. But it turned out to be true that for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction and very soon it became clear to me that my husband, Simon, was being influenced by forces outside my control and as it turned out, his. He stopped being a university lecturer and became an international traveller, doing things I still don’t understand. He would disappear for weeks and months to parts of the world which are unknown to me and although he kept in regular contact with me he would never divulge with any clarity the reasons for his travels.

I began to weave fanciful tales around his strange working life, maybe he was a spy or a soldier of fortune, I even toyed with the idea that he might be a criminal of some kind, maybe a drug smuggler or perhaps there was another woman in his life; was he a bigamist? There were so many strange things about him which became more and more apparent as our life together developed. He is a Peter Pan, as I grow older he seems not to age; after ten years of marriage I looked ten years older and he seemed not to have aged at all. In my imagination I could see him being viewed as my toy boy before much longer. He had some bizarre eating habits which usually involved him in preparing his own meals instead of sharing with us. He wasn’t a vegetarian but his consumption of carnivorous faire was very limited and food preparation was, and presumably still is, something of a mysterious ritual.

In my more rational moments I viewed these things as being foibles, he is too gentle and considerate and apart from in his working life, too stable to be any of these things. He refused to let me in on the secrets of his work and ultimately it became too much for me and I confronted him. Shortly after that we drifted apart, it was obviously as painful for him as it was for me but still he would not relent. He is on some sort of mission I cannot begin to comprehend.

The years have flown past and the children are now grown up without his physical intervention and they are beginning to spread their wings. Simon has always been financially supportive; he has paid and still pays for the children’s education and gives them a generous personal allowance as well as paying for their general upkeep, and mine. He visits us every Christmas and stays until the New Year; he has a fully functioning Pied a Terre which is over our boat house and which he occupies for only ten days of each year. He is generous to us all, to a fault; he asks for nothing in return but I can’t help wondering from where his seemingly endless supply of money originates. I have never met his parents or any other family and I don’t even know where he comes from, he is an enigma with whom it has become impossible for me to live.

All of this introspection is not good for me it turns what should be a happy carefree existence into an angst ridden introspective minefield. Right now I have a wonderful weekend to look forward to with my two lovely children and the weather is set fair for the duration. What could be better?

I decide to take ‘bumble bee’, the twin’s pet name for my buttercup yellow vintage Mini Cooper soft top Cabriolet for a shopping expedition rather than take the company Lexus which spends most of its time in the garage and I take the winding road down St Peters Hill into the heart of the village I call home. Glancing in the rear view mirror I am conscious of a nondescript dirty red saloon car which rings a bell somewhere in my mind, I dismiss it as probably belonging to one of the myriad teenagers who live further up the hill near Home Farm and concentrate on enjoying my afternoon of freedom.

It is the Saturday preceding the festival weekend and my neighbours seem to have the same idea as me, they are provisioning up in readiness for the upcoming invasion, car parks and shops are full to overflowing and it takes me an age to park. The little red car which had followed me from my home to the village is, in similar fashion, searching in vain for somewhere to park. I manage to squeeze bumble bee into the last narrow space before any other of the circling drivers can jump the queue and force their way in to it. The little red car comes to an abrupt halt at the end of a line of cars which I occupy and where no other parking place exists and stops. An officious, badly uniformed, car park attendant bustles up to the illegally parked car and bends down to admonish the driver. Whoever this teenager is he must have some clout because the attendant stands up very abruptly, takes a step back and salutes before walking rapidly away. I pass the car on the way to the supermarket and try to look inside but the windows are darkened and I can only make out the silhouette of two people in the front seats.

Shopping is something I like, especially grocery shopping, and I enter into it with relish by helping myself to a king size shopping trolley and doing my best to break the record for the most valuable single shopping trolley. I limit myself to one trolley because bumble bee has limited storage capacity.

Chuck Walpole: Monday 25th August.

This is the least enjoyable part of my job. She’s a nice enough looking woman, a bit too old for me but still sexy in that high class rich sort of way but it’s still boring sitting in the car and watching her house and her car journeys and her shopping expeditions. My brief is to note in detail where she goes, who she sees and how frequently. I’ve been doing it for three weeks now and it’s driving me crazy. She works, shops and mostly stays at home and tedious as that is I am charged with recording it endlessly, so I do.

Today she is in the village shopping and the crowds are horrendous, the car parking non-existent. The net result of that set of circumstances is that when she finally finds a place to park I have to park illegally so that I don’t lose her. Wouldn’t you just know it an officious veteran car park attendant, with an incredibly badly fitting comedy uniform, tries to give me a hard time and gets his ticket book out; I have no choice but to get my own ‘ticket book’ out and show it to him. Mine identifies me as MI12 antiterrorism branch and the old guy suddenly has the agility of an Olympic athlete and gets the hell out of my way. I don’t know even if there is an MI12 but the badge that McKafferty gave me looks like the genuine item and it gives me the right result.

