Who The Hell Are You Simon Smith?

By Ted Schipper

Set in the aftermath of 9/11and the London Underground Bombings, Simon Smith, an ex-infantryman and a practicing Oxford graduate Solicitor, is singled out by UK Intelligence to lead the acquisition of a strategic asset in the Middle East, in an effort to preempt extreme Sunni terrorism. The story is a first person account of the construction of Simon’s character, his enlisting, planning and execution of an intricate covert operation, including the blackmail of a Muslim member of the House of Lords, and Simon’s interaction with the Middle East culture and Muslim theology.
Torn between personal ambition, family, a crucial mission and intelligence community internal politics, Simon is thrown into worlds he is ill equipped to negotiate. Though he is key to Briton’s defense in its war on terrorism, Simon is left to pay the price alone.
Inspired by certain true events, ‘Who the Hell Are You Simon Smith’ can be characterized as “Catch 22 meets The Firm”, provides sharp and cynical insight to the inner workings of real life covert intelligence operations and the thought process and experiences of an undercover operative.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ted Schipper
• Release date: Jun 14, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005901042

Ted Schipper

Best known as the Executive Producer for the Hollywood motion pictures Zero Dark Thirty; The Master; and Lawless, and the founder of WADJU Inc., Ted Divides his time between Montreal and LA. This is Ted's first novel publication.

Book preview

Who the Hell Are You Simon Smith?

Chapter 1 : Near Miss

The elevator doors split open abruptly, with the traditional accompanying dong. He slowly shuffled out of the elevator. Are you also from the downtown office? he asked, as his eyes met mine.

His voice was raspy and barely audible. His face was white with a thick layer of dust that covered him from head to toe. Not the typical character you would expect to bump into at the entrance to one of the uniquely high powered law firms in all of the United States. No I said apologetically, as we uncomfortably waited together to be buzzed into the shrine. I looked into his eyes and saw a mixture of fear, shock and horror. The contrast of his appearance compared to mine, sporting an impeccably designed Boss suit, was stark. He felt the need to explain: I had nowhere else to go. There's no communication; no transportation. I had to walk all the way and fight the stampede getting here. Do you know what's going on??

It is not every day that F-16's are heard buzzing 300 feet above the Manhattan skyline. I was beginning to recognize that this was indeed a monumental occurrence when I peered through the floor to ceiling windows and saw growing clusters of people walking, running in one direction, all uptown, in an endless stream like a herd without a leader. Looking into this stranger's startled eyes, the profound impact that this morning was to have on so many people's lives, was beginning to register, yet even then, I didn't appreciate that the world, as we knew it, was about to change.

As the glass door opened, letting us into the foyer to the shrine, the refuge seeker asked do you know if anyone else made it out?

Out of where? I asked. Out of the downtown office, the 64th floor of the tower that exploded he responded. Only about half of us were in the office when it happened, and I haven't seen any of them since. The only thing I heard were the words 64th floor. His words hit my face like pelting rain, and it dawned on me: that's where I was supposed to be this morning, Tuesday, September 11th, 2001, if the change of venue for my 9 o'clock meeting hadn't been arranged for me. This stranger survived, but the fate of the poor souls who were trapped in the burning building was supposed to be mine too.

But then again, fate rules, and being another faceless victim of what will be recorded as possibly the world's most horrific act of terrorism, was not intended for me. Because I am Simon Smith.

And no, I am not another attorney at the supremely upscale waspy law firm of Sidney and Laurson. I am Simon Smith and 9:00 am on September 11th, 2001 was the kickoff of my road show for the venture capital fund I was raising. In ways that I am not at liberty to describe, I was able to coax the immovable Marvin Rice, a managing partner at the legendary 220-year-old law firm, into giving me face time with a number of his prime clients, to pitch my fund. Seven, carefully selected, prospects were lined up 30 minutes apart, a casual delay worked into the schedule to ensure that the prospects bumped into each other, which was intended to create an impression of short supply in this exceptional investment. And who would not oblige the iconic Marvin Rice and turn down a ticket to his exclusive club of insiders. Super power Rice sent me an email the previous week asking me where I would be staying. I was indeed grateful that he did, since I was reserved at the prestigious Morgan on 32nd street. This was considerably beyond my means but it was necessary for me to convey the message that I wasn't merely another attorney, and this was a way to establish myself. In retrospect, boasting the Morgan was a good move, as Marvin replied that Sidney and Laurson had just acquired a new securities firm with offices in Mid town, closer to my hotel, with better parking and we could hold our meetings there, instead of at their traditional offices in the 1st building of the World Trade Center.

