Project 19

By Robert F. Nutman

Many terrorist attacks are carried out by zealots or fanatics. Some are born of plain and simple, common or garden greed.

Rob Dalton had come home early from a business trip that had been profitable, but in other ways depressing. He had told nobody that he was back, so was surprised to receive an invitation to a meeting that included the words ‘now that you are back’. His curiosity piqued, he decided to go, meeting a Mr. Moulin who made an offer to good to be true.
Declining politely, Rob took his leave, but not before a mini-disc had been pressed into his palm during the parting handshake.

Immediately upon leaving Moulin’s office, Rob noticed that he was being followed, so called his long time friends, Chris and John, for help. Between them, they put together a team and pushed back, unraveling a plot to make billions of dollars at a cost of millions of lives.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu Publishing Services
• Release date: Jul 21, 2015
• ISBN: 9781483432236

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CHAPTER 1

FRIDAY

THE TIP OF THE ICEBERG

L ate September in South Devon has a quality all its own. The days shorten, and the lowering sun’s rich golden glow contrasts the evenings’ crispness, hinting of frosts to come.

It was good to be back after several months living out of a suitcase. I had been working an investigation that had turned sour. The more I dug the more corruption I unearthed. It became very uncomfortable as yet more senior managers became implicated. Finally, a combination of proposals and thinly veiled threats resulted in a very large severance fee and an ongoing retainer on the condition that nothing became public knowledge. Although very profitable, self-blackmail on such a scale had left a bad taste in my mouth, and on returning home, I put my report in a very safe place and took a break. I fished, took long walks on Dartmoor, and spent time alone, calling no one. As far as I knew, only Ben at the house knew I was back; so it had been odd to receive a letter including the phrase now that you are back just a few days later. The writer—a Mr. Moulin of Steel and Mills Securities—knew rather more about me than I liked, so I’d made an appointment to meet him.

Glancing at my watch, I saw that I would be just early enough to be not quite expected and not too early to appear overeager.

Still wary after recent events, I noticed, while waiting to cross the street, that a man waiting to cross the other way looked away just too quickly as he caught my glance. It was way too obvious; real professionals aren’t as easy to spot. I was tempted, but the meeting was more enticing. I decided to lose him. Being Friday afternoon, the shops were busy, so this would be easy.

Several changes of direction, reversing my coat in the men’s room of a department store, and putting on a shapeless hat didn’t take long, and leaving the store, I crossed High Street into Cathedral Yard.

The address turned out to be an old red brick four-story building west of the Cathedral Green. Stopping for a moment, I looked back. As always, the cathedral’s dignified beauty caught my breath. The sandstone carvings glowed orange in the light of the setting sun. White pigeons fluttered about among them, looking for roosting places.

The evenings were getting cooler, and the clear, crisp autumn breeze rustled the fallen leaves underfoot.

Turning my attention to the house, I rang the bell. The number was old and peeling, as was the sign on the wall by the door, which read Steel and Mills, Investment Consultants. The sign may have been old but hadn’t been on the wall long; a small patch of cleaner wall showed at one edge.

The door opened, and I was ushered in by a starchy lady who looked me critically up and down. I introduced myself, and she pointed to a small adjoining room, asking me to wait.

Mr. Moulin will be ready to see you in a few minutes, she said in a frosty tone. I thanked her politely and took a seat.

I was being watched. I could feel it. The sound of muffled footsteps passed and faded behind the wall beside me—back stairs, perhaps?

Casually, I looked through the pile of magazines on the table next to me. It was the usual fare, mostly out-of-date. Normally, one or two would carry mailing labels to the original recipient, or if not, signs of their having been torn off, so I glanced through them. No luck.

I could just see the receptionist at her desk, so I tried striking up a conversation.

I haven’t noticed your company before. Been here long?

No, we moved here less than a month ago. She wasn’t keen to be drawn into conversation, adding lamely, An office had been planned for mid-Devon for some time.

Oh, do you have many locations? I went on. I haven’t heard the name before.

She was not eager to continue, making me more determined to do so. The feeling of being watched was growing, and I sensed that increasing the pressure would cause something to happen.