The guy driving me is English because like an old American President who it was said couldn’t chew gum and walk at the same time I can’t observe the target and drive on the wrong side of the road at the same time. I tell him to wait in the car for me just in case the old guy has a counterpart who gets antsy and I follow the target into the supermarket. She’s a mad broad, she is filling the trolley with a lot of stuff, including perishables, like she’s going to have a party but I know she isn’t because we have bugged her cell phone and land line and we have an info snatch on her online accounts, personal and business and none of that, including her online diary evens hints at a party. It’s not strictly legal but it’s what I do.

We follow her home when she has finished shopping and watch her steer down the twisting drive which leads to the triple garage. She bypasses the garage and drives down a single paved track which takes her to the back of the boat house. She spends the next thirty minutes unloading the contents of her trunk and taking the packages through the rear door of the boathouse one bag at a time.

Later that same night the mystery is solved, the info snatch pings to us a duplicate of a message to her son, Jake, saying that she will moor in the usual place on the afternoon of the Thursday before the festival begins on the Friday and stay there at least until Tuesday when the festival is over. This gives me five days to prepare to shadow her; she’s going by boat so I will do that too. My immediate plan is to hire a boat and moor it at Pipers Island just downstream of the first bridge. This will give me a clear view of the river as far as the curve in the river beyond which her house is situated. My driving buddy will be on the opposite bank of the river from the house and he will see her leave and call me to let me know. I will take off slowly heading towards Henley and allow her to overtake me, a bit like following her from in front. Overtaking us will make her less suspicious if she notices me following her. What are left now are four or five days of mind numbingly tedious observation; fortunately my pay check more than compensates for this inconvenience.

Simon Hunter: Monday 25th August.

I am walking through the concourse of New York’s recently inaugurated National Airport known by locals as the acronym NYNA which they pronounce ‘niner’. On either side of the concourse, stretching the full length of the building, three gallery levels are crowded with people arriving, departing or simply admiring the impressively flamboyant new retail therapy opportunities. The three hour flight from London is over in what feels like a flash, the comfort afforded by my luxury seat in VIP gold extraplus class enables me to work on my new absorbing project without interruption making the relatively short flight feel even shorter and as a bonus, more productive.

I swivel my head as I walk, observing the gleaming new shops and restaurants; I am so distracted by the new sights and sounds that I do not realise, until it is too late to react, that I have been completely surrounded by a dozen purposeful young men all wearing dark suits and each of whom has almost invisible ear-bud communication devices in place. They close in on each side of me as well as in front and behind; forcing me to walk at a slower pace than I had intended, they are controlling me. I don’t like to be controlled - never have.

Don’t make trouble. The stony faced man to my right says through barely moving lips, like an inept ventriloquist. You’re not in danger, we mean you no harm as long as you comply but we need you to come with us. Through the one sided conversation his cold eyes stare straight ahead, his face stony – expressionless, he brooks no argument.

You could simply have asked. I say softly, mimicking the ‘side of mouth’ ventriloquism in exaggerated mockery, displaying a cavalier attitude which I don’t feel.

Yes sir - and you could simply say no. His reply is icily polite but humourless and unemotional.

We’re surrounded by people, I could make a run for it and what would you do with all these civilians around? By saying this I am letting them know that I recognise that they are not bog standard citizens.

One option, sir, - the same icy politeness - would be to shoot you with a suppressed tranq-dart which will immobilise you immediately and then proceed to give you CPR, the civilians would think we were treating you for a heart attack. The other would be to incapacitate you with a nine mill slug and then openly arrest you as a suspected terrorist. There are other options which I will explain if you wish? All of this is said with indifference in a flat monotone.

I think I’ll opt for agreeing to have a serious discussion. My assumption of their origin is confirmed by the expressed nature of their plans, using phrases like ‘civilians’ makes them military or agency. Compliance with their wishes is clearly for the moment the most prudent option. Any person being treated with such arrogant disregard for their inalienable rights of freedom of movement would have either buckled immediately or panicked. I am not that kind of person I have worked in some very dangerous corners of the world with some very questionable people and were I in some of those places I would now be petrified but I’m in the USA and that turns potential petrification into ‘fundamentally frightened.’

My real job title does not appear in my passport; in that document it states that I am a consultant strategist which, from time to time I am, but not always - such as now. Clearly whoever they are they know I am not just a casual visitor, they know more about me than I feel comfortable with; the bonus is that they obviously do not intend to physically harm me as long as I comply with their wishes. This is, after all, the USA where such things do not, it is commonly believed, happen.

