Terror in Britain

by Martha Twine

  About the Author

  Martha Twine was born in London in 1948. She moved to Surrey in 1956. Educated at Guildford County School, she worked for over forty years in the public sector, mainly in London and the North East, during which time she gained an accountancy qualification, and worked in finance. She is now retired and lives in Haslemere, where she enjoys gardening and singing in local choirs.

  Terror in Britain

  Martha Twine

  Terror in Britain

  Olympia Publishers

  London

  www.olympiapublishers.com

  OLYMPIA E-BOOK EDITION

  Copyright © Martha Twine 2018

  The right of Martha Twine to be identified as author of

  this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All Rights Reserved

  No reproduction, copy or transmission of this publication

  may be made without written permission.

  No paragraph of this publication may be reproduced,

  copied or transmitted save with the written permission of the publisher, or in accordance with the provisions

  of the Copyright Act 1956 (as amended).

  Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to

  this publication may be liable to criminal

  prosecution and civil claims for damage.

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is

  available from the British Library.

  ISBN: 978-1-78830-166-4 (paperback)

  This is a work of fiction.

  Names, characters, places and incidents originate from the writer’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  First Published in 2018

  Olympia Publishers

  60 Cannon Street

  London

  EC4N 6NP

  TERROR IN BRITAIN

  A British woman’s ordeal at the hands of international terrorists, inside the secret world of electromagnetic weapons.

  INTRODUCTION

  I worked for a public-sector organisation in the UK, and part of my work involved visiting countries outside the European Union. In 2010, I was working in Turkey. One warm night, I had just come back to my hotel from a meal in a local fish restaurant with my colleagues, when I noticed a black dot in front of my eyes, like an enormous floater, with white flashes when I moved my eyes in the dark.

  When I got back to the UK, I went for an eye check-up as the black dot had become like a giant tadpole, constantly swimming in front of my right eye. I was told that there was nothing wrong with my vision, apart from a large floater.

  ‘Is there anything you can do about that?’ I asked.

  ‘No,’ I was told, ‘there is nothing to worry about, and nothing you need to do. Just ignore it.’

  Much later, I discovered that the black dot was in fact a Nano-camera and transmitter that had been inserted into the eye cavity through the nose, while I had been anaesthetised in my hotel room at night by those who wished me ill. They also inserted a microchip into the back of my head, so that they could locate me using wi-fi. The scale of these inserts was tiny.

  But if the inserts were tiny, how did I know they were there? In the case of the microchip, I heard terrorist perpetrators describing to each other how it worked. I proved it to myself by using shielding materials which blocked the wi-fi transmitter, such as waterproof hoods and plastic hard hats. When I put on the shielding devices, the terrorists complained that they had lost track of me, and were unable to target me without sophisticated equipment.

  It is hard to believe that an ordinary person like myself could be microchipped without realising it, but, as I discovered, criminals and terrorists today have copied advanced technologies from the military and science research organisations, and we need to get wise to that. The Nano-transmitter in my eye, when activated remotely by enemies of our country, could take and transmit photographs, using a method similar to email. When the camera was full, the floater in my eye was large, and when it had emailed its contents, it was noticeably smaller. The espionage applications were obvious. If there had been anything of interest to terrorists in my job, they would have seen it.

  In 2013, I decided to have lenses put in my eyes, to block the signals being transmitted through the retina. The procedure worked. The terrorists could no longer send photographs to each other. But I still had a microchip in the back of my head, which enabled them to track my movements.

  Other colleagues in my office who went on overseas business were also targeted. Looking back on it, I can understand what happened, but at the time, the main things I noticed in my colleagues were poor concentration, inability to work, bone problems and back pains. These symptoms all came on shortly after they attended a series of conferences in Eastern Europe.

  I put it down to their age: they were all in their late fifties or early sixties. Perhaps lifestyle choices, not enough exercise, too much fried food, late nights or overwork had played a part in their apparent decline? Then one of my colleagues started talking to himself, as if having private conversations, and I began to wonder whether he might have mental health issues. He was off sick intermittently for six months, but it was not clear what was wrong with him.

  It was about two years later when I found out, through talking to terrorists, that a group of London-based IRA activists, with connections to Al-Qaida in North Africa and the Mafia in Canada, thought that my office was involved in some kind of unofficial overseas diplomatic work, and had decided to spy on us. It appeared that the IRA had managed to penetrate a counter-terrorism office with connections to the London Metropolitan Police, and had persuaded them to permit technical surveillance of my office. (I should add that they were removed by the Met Police, sometime in 2012).