It did. The phone on her desk buzzed, and in a moment, I was being directed up the stairs.

Mr. Moulin will see you now, she said in a tone that showed her relief at being off the hook. Please go to the second floor. You will see his office on the left just past the window.

Some deception was going on, but as yet, I had no idea what it was. So far, I wasn’t particularly impressed, but since I was here, I would do what I could to find out more. It’s not a good idea to write anything off too quickly. I’ve done so and paid the price.

Real villains are not easy to spot. We have become used to the Hollywood versions, who may as well wear nametags. Hi, I’m Guido, and I’m a bad guy!

Reality is mundane, subtle, and complex, as many have discovered to their permanent cost. Violence, when it does occur, is rarely spectacular or public; rather, it is inconspicuous, sufficiently sordid, and rather sad. Unusual deaths have a way of attracting too much attention.

I had reached Mr. Moulin’s door and knocked.

Come in!

I opened the door. It was the man I had seen crossing the road!

Well, Mr. Moulin, if that’s your name, we meet again!

He seemed neither surprised nor embarrassed, so I continued. You know a lot about me, so I came to see you, but you were so obvious that I’m losing interest.

That’s what I had hoped, he responded calmly. I have an interesting commission, and how better to find out who’s not a rank amateur? He went on, adding, The coat and hat were nice touches; if I hadn’t known where you were heading, you may have got clean away.

I took this as an indirect compliment. Thank you! Now what do you want?

Moulin leaned back in his chair, pausing for a moment before replying. You seem to be someone who prefers to come to the point, so I’ll not give you the full sermon. I know that what I’m going to tell you will sound preposterous, so I ask that you bear with me.

I nodded my agreement and settled back in my chair.

Have you ever wondered why problems with obvious solutions don’t get solved?

Assuming this to be rhetorical, I said nothing.

Usually someone doesn’t want them fixed, he continued, and has leverage. It has nothing to do with ethics, morality, or even common sense, just vested interest.

He stopped, waiting for a reaction. Getting none, he went on. Most people believe that governments run the world, but this has long ceased to be the case. The only debate is how long it’s ceased to be the case. Since the Industrial Revolution and the robber barons, larger and larger multinational conglomerates have progressively taken control of our lives. The outward appearances of democracy are maintained for cosmetic reasons, reassuring the workforce and safeguarding markets and production.

I had grasped the concept but failed to see what it had to do with me, so I leaned forward and interrupted. But, as you probably know, I’m apolitical. All I do is tackle problems for those willing to hire me. My reputation is not for soap box oratory.

He smiled wryly at me and shrugged. Okay, you just want the bottom line? Here it is.

I had the feeling that this was about to get too rich for my taste.

He continued, As I’m sure you know, there are government departments set up to monitor groups as diverse as Russian dissidents and Israeli intelligence. It’s not relevant whether they are supposed to be on our side or not.

So you’re a government agency? I interrupted.

Yes.

Which one?

Well, that’s the problem. I’m not sure anymore. All governments have been infiltrated and compromised to the point of impotence. Some are trying to resist, and those that still have some regard for the principles of democracy are hanging on by the skin of their teeth as they drop like flies.

The way you’re talking makes it sound like Judgment Day is next Tuesday. How do I know whether this is real or just another bat in someone’s belfry?

I think it’s a real threat and would like to do all that I can to try and stop it, but I have to go independent. That’s why I called you. You’re not part of the establishment.

What do you want me to do?

I’ve got wind of a plan that will reduce the number of controlling parties.

Just like that? I asked, noting that he’d again used I instead of we.

Just like that.

If what he was saying were true, we were discussing a major shift in global economics.

Well, Mr. Moulin, I’m sorry, but this is much too rich for me. I’m small time, not James Bond.

I’d pay one thousand a day plus expenses.

It was definitely time to leave. This was too much, even for government work!

I’m sorry, I said, getting to my feet, but I plan to take a few months off and visit some places where Mother Nature is still in charge.

I appreciate your candor. I’m sorry too. I could have used someone like you.

Thank you; your offer is most generous. I’m not saying I wouldn’t help, but it’s time for that break.

He reached forward to shake my hand. He had a powerful grip, but there was tension behind the firmness.