I and my newly acquired ‘companions’ leave the concourse through a door marked ‘strictly security personnel only’ and enter a wide no frills corridor which is flanked by numerous anonymous doors. The securing formation changes and three of the men walk in front of me and three behind, three to my left and three to my right. The middle man of the group in front and behind turn around and walk backwards, the front man facing me and the man to the rear facing the way we have come. They do not relax their vigilance even though they are in a secured corridor which is straight so that they have unrestricted vision in both directions; any unwanted attention could and would be dealt with swiftly. These are professionals and they exude a cold menace which is frightening.

They stop opposite one of the unmarked doors and my guards all turn to face the wall on either side of the door and the door itself. I am spun around unceremoniously to face the same way and silence descends, all I can hear is the gentle synchronised breathing of my escorts. After a brief pause, without any discernible signal the door opens revealing a brightly lit interior to the right and left of which are three men ranged either side of a door, facing in towards each other. I am ushered in and the door is closed quietly behind me.

Come in and sit. The new voice has a suave British accent which is far more cultured than that of my taciturn captor; because of it my brewing fear down-grades to concern.

I walk through the phalanx of guards into the small room which is sparsely furnished with a non-descript desk in a pool of localised light behind which sit two men. The one who had spoken with the British accent waves his arm in the direction of one of the two guest chairs, ignoring the chair indicated, I take the second option and sit saying nothing, giving no reaction. The Englishman smiles with some amusement at my actions and leans back in his chair settling in to what he expects to be a lengthy session. His accomplice who has so far not spoken nods to an African American woman, who had until that point been invisible to me, sitting at a separate desk in a darkened corner of the room. She nods and speaks her understanding. Her voice does not match her haughty appearance; it is high pitched and grates. She opens up an old fashioned reporters pad with a flourish in readiness to take hand written notes, I realise that taking notes by hand leaves no electronic trail as would be the case with voice recording or any other digital means of recording. My immediate concern is why there should be such a requirement. My international working life has taken me into many strange places and conditions, sometimes into danger, but this situation is chillingly different. My unease grows once more.

Three hours later, bemused by the blunt and unequivocal one sided conversation, I leave the security office accompanied by a single escort. Once clear of the security corridor we board a two seat electric luggage cart which takes us diagonally across the busy concourse and through an unmarked door which in turn leads out to a portico under which a sleek somewhat sinister and intimidating looking limousine is parked. Its engine idles quietly and expensively; its tinted windows giving no clue to what is inside. The chauffeur indicates the open luggage compartment in which all of my expensive, if travel battered, luggage is neatly stowed and then wordlessly opens the rear door for me to enter, I am the sole passenger. We sweep out of the airport without having to go through customs or show my passport and navigate a dimly lit unmarked underground tunnel which disgorges onto a highway on ramp which, being behind shrubbery is hardly discernible to passing traffic.

The discussion I had initially anticipated from the two men in the interview room turned out to be a diatribe from the American; the more forceful of the two. His delivery was cold and pugnacious, almost inhumanly detached as he had launched into his theme without any pretence of a gentle preamble. It was soon clear that they knew as much about me as I knew little about them. They knew in detail the nature of my, supposedly secret, project which was to create a new fuel source as an alternative to that provided traditionally by refining crude oil, and to make it available to countries struggling to afford the traditional energy sources available. The project is supposed to be a closely guarded secret because of the obvious ramifications for the traditional energy industry. My task is philanthropic but because of the peculiar circumstances surrounding the Colony, my country of origin I am unable to make our intentions public, to do so would doom it to rejection and failure. My aim is philanthropic but it is now attached to a more focussed matter which is not philanthropic as indicated by the sudden input from the intelligence agencies. I have no way of knowing why they are interested.

How they know so much about me and my project is a complete mystery, I had thought it to be completely under the radar but now they seem to know that the guise under which I travel, that of a consultant strategist, is just that - a guise. By way of inference they are aware of where I am from and who I really represent. This is a first for me, until now my travels have been anonymous and anonymity is for me an invaluable commodity. Something has gone very wrong and is in danger of jeopardising my future activities.

They know that my wife and I are divorced and that my twin children, who are in the custody of my former wife, attend inordinately expensive schools in Berkshire and Oxfordshire - ‘England’ – as the American interrogator quaintly added. They make me a blunt proposition inferring clearly that my ex-wife and the children are under surveillance and would be safe and remain ignorant of the implied danger as long as I comply with their wishes. The proposition’s true meaning is heightened, strangely, by understatement but there is no escaping the seriousness of my two antagonists, particularly the American. I am also told not to consider talking to my contacts at the Colony about my now working for them also. This is also to be kept secret from everybody outside of the so far unspecified US government department they represent. The other of my antagonists who had so far remained quiet after his opening words referred to the government department they represented as ACT1 before he could be stopped short by his apparent senior partner. I realise I am in a jam which by the nature of my work I have been in before but on this occasion my customary escape routes, using my team sources, are no longer readily available to me. ACT1, I know, from reading my departments confidential intelligence files, is the American Counter Terrorism (First Strike) agency, an agency which keeps a profile as low, if not lower than my own now that I have obviously been discovered as being different from what is apparent on the surface.