There are only a handful of people in the world like Marvin Rice, who can take a shot from anywhere on the court and it will end up a perfect swoosh, even if they aren't looking at the basket, or, as in this case, didn't even know where the basket was. The meetings began as scheduled, luckily for us both, as it later turned out, at the mid -town office. Things were actually going well for a while, until at 9:15 Marvin got a call to the conference room, to which he responded:

So what do you want from me? Tell them to do exactly what they're told. Let me know if there are any developments. And make sure they all go back to work as soon as it's all over. Marvin looked up at all present and said: Weird. Apparently, a plane hit the first tower of the Trade Center. It took me a split second to respond:

it's probably one of those helicopter tours of the Statute of Liberty that hit a window or something. I, of course, had no idea what I was talking about. It was just double talk, which in translation meant: "I have been preparing this pitch for months. We have everything lined up, I spent a shit load of money that I don't have, including on a room at the Morgan, so don't screw this up for me with small talk or silly anecdotes of a plane accident. Back to business. My business!

Being the sharp guy he was, Marvin of course understood exactly what I was saying and pushed the meeting along as planned. Our mark was nicely warmed up and was headed toward the strategic side benefits talk, which in business vocabulary means : Marvin, this guy walks the walk and talks the talk, but I have no idea what in fact he is saying and have no idea how or if it will be profitable for me. Nonetheless, Marvin, if you say it's a must in order for me to get into the Club, I'll do it, because you said so. Just on cue.

But then another call came in to our room at 9:35. This time Marvin was more attentive. What's going on? He asked his PA. Are you serious? Another plane had hit; this time it was the second tower. That was when we all made our way to the window to see what was going on outside. And what a sight it was. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Just a huge pillar of thick grey smoke. It took us no less than 10 minutes to get the window of the classy office tower to open, and then there were 6 of us leaning out the window trying to see what was going on downtown. We still didn't see much but the smell was overpowering. Gusts of fumes from the burnt jet fuel mixed with a greyish whitish dust covered everything in sight. Then, looking down to the street, we saw the hermetic grid lock, the trail of people making their way on foot uptown, and then came the ear shattering noise of F-16's flying just above our heads.

The PA burst into the room and announced that we won’t believe what she just heard on the news. Marvin was not even listening – Get me the office manager of the downtown office, now! he shouted. And get me someone from City Hall and Harold at our Washington office. The PA looked at him and with a cocky smirk that only PA's have, I already tried that, but there are no phones. All my efforts to remind those present of the religious obligation in the USA of making money under any circumstances, were futile.

This was 9/11, which was soon to be reported as a broad attack on U.S. key targets by Islamic fundamentalists. The meetings scheduled thereafter, of course, didn't take place and even reverence for Marvin Rice wasn't enough to keep anyone focused on my presentation. No one even bothered to cancel, as if the absence of phones, mobile connection and email is an excuse. What else was there left to do but order bagels and watch the developments on TV. After finishing my second tuna melt special was when I met our guy from the downtown office at the entrance.

I did feel compassion for this poor survivor in front of me and blurted out: Those Fucking Arabs!. He derived some solace from my statement.

Little did he know that I am Simon Smith, a hardened son of a bitch, unmoved by a little terror and a few innocent casualties. What I was really pissed off at, was that these pilgrims had wrecked my roadshow!

But it's not like Simon Smith to take such a hit sitting down. So I quickly bounced back. With all the transportation to and from Manhattan shut down and all the locals more interested in looking for the neighborhood Pakistani, upon which to release their frustrations, I quickly enlisted my ingenuity and reserved a table at Beds which was then the hottest club in town and at which I had no chance of getting a table on any other given night. And the cherry on top was that as a survivor, our party's tab was all on the house!

But even for Simon Smith, 9/11 was not all fun. My venture capital fund would need to wait another 24 months before it could get off the ground and little did I know at the time that the workings of global terrorism would soon be back to snare me in. Things didn't fair that well for Marvin either. He never made it off the treadmill one week later.