If you change your mind, call me here.

Certainly, and thanks again for considering me.

Once outside, I strolled across the Green and into the Ship Inn. Sir Francis Drake is said to have frequented this pub. I wondered whether he had felt the same as I did now as he considered the prospect of the approaching Spanish fleet.

Mr. Moulin had pressed a minidisk into my hand as I left. I had not reacted and slipped it into my pocket on the way down the stairs to the front door. I had no idea what was going on but was not about to be foolhardy.

Several figures had drifted in and out of my attention as I’d walked to the pub, and one had followed me in, taking a seat at the other end of the bar. I paid him no attention and nodded to the barmaid. Ginny! I’ll take a pint of Guinness when you’ve a moment.

She had served me cold Guinness for close on ten years and looked just as soft and inviting now as she had pulling that first pint all that time ago.

Coming up!

Thanks; have one yourself! I took a long, slow mouthful of my drink, and wondered what to do next. I could dump the disk but was too curious to do that. Calm reflection was in order. If Moulin’s office had been bugged, there was nothing I’d said that wouldn’t check out. I had called my travel agent, and collected brochures. They were spread out around the house right now. I had been given no specific verbal information by Moulin, and had declined his offer. The disk was tucked away in an inside pocket, and unless someone mugged me, it was safe enough for now. Moulin had pressed the disk into my hand so smoothly that even if we had been on video, I doubt whether the pass would have been spotted. I’d had no idea that it was coming until feeling the disk, and Moulin had held the handshake just long enough for me to catch on. Come to think of it, he’d done a perfect job. Thus he must have suspected we were being listened to or watched. He could have simply given it to me while covering up with small talk, but then I would have had the chance to refuse it. How did he know that I wouldn’t make a mess of it?

The first priority was safety. While the disk was in my pocket, a wrong move could trigger anything, and I had no idea who was involved. The man at the end of the bar may just be having a drink.

Using a cell phone in public shows a certain lack of class, but there are times when other considerations override such concerns. The man at the end of the bar had moved closer, and another had joined him. They weren’t talking.

I dialed.

Chris! It’s Rob; how the hell are you?

No, I’ve been back for a while. I just needed some time alone.

I’m at the Ship.

Yes, I’m buying.

Can you bring John? What’s the matter, are you afraid to be out after dark without your big friend?

Okay, so he’s there with you.

Right! I hung up.

He lived close by, and they’d probably be here in five to ten minutes.

Both men down the bar were involved. One of them had removed an earpiece after I hung up.

Since Moulin’s first contact with me, there had been more than enough time to set up all kinds of surveillance. My cell phone was certainly compromised, which was okay; now I knew. I had gained a small advantage, and perhaps a means to manipulate.

Chris and John were my closest friends. They were just the two to have around when there was trouble brewing. They were an odd pair. John had spent a number of years in the States, and had brought back a Harley, along with the fierce loyalty bikers have for their friends.

The after work rush had subsided, so I chatted with Ginny as she polished glasses at the sink. I had admired her from afar, but had somehow never quite managed to act on it. Perhaps she was just good at her job, and produced this response in all her male customers. She never flirted, and I had seen her tactfully turn down many an offer. I didn’t even know whether she was married, and for some strange reason, had never had been able to bring myself to ask. She wore a gold necklace, but no rings. I liked that necklace; it dropped tantalizingly into her cleavage. She had a wonderful figure, and once, catching me admiring it, she had smiled mischievously. I had blushed to the roots of my hair, hesitated, and the chance had slipped through my fingers. This was not like me, but strange things happen. Besides, I told myself, to justify my reticence, that hitting on barmaids is not very bright. They are targets for every man who fancies his chances after a drink or two. So, I had reasoned, if a barmaid does have an interest in a customer, she’d let him know. She never had, so I just sipped my drink until the unmistakable sound of Chris and John’s arrival.

Sorry to have kept you waiting, Rob. I got another call right after yours.