There would appear to be a leak from within my camp which immediately and loudly rings shrill cautionary bells in my mind. Thinking back over their one sided conversation I begin to assemble a clearer picture from the garbled mixture of presentation and threat. Woven within the fabric of the intimidation are small pearls containing other information which begins to coalesce in the bright act of reflection. I am accustomed to being on my own but not to being alone. With the strong suspicion of a leak from among my own people I am unable to call on the usual support team in case one of my direct contacts is the leak. I am for the first time alone.

The Brit, who despite being advanced in years, displayed a sharp mind and a far more civilised tone asked me completely out of the blue, during a brief interlude in the one sided conversation, what I knew of an Iraqi known as Hashim Aboud. From many past dealings in the Middle East I am aware that Abu Mhadeb (father of Mhadeb), his familiar name, is a charismatic secular guru who has the ear of both moderate and extremist factions of the Sunni and Shia branches of the family of Islam. I admitted knowing of him but not well, saying that my knowledge of the man is limited to what is available for everybody else via news broadcasts and articles published in the more serious journals which I frequently read.

How do you view Abu Mhadeb’s contribution to Iraqi and that of wider Arab world affairs? This overtly casual question came from the Englishman.

He appears to be unifying extreme factions which I can only see as being a contribution to world peace, is my knee jerk response.

Yes, you would think so wouldn’t you? The look the Englishman’s face is one of resigned sorrow.

I am puzzled by the peculiar reaction that my response to the enigmatic question prompts, and wonder why such a question has been asked. A number of other oblique references were made during the discussion on the subject of terroristic indicators in the Middle East but were not pursued to a conclusion. It is clear that these two sinister government officials are specialists on counter terrorism, probably in the Middle East but any solid detail of their intentions and requirements remained moot.

They instructed me to follow my original brief and carry on with my project as planned by my own people but to keep ACT 1 in the loop using a single number scrambled digital hand-set which they gave me. Using it I can only call them and any incoming communications to me will only be made by them. I was further instructed to call them every day and immediately if anything of unusual interest was to occur. Failure to comply with this instruction will lead, the American indicated coldly, to considerable discomfort for my ex-wife and children, the precise nature of which is not offered.

I am advised that they have the private ear of the President of the US who also shares our lofty aims of producing an alternative fuel which could be made available to those held to ransom by the international energy barons and that like me they do not seek publicity for what is being done.

They have firstly threatened me and my family and then they profess to sharing my goals and reasons for undertaking the project. I am unable to fathom out why but it is clear that they don’t know about my other task; if their intentions are honourable, and sanctioned by the President of the USA, I do not understand why they choose the carrot and stick approach as opposed to simply negotiating with me? More disturbingly I can imagine no circumstance in which they would choose to hide their light under a bushel rather than herald to the world that they are helping to aid poorer nations, unless of course they are not! Even more disturbing to me is that ACT 1 – the American Counter Terrorism (1st response) – is deeply involved in something that is not to do with international terrorism at all except, I rationalise it must be because that is their remit.

The brusque American had looked over to the African American woman taking notes of the meeting and draws his hand, palm down, across his throat in the universal signal to conclude her work. She does so and asks in her unattractive high pitched voice if she may leave and continue with other work.

The chauffeur of the limousine driving me from the airport lowers the glass partition which separates us, interrupting my reverie. You want to go straight to the Winchester Towers or is there some other place you want to go first?

Straight to the Winchester Towers, I say distractedly. Bizarrely I don’t find it at all strange after the unexpected interrogation, that the chauffeur knows where I am staying although I have not divulged it to anybody, even during the course of his interrogation or even to my own people. The men who had just talked to me know more about me than I could ever have imagined, they are obviously supremely confident that I would acquiesce and see things their way. They profess to have an agenda which is not dissimilar to mine and have induced me to cooperate with them by understated but nevertheless menacing threats. My family is now under 24 hour surveillance and their continued safety, they emphasise to me, is in my hands. I still have no idea how they know about me but I believe the implied threat that should I consider telling my people we are not the only ones pursuing this course of action the threats would be carried out. I have a great sense of unease about the partnership to which I have reluctantly agreed meaning I now have two masters with all the complexity that entails. Somewhere in my organisation there is a leak and that is something which in my high stake activities could put my life in danger and more importantly to me those of my family.