Chapter 2: Real Near Miss

The Royal Hampshire Regiment, part of the 8th Infantry Brigade is one of the fiercest infantry forces that the British army ever produced. This is a well-trained, highly motivated and highly efficient group of killing machines. Also known as Her Majesty's finest, regardless of the fact that most of the persons enlisted in this exclusive group are either brain dead or borderline psychopaths. Even those who for some reason may have started out otherwise, the thrashing, alcohol and behavioral acclimation overturned such uncommon statistical anomalies and set the lines straight with the rest of the degenerates.

Yes, I Simon Smith, am one of those statistical anomalies turned degenerate. Strange really, as I actually started out on the diametrically opposite side of the spectrum. It all started when I decided I wanted to fly a jet. This, of course, was the product of a completely coherent mental process, only marginally impacted by Tom Cruise on his motor cycle in Top Gun.

So there I was, doing the CBAT test, which is the pre-requisite for acceptance to the Royal Air Force pilot training school. When handed the complex multiple choice aptitude test, which included not only four possible responses for each grammatical, mathematical or psycho analytical question, but also combinations such as 'A and B may be correct', 'A and B are not correct' or 'some of the above are correct', I was set aback. Never had I encountered such a test. But that was only part of my surprise. Once overcoming my bewilderment at the questions, and while skimming through the pages trying to see how many of these were in the stack, I noticed that all the responses in the answer sheet seem to have been marked off already. To the best of my understanding, which was not much, the answers looked as correct as any.

Faced with this quandary, I quickly deduced that there could be three possible explanations for the situation – the marks could be the answers and this could be a test of my character to see if I would do the honorable thing and disclose the fact that my questionnaire was pre-answered; it could be someone else's test, in which case the answers may not be correct; or lastly, those numbskulls could have made a mistake and handed me the master with all the right answers, against which they inevitably mark all the other questionnaires.

I had to make a decision which option to go with. Since I was dwelling over the dilemma far too long, the option of owning up to it fell, for if it was a test of character, there would be the obvious question of why it took me so long to stand up. So I was left with either someone else's answers or the guys at OASC (The Officers and Aircrew Selection Centre) being complete fools. Since this was unlikely, I looked at the questions once more and figured that if it is someone else's answer sheet, there is no reason to believe that I would do any better than them, even if I did actually read through the test and try to answer it. I also had to pee already. So I got up after 45 minutes of a 3-hour test and gave in my answer sheet, as is.

It turned out, in fact, the OASC guys were simple, straight, AAA, first class idiots and that the form I got was the master form with all the right answers. Simon Smith got the highest score ever in the history of the RAF (Royal Air Force) aptitude tests, and in a record breaking 45 minutes. It takes most people longer than that just to read the questions, let alone the answers.

From that moment on, I was anointed as Ace of the next fighter jet course. Thereafter, a classic Pygmalion effect went into play. Simon Smith could do no wrong. Any statement I made was insightful, any question I had was brilliant and thought provoking. Even my flying skills proved to be good, regardless of the fact that I did not know the square root of 984,284 off by heart. So much so, that even I begun to believe I was born with a joystick between my fingers. This continued for the first eight months or so, until we started to hit the really complicated stuff, not directly related to operating the aircraft; intricate stuff like operating the radio, when and how to change frequencies and what the hell to do if the right wing falls off at exactly the same minute the fuel tank empties. Then the Pygmalion effect started to generate the reverse outcome. Instead of encouragement, all I got was disappointment, ridicule and that they expected better from someone with my capabilities. My instructors were abused by their superiors for not nurturing this great potential properly, and before I knew it, I was branded a loser, who, notwithstanding unprecedented potential, was below acceptable standards.

Since they were unable to make an Ace out of me, they went the only other possible route. A special example was to be made, and not only was I thrown out of the course, but of the RAF altogether. I was delivered to the Royal Hampshire Regiment to teach me a lesson! A lesson which I now know well – Never believe your own bullshit!

So it came to be, that after months of hazings, thrashings, and literally eating shit, I too became a hardened, brainless infantryman, worthy of being given a gun and stationed to be a live target to pull enemy fire. Given the fact that The Royal Hampshire Regiment roots go all the way back to the great battle of Gallipoli, I think that is where they perfected their brilliant tactics, of getting 70% of the outfit killed, just to save those few, who were ultimately the dumbest, least worthy to survive elements of the group; those which will subsequently have the most negative impact on society, when they finally make it back home.