It was Chris, whose voice could chip paint a block away. As it was, he held it at a modest level, although conversation did pause for a moment. He was tall, angular, very much on the skinny side of slim, and didn’t look in any way the repository for such a booming voice. He could be the family solicitor, with frameless glasses and an austere, formal image. He was, in fact, a civil engineer, and very much the hands-on type. I had once clambered around the steel skeleton of a thirty-floor office building with him, trying to keep up. Just behind him, filling the doorway, was John. He had to duck as he came in, and couldn’t walk around in here without risking head injury. Usually we made him sit down. It was less nerve-racking.

Hi, how you doing? asked John, whose voice, in contrast, was soft and at times you could miss what he said. Chris more than made up for John’s reticence. I shook hands with Chris, who, like me, had the stiffness learned in public schools, and then had the wind squeezed out of me by John’s bear-hug. They sat down, one on each side of me.

So, John began, why have you really been hiding out? You usually call when you get back from your jaunts.

I know, but this last job got me down. It’s depressing to find so many low people in high places.

I went on to tell them what I’d been doing and how things had ended.

What’s this? Chris chipped in, You’re showing a moral streak. Have you had a checkup lately?

I’ve always had a moral streak. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t be paying for drinks; I’d own the pub. Do you have any idea how much certain people would pay for my files?

They were pointedly ignoring me, looking at the ceiling and drumming their fingers on the bar. I ignored them and nodded to Ginny.

Do you have any idea? I began again; and the drumming got louder, stopping as Ginny put their drinks in front of them.

You were saying? They said together.

I was saying—

And as usual, interrupted Chris, it was bullshit. If you sold them your files, you’d probably end up dead. They’re what’s keeping you alive. Don’t ask me if you need an agent! John, on the other hand would do it. He’s dumber than a stump.

So don’t believe me. I really was going to take a break. In fact I just turned down an offer for more per day than either of you losers make in a week!

Oh yeah? With who?

When are you going to fix your grammar? With whom! Anyway, I can’t tell you, client privilege.

Hah! But it’s not your client, you said you turned it down. You can tell us.

I did, and I can’t. Do you want my reputation ruined by having you two knocking at the door, begging for a job?

Chris shook his head and gazed sadly at me.

Good try, but not even close. We don’t believe you.

Chris reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone.

We’ve got to finish these drinks and go. He said, Do you want to come and see how things are done by the pros?

Sure! I’d be glad to come along. Who are the pros we’re going to watch?

Sometimes I wonder why we bother with you. You’re so cruel.

So where are we going?

It’s a secret.

We finished our drinks and headed for the door.

Where’s your car? Chris asked. I told him where I’d left it.

If you’re so well off, how come you’re too cheap to pay for parking?

That’s nothing to do with it, I left Nosey at the vet’s to have her nails cut; you know how much she hates that. Anyhow, I felt like walking. Some people still know how to. If you need lessons, let me know.

Once outside, they both turned to me as if about to say something, but I didn’t give them the chance.

So how are we getting there? Where are the wheels?

Take your pick, British or American?

Chris’s Triton or John’s Harley? I opted for size.

So you don’t trust my driving? complained Chris.

Bingo! We’ll see you when you manage to shift gears.

The bikes were close by, and as we turned a corner, I caught sight of the two men leaving the pub. One was on the phone.

Chris was on his bike and away in an instant, but not before I had given him a signal that we were being followed. John saw it too, and as his bike rumbled into life, he handed me the passenger helmet, revved the engine, and we surged out onto the street. The helmet had headphones built in, so I plugged in the jack. Instead of rock and roll as I expected, John’s voice came over.

What’s going on? Who were those guys?

This is new, when did you get it?

Damn it, man, why won’t you answer? What are you into?

I don’t know yet. I didn’t think I was into anything, and whatever I wasn’t into seems to think that I’m still in it, if you get my drift. Just pay attention, and do nothing. I mean that. You’ve been seen with me now, so expect some attention. Now let’s have some fun!

Okay, he said and opened up the bike. Rock and roll was back, with Chuck Berry and No Particular Place to Go.

It was soon clear where we were going, as we turned onto the towpath by the canal. It dead-ended at the Double Locks, a favorite haunt of ours.

Chris had beaten us there.

Where have you two been? Taking the scenic route via Plymouth? I’m on my third pint.