The other puzzling issue is that they have an understanding of the project I am working on but they appeared not to have any knowledge of the underlying and actually more important reason for what I am doing. Nevertheless until I am able to identify the source of the leak which must, I reason, be somebody who has access to my diary but not necessarily to my department. I am, until I can determine that, on my own and will have to deploy my experience to handle the situation unsupported but, at least, unhindered by further leaky support.

Coming to terms with the bizarre nature of my encounter with the two shadowy officials leads me to thinking about the pace of my working life. Normally I am relaxed about what it is I do even when my methods take me close to the boundaries of what is ethically acceptable but having my own boundaries violated, as they have just been, causes me to rethink. Can I really countenance, given my inbuilt ethics, what I have been doing? I have an unfortunately negative impact on those directly influenced by what I do which I had not considered before. I will need to change my methods of working in order to assuage my ethical dilemma.

Aemon McKafferty: Tuesday 26th August.

I am angry, but then I am nearly always angry, it goes with the job and it’s the passion that drives me on. My Boston family upbringing makes me wary of the English aristocracy and Sir Michael Westinghouse certainly fits into that narrow prejudicial category. Westinghouse and me are working together, from our different locations in London and Washington, at the behest of the US President on what he calls a vital mission which will have far reaching effects on the USA and the whole of the free world. I hate the idea of working with others that I can’t control directly, especially Westinghouse but what the President asks for is what the President gets. Westinghouse’s great Grandfather had been head of MI6 and his great Grandson had taken over the family reigns, skipping a generation; it was the first time that members of the same family had assumed the top position in MI6 since its distant beginnings.

The more I think about it the angrier I get, this English counterpart is a wimp; he has no backbone and always wants to pussyfoot around the subject rather than nailing it first time. The meeting with Hunter in New York was typical of the wishy-washy Brit’s methods. Westinghouse didn’t want to use the lever of threatening Hunters family straight off, he wanted to take it slowly and only use threats if persuasion didn’t work. I think life is too short for that approach and I went straight for the jugular and it worked. Hunter was jerked out of his smugness by the direct threat although it was not as blatant as I would have liked because of Westinghouse’s interference, Hunter is just another weak foreigner - putty in my hands.

Westinghouse also insisted that we should not be up front about their reasons for wanting to hijack the Hunter project but rather to say that we want to support Hunter, with his altruistic reasons, to head up the project. The real reason that ACT 1 is involved would have to be kept well away from Hunter and even Westinghouse. To everybody but a few Hunter was perceived to be a British national working as an international strategist. I am one of the few who know that Hunter is from the colloquially dubbed ‘Colony’ and were that to become known he would certainly lose all credibility with the unwitting US project partners who are cooperating with him on his present project. Their aims are the same as ours, to provide an alternative source of energy but from there on in our aims are diametrically opposed, Hunter’s intentions are philanthropic and ACT 1’s are not on the same page, we have a big problem which we need to sort out but we must keep the truth away from the Brits.

My frustration is further fanned into raw anger by the fact that government scientists knew that the project could not be made to succeed without the direct cooperation of Hunter who has access to technologies far beyond those available in the USA and the rest of the world. There is a need to work with Hunter but not to let him know about the ultimate dangers inherent in the outcome of the project, but he is a smart cookie and he would ultimately work out the deception. I will have to exercise patience which is not my strong suit and bide my time before scuppering both Westinghouse and Hunter whom I consider to be a threat against my beloved sovereign American state.

Sir Michael Westinghouse: Wednesday 27th August.

I remained in New York after our first meeting with Hunter which I feel has been handled very clumsily by McKafferty. I regret having to work with somebody I consider to be an uneducated low life thug who has risen to his position as head of the agency on the back of a number of under the counter political manoeuvres which he has successfully masterminded.

I have no choice but to work with this thug; the Prime Minister has made it very clear to me that this is something I must do, if I choose not to the alternative is being kicked out of office and into the House of Lords which I think would be a fate worse than death. The whole proposition leaves a bad taste; I am being threatened by both my own government and now that of the United States. It gave a whole new slant to the expression ‘special relationship’.

As the head of MI6 I know that Hunter is a citizen of the so called Colony and is, as such, a pariah as far as the few who know about its existence are concerned. In my lofty position I know more than most about the Colony, partly through my great grandfather’s unpublishable memoirs, he was once head of MI6. I actually sympathised with them about the lies and innuendos which have made them outcasts for the last three generations. McKafferty is either not in command of the facts relating to the unfair treatment meted out to the Colony or he chooses to ignore the facts in pursuit of his own agenda, which is more likely to be the truth.

In an attempt to get Hunter’s cooperation by subterfuge rather than brutality, I had started to explain to him what we were about when I was cut off unceremoniously by McKafferty in mid-sentence. I had no opportunity to remonstrate with McKafferty over his unacceptable abruptness but stored my feelings away until we next meet. I sigh deeply and cheer myself up by the thought that I will soon be back in London, far away from thugs and charlatans, back to civilisation.