Armed with these valuable principles and heritage as part of our weaponry, Her Majesties Finest, myself included, we were stationed for a tour of duty in Northern Ireland. No doubt the perfect match was made in heaven by assigning the perfect unit to the exact mission. Implementing a wonderful military tactic, known in our Regiment as The Sitting Duck Thing, I found myself one night, sitting on the top of an earth mound surrounding one of the most heavily attacked outposts in Londonderry. In order to make absolutely sure that the sentry would be in complete enemy visibility at all times, the tactic entailed not only sitting on the top of the mound itself, instead of behind it, but on a chair placed on the pinnacle of the mound. Well, it was not really a chair, because then the sitting duck may actually fall asleep on duty. Therefore, the position was fitted with the frame of a chair, just the metal pipe frame, but without the seat that you actually sit or lean on. Aside from the fact that it gave the person sitting on it the association of a bathroom and a constant desire to defecate, it was quite effective, as I don't know of anyone ever falling asleep while on this carefully crafted military device.

It was a clear spring night, not a cloud in the sky and cold to the bones, as only Northern Ireland has to offer. I was on the graveyard shift of 02:00 until 06:00 am, which I was perfectly happy with, as the Irish tend to throw less fire bombs during those hours, so there was consequently less action then. It was quite pleasant actually, the lights of Londonderry were bright, the skyline dark and a soft monotonous rumble of sleeping idiots behind me. Having the graveyard shift also gave me less face time with these people the next day which was also a relief. As I was sitting there fantasizing about the Dire Straits concert I was missing, I was filled with a mixture of self-pity and indifference, which tend to take the center stage when you have absolutely nothing to look forward to. I tried to philosophize about the situation, but after months of oppression, I was incapable of scraping enough IQ together to generate a coherent thought.

Out of the blue, or more accurately, out of the dark abyss in front of me, a sharp bright white flash pierced the night, and my melancholy. At first, it was just the single split second flash, but a second later, I heard the thunder that accompanies mortar fire. Being a trained soldier by then, I immediately jumped into action and was in combat position, with my rifle placed in the socket of my shoulder. And then came the ultimate question: what now? Depending on the distance and the size of the shell, I had between 2 to 4 seconds to make my move. But what is my move?? I could run for cover back inside the outpost, in which case I stood a good chance of being shot by the sergeant major, who was a mean SOB, for deserting my post; I could shoot back, which would be useless in the pitch dark and will not help much in saving me from what is already airborne and now flying at me; another option was to change position on the mound, for the shell not to blow my ass off.

The latter seemed the best thing to do under the circumstances, so I held down my weapon and looked for the better spot. I looked left and looked right and took inventory of what I had in front of me. Amazing how many mental processes can be effectively performed in 2 to 4 seconds, while listening to the descending pitch of a whistling projectile headed in one's direction. Analyzing the inventory viewed on the mound, I recognized that mortar fire is not the most accurate of weapons, if I go left the shell could go exactly there, and if I go right, it could just as well go there as well.

That was the split second the conclusion hit me – my fate was already determined 2 whole seconds ago, when the shell was fired. I had no way of knowing where it would hit or how to avoid it. Armed with that enlightening conclusion, I consciously made a decision that I was going to handle this situation with Simon Smith style – I sat my sorry ass back down on the seatless chair, laid my rifle across my knees, folded my arms and smiled. My rifle and I sat that way for a whole second, which seemed more like an hour considering all the action going on between my ears; and then it came. An earth shattering noise erupted simultaneously with a flash, which was yellow this time. A wild concoction of mud, rocks and shrapnel flew in my direction in one synchronized shock wave. The point of impact wasn't really close, maybe 35 meters in front of me, outside the outpost. But my brilliant positioning on top of the chair, on the top of the mound put me in a perfect position to greet the shock wave and its accompanying debris with the brute force of my face. I was thrown some 20 meters back and landed on my back and ass. Lucky I was wearing my flak jacket, otherwise the pole I landed against would have pierced right through me.

The outpost was jolted to life, people sprang to action, running to and fro all around me, shooting in all directions, as no one knew or could have known what was happening. I was busy taking inventory – toes were OK, fingers too. Legs were fine. I don’t think I peed on myself either. Ears had a loud ring to them so I could not hear much else. It seemed that I was fine actually and I then started to think not of my physical shape but how my crew would tear me apart for being such a pansy. But then the medic looked at me and yelled something. All of the sudden there were 10 people looking at me with worried faces. I am OK I said, go do your stuff. But they dragged me to the mess room and started ripping off my clothes. I was thinking what's next: Do they beat the shit out of me or are they actually concerned?