What of, milk? I retorted, You can’t drink more than two pints of this stuff without becoming an embarrassing babbling idiot, and ending up falling in the canal.

During the week, and out of the tourist season, one would expect to find either students from Exeter University, or locals, rarely anyone else. This was fortuitous; anyone else would be out of place. We walked in the front door. I might have known! Chris and John had made a call or two before coming over to the Ship. It was good to see familiar faces.

Remind me never to trust you with a secret, I said, laughing, I was after some peace and quiet, which are the last things to hope for around this scruffy crowd of reprobates! So I guess I give in. Landlord, please get these people well and truly plastered, and I will pay the bill. Please collect their car keys as they collect their first drink, and do not return them, whatever excuse they may give, or offer they may make, particularly the pretty redhead. Thank you!

The landlord knew the drill and went to work. Closing time would be as usual for others, and a little later for us. The fact that only one road led to the pub was convenient, and once trusted, drinks and privacy could be found here at almost any time. It was here that we had built some very useful relationships with the men in blue, who on occasion also liked to be able to drink out of hours.

I felt pretty sure that my new friends were out there somewhere, so after a while, I suggested we go outside. Across the river, the lights along Topsham Road ran off to the right. It was too far away, and the view was badly obscured by trees. On the other side, however, the back of an industrial estate was closer, and offered vantage points. There were always vehicles parked over there, so I made sure I was facing that way. I waited and, after several minutes, caught the glow of a cigarette being lit in a van parked off to the side of a lumberyard.

I still hadn’t decided what to do with the disk. Should I risk keeping it on me, or should it be put somewhere for later retrieval? I was still mulling this over when the decision was made for me. A movement across the canal caught my eye, and the next instant we were caught in the glare of spotlights.

It was a raid, the first in years! They were serious, and we were the targets. There were local police, a K9 team, plainclothes, and far too many people that I didn’t recognize. This was designed to intimidate.

We were ordered to lie facedown, and there, at the edge of the darkness, I caught sight of the men from the Ship Inn. I could feel their eyes on me. Keeping them in sight, I waited, the disk in my hand. The grass was damp, the ground still soft from yesterday’s rain. The police had reached John, and told him to stand up slowly. His massive frame blocked me for an instant from the two men; and I flicked the disk into the canal.

Take your hands off me, right now, or you’ll get me mad! John roared at the men holding his arms. He pulled away and swung an enormous fist at the man to his right. They tried to grab him, but couldn’t. He plunged forward with a policeman tucked under each arm, then spun round, taking down the men from the Ship like bowling pins. Then it was over. John cooled down and climbed obediently into the waiting van.

When it came to my turn, I looked around, carefully noting my position, directly in line with two large trees to the right, and with the corner of the building and a pine tree across the canal to the left. I wanted more than ever to know what was on the disk.

It was our longtime friend, Ed Thomas, Sergeant Ed, who put me in the van. I said nothing, but he was clearly uncomfortable, and seemed wary of the two from the Ship.

Once at the Central Police Station, we were separated and searched. I was questioned for what seemed forever, by a man I’d never seen before. He had a London accent and was not about to give any answers to my questions. It was a long evening, with endless questions about my activities over the last months. Finally, I told the man to either charge me with something, or shut up. Upon this his manner became much less courteous. This was a serious effort on someone’s part. I wondered what they were looking for! I was not even allowed to make a call to my solicitor. Eventually, the ‘Official Secrets Act’ was brought into the discussion, and I knew that if this were officially sanctioned, any protest I might have would go nowhere.

By the time this was all over, dawn was breaking. We were tired and hungry, and although we asked very nicely if we could borrow a police van, they had clearly had enough of us, and turned us out on the street. The two from the Ship were nowhere to be seen. Chris, John, and I strolled along in silence. John was grinning.

What are you looking so pleased about?

Did you see those guys go down? They got their nice clean pants all muddy.

That was quite a show, I smiled.

I hope it was worth it. It’ll cost me a court appearance.

It was. It might have saved my bacon. I owe you.

So buy me bacon and eggs, twice.

Sure!

Chris was quiet.

What’s up? I asked him.

What did you throw into the canal?