I am also concerned about the way the meeting was recorded; clearly McKafferty has ensured that the subject of the conversation is kept untraceable. I asked for a copy of the transcript and McKafferty’s PA who had taken down the notes. She looks at me as if I am demented and shakes her head vehemently. A request to McKafferty receives the same wordless refusal; this confirmed to me that I am considered by ACT1 to be irrelevant. As it turns out it was a good thing I decided to record the whole of the proceedings on a miniature digital recorder built into the base of my attaché case – from the boys’ own book of spying - which was placed on the desk I shared unequally with McKafferty.

Hamlet: Thursday 27th August.

My cramped office looks out over DC which is one of the most iconic views in the world, maybe not compared to what the Colossus of Rhodes used to9 look like but nevertheless it is stunning. I admire the view and think about the telephone call I have just received, it did not come through the switchboard but via my scrambled satellite phone which, strictly speaking, I should not have in this building.

As ever the demands made by my handler, who is a high up muckety-muck with African National Territorial Intelligence agency, ANTI, are onerous and stated with cold dispassion. I am to start up a course of action that will destroy an alternative fuel project which it seems for some reason to be close to the heart of the American administration.

I am not a traitor and I do love my adopted country but I love my family back in Africa more. My whole family is under threat from the corrupt organisation under whose dubious protection they are kept alive, for the moment at least. There is nothing I can do about their plight except comply with the ANTI agency demands, through their anonymous intermediary. The boss of my department is a hard man who treats his minions with the discourteous indifference of a zealot. His unwavering aim is to serve his country to the exclusion of all else just as mine is to serve the interests of my African family.

My first task is to make contact with a sleazy mole in one of the big corporations which is involved with the project I am charged with sabotaging. I speak to the contact by telephone using my voice distorting gismo and set him to work; he is a nasty grasping individual with no conscience, unlike me he would sell his own Grandmother down the river to silk line his miserable life. I tempt him in the only way he understands, by offering him a princely sum of money. He accepts without demur. The die is cast and ultimately it is expected to lead to assassination and national unrest on an unprecedented scale and all in the interest of commercial and political power. I hate myself for doing this but I have no choice, I must subvert my conscience - blood is thicker than water.

Isabella Hunter:Friday 29th August.

The morning dawns bright and beautiful. The river is flat calm and the sky an unblemished blue, the temperature is expected to peak in the early afternoon at 29 Celsius which I still think of as around 86 Fahrenheit, just because that’s how Simon used to express the temperature - in the old Imperial system. Similarly he measures distances in miles, feet and inches and weight in tons, pounds and ounces. This should be a clue to his place of birth but I never did get round to following this up and I still don’t know where he comes from.

I pack three holdalls, rather than a travelling trunk because I have to load them into the motor yacht and three cases are easier to manage than a cumbersome trunk. Completing the packing and loading task way ahead of schedule I send a message to Jake with a copy to Caroline telling them that I’m running a little ahead of schedule and inviting them to join me on board the Circadian Rhythm for afternoon tea at my usual down-stream mooring.

I press the remote control on the console and the boat house doors open in all their majesty revealing the ripples induced on the mill pond surface of the Thames by the passage of the English Oak double doors. There is a bouquet to the river which overlays the heavy mustiness of the closed up, little used, boat house which lends a fragrant freshness as the newer outside air is sucked into the darkened interior. A single twist of the ignition key brings life to the launches’ twin engines and they burble smoothly in unison with the pulsing jets of the expelled cooling water as a gentle accompaniment. Once the doors are fully open I can see the far bank clearly and a solitary man is standing splay legged peering towards me through binoculars. I wave to him and he stiffens almost perceptibly and his view wavers just as there is a clamorous angry noise as my near neighbour launches his gyrocopter into the air. The man whom I though was admiring me and my launch is, it seems, looking at Charlie’s gyrocopter. I am chastened and I remind myself that I am no longer the young beauty I used to be.

By nature I am cautious and although I’m a strong swimmer I always wear a buoyancy aid. Across the back of the life preserver the launch’s name, Circadian Rhythm, is emblazoned in an inverted crescent shape like an upside down smile which contains, in smaller text, my name. In the side locker are further aids marked ‘Caroline’ and ‘Jake’, these are scuffed and worn. There is a third device in the locker, this is pristine and unused, still in a clear plastic bag and, is marked Simon. I resist the return of a reflective dark mood and nose Circadian Rhythm out of the boat house and cross to the right side of the river while turning left towards Henley – on – Thames. The stepped single mast, which had last been raised in our past life when together as a family, we cruised down-stream past Simon’s office on our way to glorious holidays. We would motor through the Pool of London and beyond, to the estuary and from there on to continental Europe and sometimes Scandinavia.

