Creation- The Auditor’s Apprentice

by Frank Stonely

‘You mean the president’s only going to phone me if he knows what my answer’s going to be?’

  ‘Precisely, Prime Minister.’

  The PM turned to the foreign secretary, ‘What’s your take on this, Maureen?’

  ‘I tend to agree with Sir Grevel, but I can’t help feeling that there’s more to this than meets the eye.’

  ‘Rex, what about you?’

  The defence secretary thought for a moment before carefully picking his words, ‘My only real concern is who’s going to be in overall command. If General Williams is involved, he’ll just do his own thing… regardless of protocol.’

  The prime minister sat doodling on the pad in front of him for a few minutes, and then looking up, said, ‘As this is a covert operation, I’m going to hand responsibility over to MI5.’ He glanced at Sir Grevel, ‘Do you think the president will be able to call and ask me now?’

  ‘Of course, Prime Minister. I’ll arrange it straight away.’

  The PM got up from his chair and, thanking the gathering for attending at such an unearthly hour, left the room, mumbling something about his conjugal rights.

  43

  Downing Street

  The president called the prime minister while having breakfast in his private dining room. The conversation was brief, as the detail had already been agreed by the directors of the CIA and MI5. In fact most of the conversation was spent reminiscing about a day’s fishing they had enjoyed at Camp David.

  As the president returned the handset, he sighed with regret. Out of all the foreign leaders he had met, the British prime minister was the one he had bonded with. His northern directness left little confusion and, once you tuned in to his wife’s geordie accent, she was the life and soul of any gathering. Yet, he was playing him for a patsy, encouraging his delusions about global warming, keeping his eye off the ball.

  The president glanced across at the director of the CIA who was carefully filling the pockets of his waffles with peanut butter. ‘I didn’t like doing that, Pete. I didn’t like it at all. This plan of yours better work!’

  The director’s plan was straight forward. The CIA would continue satellite surveillance of the UK, intercepting all communications traffic from MI5, GCHQ, and Downing Street. Williams would take his special forces extraction team to the USAF airbase at Lakenheath and, once Daniel’s location had been hacked from the car’s navigation system, would join forces with the British SAS to track him down.

  Twenty-four hours later the general’s stealth, quadrotor troop carriers were hovering, almost silently, over the airfield’s landing zone. The Lakenheath airbase had been used by the United States Air Force since the early nineteen fifties and was now the home of the 48th Fighter Wing. Williams was standing on the ramp of the open cargo bay, chewing on the remains of his Romeo y Julieta cigar. As the ramp touched the ground, he turned to the platoon of marines standing behind him and shouted, ‘Let’s kick ass!’ Then, like a cavalry commander leading a charge, he ran down the ramp, beckoning over his shoulder for them to follow him.

  The general and his aide stood watching the deployment with pride as the armoured vehicles rumbled out of the aircraft’s belly. Williams was convinced that in years to come, his name would be added to those of Hannibal, Napoleon, Jackson and Patton. But, adding Wellington and Churchill to the list would have stuck in his craw.

  His daydream was interrupted by a car horn sounding behind them. He turned around to see the base commander getting out of her SUV. She was tall, slender, immaculately dressed, her tunic covered in medal ribbons. The general was of the old school; women should be in the home, washing clothes, nursing children and putting food on the table for their providers. She saluted her superior, ‘It’s a pleasure to have you here, General. I’m aware that this is a covert operation but, if there’s anything I can do to help, please let me know. All my facilities are at your disposal.’

  The general returned the salute, chewing on his cigar to hide his contempt. ‘That’s very good of you, Ma’am. I’ll let you know if I need anything.’

  As he went to walk away she stepped forward, ‘General, it would be a honour if you would join my family and me for dinner tonight?’

  The noise from the transport aircraft carrying the general’s Apache helicopters touching down on the runway came to his rescue, ‘It’s too noisy. We’ll speak later,’ he shouted, having no intention of accepting her invitation.

  Sir Grevel Barrington was relaxing in the drawing room of his club in Pall Mall. He sat, brandy glass in hand, reviewing his stock prices in the Financial Times. The butler approached and discreetly informed him that Major General Stewart Fanley had arrived. ‘Show him in, Peters… and find out what he’s drinking.’ The butler withdrew, leaving the room as though he was invisible.