  Terrorists sometimes target charity workers, when they work in developing countries, mistakenly suspecting them of working as intelligence officers. This is similar to what happened to us. The difference, in our case, was that we were being targeted on our return home to our own country by IRA terrorists posing as British citizens.

  The terrorists wanted to spy on my office through the camera in my eye, but I retired from my job shortly afterwards, and they lost interest in me. However, the technologies in my head made me a valuable investment. They sold access to me to some people-traffickers who worked closely with the IRA and Al-Qaida in the South of England, with instructions to assassinate me, once the traffickers had made as much money as they could from using me as a practice target for IRA training courses on the operation of laser guns and electromagnetic weapons.

  These training courses were part of Al-Qaida’s wider plan to take over Europe, and to put the population in prison camps. Al-Qaida organised large scale training for its adherents in how to run covert electronic prison camps, and how to control and terminate people in them systematically. I was used as a target for such activities in a series of training camps and courses over a period of four years.

  This book is about what happened to me. Most of it happened in Britain. Incredibly, it all ended happily, thanks to: British Intelligence; our counter-terrorism people; Special Services; the RAF; and, in particular, Her Majesty’s Prison Service. But there were many innocent victims, like myself, who suffered and died in their homes as a result of targeting by enemies of Britain, funded largely by Al-Qaida, with the objective of getting rid of Europeans covertly and replacing them with terrorists from North Africa, Asia and the Middle East.

  The technologies used to make people fall ill are not new. Some of them involve microwave radiation beams, and others use sonic devices. There are precedents in the public domain. In the 1950s, it was alleged, though not pro
ved, that the US embassy in Moscow was being targeted with damaging microwaves. Three US Ambassadors to the USSR got sick and died of cancer. More recently, on 10 August 2017, it was announced that the US had expelled two Cuban diplomats after US embassy staff in Havana suffered ‘mysterious physical symptoms’. See the notes under the heading ‘Introduction’, at the back of this book, for references.

  The main targets in the UK were old people, because it is less suspicious when elderly folk get sick and die. The terrorists’ UK work force was drawn from ex-convicts – particularly those convicted of child sex abuse, people in debt and drug addicts. Children were trafficked from France at an early age so that they would not be traced in the UK. They were put to work in child brothels and later trained as child soldiers under the Al-Qaida regime.

  There was an extensive paedophile ring which had grown up around the IRA locally. People convicted of such offences were blackmailed into working against their country, and their perversions were tolerated by their IRA masters. I became conscious of this when paedophiles were given the job of monitoring what I was looking at through my eye camera.

  When I went in the supermarket, the place was heaving with young kids; climbing in and out of the shopping trolleys, and running around in the shopping aisles. I noticed an intrusion on the direction of my gaze, as if someone was trying to ‘drive’ and change the direction of what I looked at. My gaze was being skewed towards toddlers. It turned out that the paedophiles were taking photos of the kids through my eyes, and then sending them to each other. I found this so distasteful that, whenever I saw a child, I averted my eyes.

  THE ATTACKS BEGIN

  I lived in a dull red-brick block of four flats, in a grimy part of Greater London. One day, when I went to collect my post from the communal post box area, I noticed that I, and my neighbour Francine, had both received letters in the same hand-writing. When I opened my letter, it was from a man with an Asian-sounding name, who was offering to buy my flat, quoting a rather unreasonable price. He said that he wanted to live near his relatives in the next block of flats. I wondered why the occupants of the other two flats in our block had not received similar letters. Then it occurred to me that they might be known to him already, and could even be relatives of his, as they belonged to the local Asian community, and were often seen coming and going with the occupants of the next block of flats. I thought nothing more of the letter, and put it in the bin.

  A few weeks later, I had just come back from visiting a friend, when I began to feel incredibly sleepy. The next thing I remembered was waking up on my bed. It was two p.m., but a moment before, the clock had shown twelve noon.

  ‘Why am I lying on my bed?’ I wondered.

  I could feel something like a staple under the skin behind my left ear. The back of my head felt tight. I glanced down at my right hand. There was a red mark like a recent shot from a hypodermic syringe. I knew that something was wrong. I decided to photograph the red mark on my hand. At that moment, I caught sight of a strange bruise below my left knee. I ran my hand over the area. I could feel two raised objects beneath the skin. I photographed the bruise.

  ‘What is going on?’ I thought.