For this short voyage the mast will remain stepped to enable us to pass under the bridge on the journey to Henley – on - Thames. I turn my head to make sure the boathouse doors are closing and satisfied that they are I check the almost non-existent river traffic and ease the power lever forward. ’Circadian Rhythm’ sits down in the water as power is gently applied and the engine note takes on a business-like tone. Bringing her up to the lawful speed is achieved, thankfully, without creating an abrasive wash which would speed up the erosion of the river bank on the gardens side of the river.

The note of the engine changes abruptly as we pass under the bridge and the sudden darkness dims my vision. When it clears I have to change course to avoid a small motorboat which has just left Pipers Island and crossed to the right passing the riverside apartments and heading downstream towards the lock at Henley. The man sitting in the pilot’s seat looks out of place he is wearing a formal suit over an open necked polo shirt and an NY baseball cap. There’s no accounting for taste.

Aemon McKafferty: Friday 29th August.

There’s no way I can work with this Westinghouse guy so I decided right at the start of this job to go around him. If I had been able to trust him and MI6 to do their bit properly I would be handling this thing differently, but I can’t and they are too sensitive and wishy-washy to do anything useful – so I’m just gonna ignore them. I shipped out agent Chuck Walpole to England to get the low down on Hunters brood so that we can get a death grip on him if we need to. Hunter’s somebody I have no choice but to work with, or should I say against. I choose Chuck not because he’s the best but because he’s got some kind of old fashioned Brit name and that will help him to fit in and he’s got the conscience of a slab of rock. He’s not the sharpest knife in the drawer but he will do everything I ask of him. I get my PA Loretta Denmark to make all his travel arrangements and tell her to keep the arrangements between the three of us and not to involve the rest of the agency in any way at all. I have a problem which is giving me gyp, someone in the department is leaky and unfortunately the President knows, not who he is but he does know that he exists. I need to get to the bottom of this and until I do I’m going to be madder than the occupants of a stomped on hornets’ nest.

Right off I decided to keep Westinghouse out of the loop because he is constantly whining and saying that we should, as he puts it, tread lightly and not make ripples. Well I’m in the business of making ripples and I’m going to have to make twice the number of ripples to make up for him. His idea is to persuade Hunter to work with us by appealing to his better nature; well I soon stopped that by getting Walpole to get the lowdown and slap Hunter in the face with it which worked immediately instead of over the months it would have taken to do it Westinghouse’s way. I’m going to have to find a way of keeping him out of the loop permanently.

Walpole tells me he followed the Hunter woman to the Henley place on the river and put a tail on the twin kids to find out where they hang out. Because I did that we now know who their friends are and what they do and what routines they follow which make them vulnerable, especially when added to the fact that I have tapped all of their communications. I wanted to take them all into ‘protective’ custody immediately but my boss, the Secretary of State, didn’t think that was a good idea. He said it would cause too many waves. I told him that’s what I’m in the business of doing but he wouldn’t move. I think maybe he should move over to England and join with the wimps at MI6 where he would fit in better. Maybe I should cut him out of the loop too.

Even with all this interference I’m still ahead of the game so I’m just going to plough on and to hell with the rest of them. My next move is to put the fear of the Almighty into this Hunter guy and make sure he falls completely into line with what I want. The President has said that he wants this project under Hunter’s control to succeed. In fact he wants it to succeed before the next Presidential election for obvious reasons.

I don’t understand why we are trying to make a new fuel which can be sold cheaply to the ragged assed countries in the world. We’ve got a whole country full of oil, enough to make us completely self-sufficient so why would we make a cheaper version available, why not just sell ‘em some of our surplus and make a profit? In addition to oil we also have enough shale gas for our national energy needs, so I just don’t see the point.

The President is king for now and thinks I’ll do whatever he wants but it would be good to know why we’re doing what we’re doing. Not knowing why will not stop me from doing my duty as a loyal American and I won’t let anybody, even the President stop me; doesn’t matter who they are.

Simon Hunter: Wednesday 3rd September.

The Zebra Oil Corporation is best known for developing high end fuels and lubricants of the kind used by civilian and military aircraft and serious racing cars among many other less high profile specialities. It is staffed by aficionados considered to be among the best in the world. The more senior of these specially privileged people are not paid a regular salary; their bank accounts are managed by the company accountants and when they need more money it is simply transferred to them without the account holders being directly involved or even aware. This only works because they are not motivated by money; their existence is fuelled by their engrossment in their specialist fields of research. They are other worldly, essentially disassociated from normal life and as a consequence, unpredictable.