Apparently, my face was all black and my eye lashes and eyebrows had all been burnt off, creating a great visual effect of a war hero. I tried to brush them off telling them all to go away, since the last thing I wanted was for them to find out that there is nothing wrong with me. But they insisted, and thus, I became the hero, best Sitting Duck Guy the Regiment has had that year, a card which I played well from then on.

Chapter 3: Almost a Near Miss

My second brush with extremist Muslim terror was under awkwardly similar circumstances to my first, but prompted a somewhat different reaction by Simon Smith, though equally self-serving. My venture capital fund was finally up and running for over 8 months by July 7th, 2005. My fund had made 5 superb investments by then and I was full of pride, to the verge of gloating, when sending out the fund 2004 financials to my investors. Accompanying them was a well-crafted cover letter explaining what has been achieved and how well positioned we were to rake in all the fruits technology, primarily the internet, were to give us. In my newsletter, I used every single one of the then popular buzzwords that no one understood but everyone used – inter-connectivity; b2b; b2c, cross platform convergence; and, of course, virtual market place, to name just a few, all of which reflected what a real player I was.

But apparently, not everyone appreciated the Newsletter as much as I did. The London Pensions Fund Authority, an organization that administers investments on behalf of various local authorities, and a rather small investor in my Fund, also felt that I was a real player – only that their understanding of the term player was a little different, and they felt that I was playing them. They received my 2004 annual report documentation, trashed the accompanying newsletter and read just the financials. Financial reports are not exactly fun things to read in general and, all the more so, those of Venture Capital funds. Aside from the ordinary dryness, by nature, Venture Capital Fund financials always show a dramatic operating loss, no income and, initially, reflect a steep loss to the investors. At least until the fund investments start to be divested and sold at astronomical profits. The problem was that the London Pensions Fund Authority was not the savviest of investors and was unaccustomed to managing investments in Venture Capital funds, as opposed to liquid funds, in which the annual yields are easily measured and gauged.

As were the rest of the London Pensions Fund Authority 2004 underperforming fund managers, I too was summoned to London on July 7th, 2005 to explain my fund's shortcomings and receive a spanking by the Authority. Considering the apparently large number of underperforming fund managers, the London Pensions Fund Authority rented a meeting room at the Andaz Hayatt on Liverpool Street. The meeting itinerary was straightforward, beginning at 8:00 am, each of the underperforming managers was given one hour to explain his mistakes, offer remorse and promise to fix their ways. Then, in the evening, and all through the following day until the weekend, there was to be a lecture and workshop from their chief strategist to direct the Fund wrongdoers in the right direction.

The order of appearance turned out to be descending, which meant that I was up first, as my portfolio turned out to be best of breed, and had returned the highest percentage loss. That way, they could abuse the worst performers when they were still awake and before drinking hours.

At 8:00 am sharp, the large meeting room doors were opened and I was invited to enter. Walking through the heavy doors, I was hit by the heavy scent, a mixture of stale crisps and pheromones, which must have been left over from the event that took place in that hall the previous night. The setting must have been carefully crafted to be as imposing as possible, from gross disproportion between the size of the hall and the handful of participants; the huge windows at the far end of the hall which exaggerated the impact of the renowned greyness of the London skies, and most of all, the seating arrangement, which was exactly the same as that of a firing squad – ten or so of them, sitting in a straight line across from me, their seats evenly spaced between them, and two chairs placed out for the victims which are to appear before them. No desk was placed before the victims for documents, presentations etc. and certainly not for a laptop.

I took up my position opposite the squad, cleared my throat to prepare my address, and noted that the average age of these people was well above 65. None of them seemed like they knew what the internet was, that there was ever a bubble and that it had already burst some 4 years ago. Even so, I did not yet comprehend how far these people were from understanding the nature of a Venture Capital investment altogether.

Yes Mr. Smith, what have you to tell us? opened the most distinguished of the crew, seated in the center. You have succeeded in being the top loser amongst all our invested funds, with a grand 22% loss for the year, and that is just in your first year of activity. Is this just a preview of what is to come?