  ‘Grevie, old man!’ The major called out as he strode through the doorway. ‘How the dickens are you?’ The last time I saw you was at the Varsity match at twickers, wasn’t it? What a day that was, ay! I ended up sleeping it off at the officers’ club. Jenny gave me a right royal bollocking when I got home.’

  ‘Yes, a great match, Wartie. Just a pity Cambridge got it. Is Peters getting you a drink?’

  ‘Yes, he’s digging out that bottle of Bruichladdich for me. Now, what’s this all about?’

  Sir Grevel pointed at the armchair next to him and the major sat down, ‘What I’m going to tell you must not leave this room.’

  ‘I’ve always stuck by our house motto; he who spills the beans, spills his blood. So… how can I help?’

  Major General Stewart Fanley CBE, MC was the director of the United Kingdom Special Forces, which included the Special Air Service, SAS. He had been in the same house as Sir Grevel at Harrow, and graduated with him at Oxford University, before starting his military career at Sandhurst. The conversation stopped as Peters arrived with the major’s whisky, transferring the cut-glass tumbler and a jug of highland spring water from his silver tray to the side table. He backed away, and left the room with the tray tucked under his arm. Sir Grevel waited for the door to close. ‘It’s to do with this so-called global warming.’

  ‘You mean the Stevenson effect,’ the Major answered. ‘Jenny’s on about it all the time. It’s ruining her roses.’

  ‘How irritating for her.’ Grevel paused and placed his empty brandy glass on the side table. ‘I’ve been speaking to the director of the Central Intelligence Agency.’

  ‘You mean Pete… how is the old bugger?’

  ‘He’s very well. He sends his regards… Anyway, he’s asked us for some help.’

  ‘So why are you telling me and not the PM?’

  ‘Oh, the PM knows… some of it. But we felt it was better to keep the politicians at arm’s length.’

  ‘We, being you and Pete.’

  ‘Quite.’

  ‘So what sort of help does he want?’

  ‘This is where it starts to get a bit sensitive. Do you recall that reward the president issued the other week?’

  ‘That’s all they’re talking about at the club. A hundred million dollars, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yes… a hundred million dollars to track down a chap called Paul Evans. Apparently he’s made two attempts on the president’s life.’

  ‘That seems a lot of shekels just to find a failed assassin.’

  ‘I have to agree. But, from what I understand, this Paul Evans is somehow crucial to resolving the global warming issue.’

  ‘So I take it, Pete wants us to track Evans down?’

  ‘Not quite. He wants you to make sure that General Williams doesn’t track him down.’

  ‘WILLIAMS! Are you fucking mad… he’s a maniac.’

  ‘Shhhh!’ Sir Grevel’s eyes scanned the empty room, double checking that they were alone. Then leaning forward, whispered, ‘Pete has got his own plans for Evans and he doesn’t want Williams screwing them up. There’s a hundred million dollars at stake.’

  ‘And we get our share?’

  ‘We’re in the same lodge,
we all swore the same allegiance.’

  ‘What did you have in mind?’

  ‘I need you to provide Williams with an SAS squadron that couldn’t find a whore in a brothel.’

  The major smiled, ‘I think I’ve got the very one.’

  Tom was standing behind the president’s desk in the Oval Office, starring at the oil painting of George Washington hanging above the fireplace. His hands were clasped behind his back, his face wearing a deadpan expression as he tried to be invisible. The directors of the CIA and Home Land Security were discussing with the president how to handle the growing unrest on the streets as the night sky grew brighter.

  ‘Mr President. We’ve got to make a statement soon, we’re beginning to look ridiculous. There’s only so long that we can keep this global warming fiasco going. Closing down the internet, satellite TV and mobile phone networks has helped, and most publications and media are abiding by your executive order not to handle the story. But, the people are coming out onto the streets, they know they’re being fed bullshit. There’s posters everywhere saying, THE END IS NIGH, STEVENSON WAS RIGHT. If we don’t do something within the next few days it’s going to explode.’ The director of Home Land Security took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes.