I steer my rental car into the main car park of the research facility and park it close against the timber post and rail fence, it is not a designated parking place – they are all full – this remote place is the only useable option I can find. I pause to admire the vista of the Rocky Mountains which are topped by snow, gleaming white against the brilliant azure blue sky, as I thread my way through the hundreds of cars which are crammed into the inadequate parking lot.

The heat of this Colorado morning emanates from out of a cloudless sky which makes it feel many degrees warmer than it actually is. I know of old that the temperature will continue to rise as the morning wears on and will reach the promise promulgated by the outward appearance of the sun and sky and - then some. The approach of fall is heralded by the distant Rocky Mountain peaks down which the snow line will soon descend as the ambient temperature inexorably decreases as winter takes a hold.

Kin ah do fer yuh. The African American female security guard wears a colourful uniform with impressive patches on it; the uniform is several sizes too small for her ample well-nourished frame. She looks at me through a small opening in a wired glass screen which strikes me as a curious way to protect her; it also strikes me as being strange that she should need to be protected.

I’m here to see your R&D Vice President Vincent Kerensky. I say in the more pleasant version of my voice.

I know who our R&D VP is, yer don’ have ter tell me, you’re a Brit. She said the complete sentence as one slurred word followed by the single word, passport.

Handing over my UK passport, which is thick with the extra pages needed to accommodate the many stamps and visas required by my extensive international travel, I wait to see how taxing this reception experience is going to be.

Bin around a bit. She says to nobody in particular while flicking through the pages. I don’t feel it necessary to comment on her accurate observation. Fill the form. She pushes a badly reproduced old fashioned odd sized sheet to me and slaps her hand down on to it. Filling in the information required on the form I slide it back to her through the small opening in the toughened glass security screen.

I couldn’t find anywhere to leave the rental car so I parked outside one of the bays in the overflow car park. Is there somewhere else I can move it to? I make my voice sound friendly in an attempt to establish some kind of equitable rapport with her. My attempt is an immediate failure.

Cain’t park nowhere cept in the marked spaces so y’ll have ter move it fore it gits the Denver boot, costya huner an fifty bucks to git it back – ‘syor choice, she says with studied indifference, completely ignoring my attempt to be friendly.

She accepts the form and scrutinises it pedantically, yer writ the date back ter front, this aint Europe it’s the US of A. She inspects the changes I make and clicks her tongue before folding it in four and placing it inside the passport which she slides into a drawer making a great show of locking it. Yer’ll git it back when yuh leave, she says as she picks up her antiquated museum piece rotary telephone. I make no comment about my observation of its antiquity.

She speaks quietly into the mouthpiece, in contrast to the way she had blustered at me, and then listens intently before straightening her shoulders and, he could swear, she sits to attention and does everything but salute to end the call. VP’s PA says you’re to go up to the top floor for a meet with the prezeedent of our corporation Mr Casper Wolfe. She looks at him in a completely different light. Mr Wolfe don’t hardly see nobody, specially not in his private office. He aint hardly ever here more’n but two, three days a year but you’re gittin to see him, you must be one important dude. She endeavours to smile at me but it is obviously not something she does on a regular basis and the attempted smile crumbles into a confused contortion. If yer gimme yer car keys I’ll git somebody ter move y’r auto fer yuh. She takes a deep breath and adds, Sir. She checks the registration number on the rental’s key card. She points to a single leaf lift door. Take this I/D card and use it to open the elevator door. Yer don’ have to press nothin, the elevator got but one stop an’ that’s at the top where the ‘prezeedent’ of the whole goldurn corporation live. I’s bin a pleasure doin business wi’ yuh sir an’ ah’ll make sure an’ git yer auto key back ter yer. Have a nice day."

Casper Wolfe’s office is large and Spartan - it looks more like a modified barn than a place of work, the wooden floor and walls are topped by an open rafter ceiling. The aroma that greets me as I walk from the lift to the large rough wood desk occupied by Wolfe is a mixture of wood polish and top quality ground coffee. A large window behind the desk gives a view over the facility’s gently steaming cooling ponds, across pine forested nursery slopes to the snow clad Rocky Mountains on the far distant horizon.

Can’t say I understand what all this is about but I’ll do what I can to help. Wolfe stretches across the huge desk and offers his hand to me. I’m Casper.

Simon. We shake hands and take a careful look at each other.

Wolfe is the complete physical opposite of me; I am six two, broad shouldered and glowing with outdoor health, whereas Wolfe is five seven on a good day, narrow of shoulder and has the pasty complexion of someone who spends too much time inside and too little time exercising. Both of us, despite the obvious physical differences take an instant liking to each other and conversation flows freely from what he would call the ‘get go’. I am a great believer in first impressions and with Casper Wolfe the connection bodes well.

"Do you want to explain to me why I as an oil man would want to help you to develop a fuel which would replace the good honest gasoline which has given me a