Sir, as I am sure you are aware, we are a venture capital fund, not a liquid investment fund, therefore I am sure you can appreciate that the newsletter accompanying the financial report is far more indicative of our performance than the financials. We have succeeded in identifying and investing in Five highly promising companies…

I am not sure which part of my statement caused more disdain, the content or my accent, but what is sure is that my first sentence brushed him the wrong way. He took on the stance of high school headmaster, with a thundering voice resembling very closely the voice in Pink Floyd's The Wall, and proclaimed:

Young man, I am measured by my financials and that is how I measure my fund managers. I don’t know what they teach in business schools nowadays, but investing is a science not literature. Don't tell me stories, show me the money. Never mind profit, I don't even see any revenues!

This was going nowhere and debating the business model was not the answer. What I needed was a diversion. Maybe a huge bolt of lightning would charge through the large windows and redeem me, but no luck so far, and without it, the only thing I could think of was bringing up the weather, but that would be somewhere between lame and pathetic. I didn't know of any current sports events. What could I possibly bring up that could break the ice and get us on the same side. Of all the dirty jokes I have collected over the years, I could not think of one that I could slip in under these circumstances. I was drawing a complete blank. In an effort to buy time to think of something, I straightened my tie and stood up to pace before them, hoping some diversion will pop up to save my disgrace. I calmed myself down, thinking: what do I care, they are committed anyhow, there is absolutely no practical implication to this meeting, so it is just an issue of passing the next 30-45 minutes, and why does it cause me discomfort that they think I am a pitiful, lower class, incompetent money manager. In the middle of this surreal situation, I found myself deliberating an existential point, of why do I feel the need to please them? Is it because of the class system under which, like my fellow members, we have an inherent need to please our superiors, or is it because these geezers are belittling my pride and joy fund, that I spent years putting together?

The deliberation was short-lived.

Young man, have you lost your mind completely? How are you going to make a return on investment if there are no profits? Are you just giving away our money?

These people were all within five years or so of their pension, and wanted nothing more than to have things roll on as they had for the past five decades. If it is not broken don't fix it. The last thing they wanted was me to come around with new business models they may need to repeat, let alone understand.

In the absence of the miracle, for which I had begun praying for, I thought maybe I would pass the time by selling them on a promising company I invested in and that way we will at least part on a positive note. I distributed a hard copy of the presentation created by one of my invested companies and started to go through it. Seven minutes, each of which was like a millennium, and I still did not get past the Mission Statement page, my best school teacher explaining alphabet voice fell on deaf ears, both metaphorically and possibly in reality as well.

But miracles do happen.

The tall panes of glass of the meeting room suddenly began pulsating back and forth erratically, threatening to depart from their mounts, all accompanied by a loud rumble. I was so happy for the diversion from the catastrophe of my presentation that I did not jump to any conclusion of what the noise could have been from, I simply asked what the hell is that?

Never mind. Please get to the point of this. What does this company do and what does it have to do with us?

Before I got back to the presentation, again the windows began dancing violently and another boom, only this time closer. This time, the firing squad too actually turned to look at the windows to see if they flew out of place. When they were confident they were still on the wall. They resumed:

I don't know what is happening today, but we have a tight schedule so please proceed.

Proceed? There is a war out there and you want me to proceed? I was in the Service and I can tell you that those are explosions!

Young man, you could be Laurence of Arabia for all I care, but it appears that you know no more about war than about investing. This is central London not that countryside you come from and this is what it is like here. Now, what are you doing with our money?

By the next explosion, there were sirens wailing and smoke was coming out of sidewalk air vents.

Don't you understand what is happening here?!? This is a coordinated attack of some sort! Believe me, I have seen 9/11, I was there when it happened. Let's get out of here, it is getting closer.

Young man, stand right there, you nor us are going anywhere until we get to the bottom of this. I will not have a rouge fund manager doing what he likes with funds under our supervision!

Excuse me Sir, but can't you hear what is going on outside? Gentlemen, there is an emergency of some sort going on outside, let us adjourn and discuss this when things settle down. Or at least let's find out what is going on. We may be in great danger. By that time, it was not just more than a few sirens, there was a myriad of various pitch sirens going on all around us.

We will do no such thing. The last time I looked in the newspaper, no one had declared a war on Britain and as far as I am concerned, there is some sort of construction disruption or other. Now please get back to what we were discussing. Their veil of denial was finally pierced by an Indian hotel hostess who ran to the room and urged us to vacate the meeting room to the lobby.

"Gentlemen, I have been requested to usher you to the Lobby at the instruction of the hotel manager,