I hadn’t realized that he’d seen me, but Chris doesn’t miss much.

Well, I don’t think they saw it, I said, because we wouldn’t have had the third degree if they had. They agreed.

By this time we had reached the cafe by the bus station.

Look, let’s sit down, have some breakfast, and I’ll tell you what I know.

I sat, my back to the window; the two of them sat opposite.

You sure are nervous, observed John. Normally you like to see out. Do you think we’re still being watched?

Could be. Trouble is I don’t have the foggiest idea what this is all about. I have somehow stirred up a hornet’s nest, and don’t even know who’s involved. We’ve known each other for a long time, and I could use your help. Do you want in?

They looked at each other.

No, we’re going to turn you in. You got us into trouble!

Thanks, I knew I could count on you.

We finished our meal, and were getting up to leave, when John said casually, They’re back!

Where?

Across the street, in the van.

Don’t they give up?

I guess not just yet. Let’s give them the runaround, I said. We need to find out who’s out there. We’ll get my car, and I’ll take you to the Locks for your bikes. Then we’ll separate. I’m going home to check on things, get some sleep, and think a little.

We walked to the vet’s office to pick up my dog, Nosey. Chris and John hung around outside while I went in. Nosey was mostly basset hound and gave the impression of being permanently comatose. She often had to be carried from her feeding bowl to her bed, seemingly forgetting the way. However, she wasn’t called Nosey for nothing, and could find any kind of chemical substance, however well hidden. Her specialties were drugs, explosives, chocolate, and bacon. She was quite willing to get in the car, so I knew that it was safe. She fell asleep on John’s lap and drooled copiously. That was okay; they were very fond of each other. I drove home slowly after dropping Chris and John off for their bikes but didn’t spot a tail. I didn’t much care. I was tired. They knew where I lived, and could follow me if they wanted.

I lived above the cliffs, with Haldon Moor behind. Reaching the top of Telegraph Hill, I pulled into the Petrol Station. As I filled up, Jack Mullins, the owner, came out to see me.

Morning, young Master Dalton, You look like you’ve ’ad quite a night. Reckon you’ve just missed your visitors. They pulled out going t’ward Torquay ’bout five minutes ago.

This wasn’t a surprise; they’d probably been tracking me all the way.

That’s okay, Jack, I’ll talk to them later. What were they driving?

It was one of those mobile home things, very fancied up, satellite TV and all.

Thanks.

I could expect to find a tracking unit on the car. Let’s hope they hadn’t made too much mess. I was in need of some shut-eye.

Nosey knew we were nearly home, raised her head, sniffed, grunted, and lay back down. It was all clear. I backed the car into the garage and closed the doors.

The house had been in the family since the early eighteenth century, and I had become the sole owner fifteen years ago upon losing my parents in a plane crash.

It was three floors and twenty rooms of austere gray Devon granite. Its walls were thick, and it had been built to last forever. The oldest part of the structure was thirteenth century. The house stood on 150 or so acres of beech and pine woods. Most of the land had been left natural. The downstairs living room had panoramic views out over the woods that dropped away to the edge of the cliffs below. A bay cut in sharply, and could be accessed by the old smugglers’ tunnel that came up in several places around the property. I had kept these tunnels in good shape, with Chris and John’s help, and stored various things in them. The authorities would not have been too happy about some of the stuff, so we had gone to some trouble and made entrance rather difficult to achieve. In some cases, with a little luck, you may get in, but not out again. If any visitors had found their way in, they’d have to wait!

Nosey was snuffing about, making grumbling sounds; she could probably smell our visitors. However, I wasn’t worried; she would let me know if there was any danger. I went upstairs, flopped down on my bed and fell asleep with my clothes on.

CHAPTER 2

A FISHING TRIP

I slept fitfully, my dreams filled with menacing, tumbling images of lights and faces. Suddenly, I was lying on the bank of the canal, peering into the greenish water. I was looking for something. What? Where? Then, deep below the surface, was Moulin’s lifeless head, eyes wide open, staring at me.

This jolted me awake in a cold sweat.

Hey, sleepyhead, are you going to lie around all day? Remember our motto; ‘Places to go, people to annoy’!