  The president looked at the director of the CIA, ‘How do you see it, Pete.’

  ‘I have to agree. The story about everything being knocked out by a massive solar flare is beginning to lose ground. The military have taken control of all ground based telescopes and Hubble, but the story keeps growing. Unless we recover Evans quickly, we’re screwed.’

  The telephone on the president’s desk rang and for a few seconds all three sat staring at it. The president picked up the handset, ‘Thanks, Brenda, put him through.’ He cupped the mouthpiece and said, ‘I’ve just gotta take this call from General Williams.’ The president turned his chair until he was looking out onto the West Colonnade, ‘General, how’s things going over there… any progress?’ The president leant back in his chair, his eyes unblinking, listening intently. The directors threw glances at each other, relieving their tension by checking the time on their watches and brushing non-existent hairs from their suits. The president turned back to his desk and terminated the call, ‘Okay, George. Let me know when you’ve regrouped up there. But remember… Evans is useless if he’s dead!’

  As he reached out and replaced the handset, Pete asked, ‘Good news, Mr. President?’

  ‘Sounds like it could be.’

  ‘You don’t sound too sure?’

  ‘The Brits have hacked into the satnav.’

  ‘I thought we were doing that?’

  ‘Apparently some techie from GCHQ turned up at Lakenheath and asked to see the satnav controller. Our man went to get the guy a coffee and when he got back he’d disappeared, along with the unit.’

  The director of the CIA’s mouth cracked into a wry smile which he suppressed with a cough, ‘Has General Williams recovered it, Mr. President?’ he asked.

  ‘He didn’t have to. Within a couple of hours the Brits had hacked into the unit and downloaded the data for the last journey Evans made.’

  ‘Can we trust it?’ the director of homeland security asked.

  ‘The General’s double checked the coordinates against the database from my reward scheme. He’s found a match to a phone call that was made from a small village in the Peaks. He’s regrouping up there and setting up a base.’

  ‘Isn’t that where they made that TV show… Peak Practice? My kids love all those old British TV shows. We go into the den with a tub of popcorn, a pizza and a bunch of sodas and spend the night watching them.’

  ‘Yeah… well, some of us don’t have time for that.’ Pete’s response and its implied criticism brought a glance of disapproval from the president. ‘Sorry, Vinnie,’ Pete said, slapping the director’s thigh, ‘that came out a bit harsh. But you know what I mean.’ He turned back to face the president, ‘I think you’ll find that General Williams was referring to the Peak District, in Derbyshire, Mat. I’ve been rock climbing there with my contact in MI5. It’s a pretty bleak place… especially in winter, but a perfect location to hide out. Are the Brits sending that SAS squadron?’

  ‘That’s the plan. Once the base is set up, they’re gonna join him there.’

  44

  The General’s Strategy

  The director had been right. The rolling hills and crags of the Peak District were pretty bleak, forcing the general to establish his base on commandeered fields just outside the village of Hayfield. Within twenty-four hours, the village had been turned into a US military base, with Apache helicopters patrolling the skies and Stryker armoured vehicles blocking all the access roads. Initially, the population tried to resist, until the general ordered a platoon of marines to restore order by enforcing a twenty-four hour curfew.

  Unlike his troops, who were living under canvas, the general had requisitioned a hotel at the centre of the village as his headquarters, taking over the four-poster, master bedroom as his billet. The function room had been cleared of its tables and chairs to become his operation centre, with the paintings that lined the walls replaced with maps and aerial photographs. The only member of staff not to be expelled was the Canadian chef who had trained in New York. He shrewdly took the opportunity of cooking the general a stacked, double burger, made from ground Angus beef, layered with American cheese, sliced onion, tomato, lettuce and, a good helping of his homemade burger sauce, all sandwiched in a sesame-seed covered cob. The general’s choice of hotel was no accident as he intended to billet the British SAS squadron on the adjacent cricket field. It had only one access road and the perimeter could easily be guarded by his marines.