Chris and John were hanging in the doorway, big grins on their faces.

We had so much fun last night that we want to do it again today. Who’s it going to be this time? How ’bout the army, the Internal Revenue, or maybe the CIA?

Chris was waving a sheet of paper in my face with the words ‘You’re Bugged’ in large red letters. Nodding, I waved the paper away and got out of bed.

Chris and I thought we’d go fishing. Wanna come? John asked. Well, since we couldn’t talk here; it sounded like a good idea.

What do you have in mind?

Shaldon. We heard that the mackerel are running. If we leave soon, the tide will be right for raking cockles before going fishing.

All right, we’ll go, but I need a shower first, and by the way, how did you get in?

We saw Ben. It was a bit of luck, He’d just got back himself.

That had left the place vacant for long enough for our friends to have poked around quite a bit.

Chris and John went off downstairs, and I could hear their voices in the study below. It was a safe bet that they were testing my best Scotch, while looking for bugs. Amongst his other skills, John had been trained by the best in electronic surveillance, explosives, and bomb disposal. He had an electrical engineering degree, and while in his final year in college, on a rugby tour, had got into some kind of trouble. He wouldn’t talk about it, but I suspect that the military had talked to the judge, and some kind of deal had been struck.

We were about to leave, and I was heading for the door to the garage, when Chris stopped me.

I’m driving! I want to show you my new toy.

Squatting outside the front door was a matt, all-black Hummer.

So you’ve decided to drive something inconspicuous, provided, of course, that it’s dark? I’m proud that you’ve at last overcome your extrovert tendencies. What have you done to it that doesn’t show on the outside?

Not much!

Uh-huh. Sure!

Okay, then, Chris relented, this isn’t an urban weekend warrior vehicle. It’s upgraded military specs, Armor plated, bulletproof, and other stuff we’ll show you later. John has come up with a neat idea that we’re sure you’ll like.

Hang on; don’t you want to take Nosey? John chipped in.

We could. If you’ll promise not to embarrass her with strange behavior.

Much as John loved Nosey, I couldn’t help feeling that he had another motive for wanting her along; so I went in and woke her up. She wasn’t too keen to move but perked up when she saw that a ride was involved.

It wasn’t long until we were over the top of Haldon and running down the hill into Teignmouth. This bit of road reminded me of going to visit my grandmother as a small boy. Coming down into Teignmouth, the view is magnificent; the estuary stretching to the right toward Newton Abbott, and Shaldon nestled along the shore on the opposite side. It was always busy—.traffic crossing the road bridge, perhaps a train below, a ship loading clay or easing out through the narrows, and always a flotilla of small craft, moored, or moving about on the wider parts of the estuary. We were heading for the Salty, an area that was exposed at low tide, and to which one could wade, with a rake and bucket, to collect cockles. I tried to make sure that I did this at least once a year, reminiscing as I scratched about in the gritty mud. The continuous clinking, slapping sounds of rigging and the familiar cries of the gulls were comforting reminders of simpler times.

The Ness, the cliff at the Shaldon end of the estuary, had been falling away over the years, but its stately red sandstone shape still stood guard over the village below. We reached Shaldon Bridge, crossed, and turned left.

You must know something I don’t, Chris. Where are you going to park this monster?

"Oh, ye of little faith, how can you think to ask such a question?"

Upon this, he made a left turn down a slipway, crossed the beach, and drove into the water.

Did I mention the Snorkel? Chris inquired casually as we drove through three feet or more of water. On land again, in the middle of the estuary, Chris made an elaborate show of stopping, switching off, and getting out. He reached in his pocket and pulled out some change.

"What, no parking meters?"

You always were a show-off, I said, as he handed me a rake.

Maybe, but we must get somewhere secure to talk. They know where we are; so we can expect to see them soon. They have the best equipment, so we probably won’t have to wait too long.

We’re right out in the open. Is that wise?

I have my reasons, and it’ll be okay for a few minutes. Now let’s rake cockles.

We set to work. By the time we were through, a crowd of bystanders had collected, probably waiting for our return to shore when the tide came in.

Ten minutes later, an unmarked helicopter passed overhead, slowing for a moment, before disappearing