  As it became obvious that something far more imminent than global warming was happening, the world’s population began to hunker down. Communities drew together, arming themselves and stockpiling fuel, food and water. Aware of the unease spreading amongst his troops, the general came up with a plan to keep them focused. The deal was that their immediate families would be taken to NORAD’s Cheyenne Mountain nuclear bunker for protection and, if their mission was successful, they would share in the hundred million dollar reward. All rules of engagement were cancelled and nobody would be charged with war crimes. Finally, everybody involved in the operation and their family members would be given as a last resort a Cyanoxyline pill nicknamed, The Terminator. Developed by the U.S. army research laboratory, this pill contained the fastest acting poison ever developed, resulting in euphoric unconsciousness within two seconds and death within a minute.

  That evening, the general received an encrypted message from the director of the CIA, saying that the British SAS contingent would be arriving the following morning. He hated these limy bastards with their silver-spooned, nancy-boy officers, and he wasn’t about to have his glory stolen by one of them. So, at the crack of dawn, he gathered his officers and set off in a convoy of armoured vehicles to intercept them. His plan was to catch them off-guard, making sure they understood who was boss. His convoy parked up in fields adjacent to the A6 dual carriageway, just outside the ancient town of Chapel-en-le-Frith. According to his tactical team, this was the obvious route for the SAS to take from their regimental barracks in Herefordshire.

  ‘Sir. Did you know that frith is the old-English word for forest? The general’s driver was passing time by reading a travel guide he had taken from the hotel’s reception. ‘Apparently, chapel on lur’frif started as a small settlement in twelve, twenty-five. It grew up around a church that was dedicated to Saint Thomas Becket… I think he was that bishop who lived under an arch. Got murdered by a bunch of knights in armour… something like that.’

  ‘Where the fuck are they?’ the general muttered, ignoring his driver’s question and refocusing his binoculars through the Hummer’s windshield. As he spoke the communication console bleeped, prompting the driver to grab the handset. He listened for a moment and then said, ‘Copy… Switching to encryption… Wilco.’ He turned
to the general, ‘Sir. I’ve got the drone pilot on line. He’s been tracking the SAS convoy and reckons they’ll be here in about an hour.’

  The general leant back in his seat. ‘Tell him to maintain altitude… I don’t want them getting spooked and shooting down one of my fucking drones. Tell him I’m sending out a Stryker to lead’em in.’ While the driver relayed the message, the general lit up a cigar, filling the cab with smoke.

  Fifty-nine minutes later, the SAS convoy, led by a military, open top Land Rover, pulled up alongside the general’s Hummer. In comparison, the SAS contingent was modest, with just two covered troop carriers and three six-wheel, Supacat, all-terrain armoured vehicles, one of which was fitted with a missile pod. The SAS captain jumped out of his Land Rover and walked up to the general’s Hummer. ‘Awright, General. It wuz good o’ yous ter meet us.’ The nancy-boy officer turned out to be a scouser from Toxteth in Liverpool. ‘Do yous wanna join me inna bottle o’ virgin’s piddle and a rodey bacon butty, General? We can’ava little rabbit about de reward.’ The general looked at the Hummer’s driver who shrugged his shoulders; the SAS officer seemed to be talking about drinking virgins’ urine and eating bloody bacon and rabbit sandwiches. At that moment he would have given anything for a silver-spooned nancy-boy in a captain’s uniform who spoke fucking English!

  The driver of the vehicle behind the general’s Hummer jumped out of his cab and, walking up to the SAS officer, offered his hand. ‘G’day mate,’ he said in a broad Australian accent. He turned to the general and said, ‘He’s from Liverpool, sir. About sixty miles due west of us.’

  Back at the hotel, over bacon sandwiches and several bottles of beer, the SAS captain and his sergeant reviewed the plan to extract Paul Evans. The general had spread out an Ordinance Survey map of the Peak District across his chart table and was tracing the route of Daniel’s last journey in the hire car. ‘Where’s de farm yous got de call from?’ the SAS officer asked. The general was getting the hang of Scouse and, taking a blue notice board pin, pushed it into the map at the coordinates of Peter’s farm. The SAS officer studied the map, his eyes meticulously tracing the route. ‘So, where d’yous think Evans wuz ang’n out?’