  For a moment, I felt strangely excited by the mystery of the situation. Then I realized that real life has no mysteries. I shrugged my shoulders and decided to go to the supermarket. It was a long time before I realised that local terrorists living in the flat above mine had been instrumental in putting more transmitters and tracking devices into my body, using local wave-lengths which their equipment was tuned to. The original chips in my body were linked by wi-fi to private commercial satellite, owned by Al-Qaida, with a global range, similar to a cellphone, but the local terrorists did not have access to them.

  As I locked the door to my apartment I heard my neighbour Francine talking loudly on the staircase below.

  ‘You can't do that to people. Stop it! Let me go!’

  I watched her leave our apartment block. There was no one with her.

  ‘Perhaps she is talking to someone on one of those earphone devices. Surely, she can’t be talking to herself?’ I thought.

  As I followed her down the street I could still hear her voice…

  ‘Oh, my God! Those poor people! They're cutting their arms off. I can't stand it. Help! Someone!’

  Francine started waving and shouting, visibly distressed. Passers-by pointed and whispered to each other. I turned the corner to the supermarket, and she was gone from my view.

  Later that evening, there was an ambulance outside where we lived. I heard men talking in low voices. A stretcher was being eased into the ambulance. It was Francine.

  I learned that Francine had been sectioned with some mental illness. In the days that passed, her apartment was put up for sale, and quickly taken by someone related to people in the next housing block. I gathered that it had been bought by an Asian property developer, who was going to use it for rentals.

  One night I had a strange dream, not like a normal dream. It was as if I was half asleep, passively watching a technicolor movie. There were a lot of young men and women being herded into what looked like an underground room. Then, unbelievably, as I watched in horror, their arms were being removed with a chainsaw. There was blood everywhere. I woke in shock.

  ‘This cannot happen,’ I told myself.

  I wondered if Francine had been exposed to a similarly disturbing visual display.

  I made breakfast and listened to the radio, to take my mind off the dream. As I looked out of the window, to the house opposite, my heart missed a beat. I saw a young Asian woman leaving the building. I recognised her. She had been one of the perpetrators in my dream. But now she looked soberly dressed and composed. I began to wonder whether it was possible for visual images to be beamed across the street.

  ‘But how could that happen?’ I wondered, ‘It just couldn't, that's all.’

  Much later, it emerged that the Asians across the road were part of a drug-trafficking ring affiliated to Al-Qaida. The Asian family living in the flat above my own were of different ethnic origin, but belonged to the same group. Their flat was used to get access to me at close range, using light beam technologies. By now they had a CD of biodata about me, and wi-fi transmitter references to the chips in my body, which, with infrared scanners, enabled them to pinpoint the exact position of my body when lying in bed or sitting in my main room. They wanted to use our block of flats as a base for their illegal activities, and their job was to get me out.

  I decided to find out more about what had happened to Francine. The mental institution that she had been consigned to was some way off. I established that she could be visited in the afternoons, and made an appointment to see her. Francine was looking most unsettled. Her hair was unkempt, and she appeared to have developed a tremor in her hands, something that I would have associated with a degenerative disease, rather than a mental health issue. She walked slowly and hesitantly, as if exhausted.

  She smiled when I arrived.

  ‘So good of you to come,’ she whispered, and grabbed my hand, pressing it warmly.

  ‘How are you?’ I asked.

  Francine’s face clouded over. She looked around to make sure that no one could hear her.

  ‘It’s terrible here,’ she said. ‘They are forcing me to eat food when I don’t want to, and drugs, nothing but drugs. I am a prisoner, and no one can help me.’

  ‘Can you tell me a bit about what has happened?’ I asked.

  Francine began her story, in a low tentative voice, and I had to strain to hear some of her words. She had obviously been sedated, but still exhibited fear, as she recounted what, in her view, had happened.

  ‘There are people talking in my ears,’ she said. ‘I know what you’re thinking - she’s gone mad, but they are not imaginary people. They are really there. They hate me, and they can hurt me with pinches and pricks. It is horrible. One day something happened. I don’t know what it was, but I went out of my mind. I thought I was in
a mortuary, with dead bodies everywhere. I really lost it, and I don’t remember anything else in detail for some time. But now I am in this place.’

  ‘Did you notice anything out of the ordinary before you got sick?’ I asked.

  ‘Not really,’ said Francine, ‘Except …. Well it’s probably nothing, but I noticed a red mark on my hand that hadn’t been there before, and it’s still there: look!’

  Francine pointed to her hand. There was a round indent, and a faint discoloration. I gasped. I had seen something similar on my own hand just a few days ago.

  ‘That looks like a needle mark,’ I said. ‘You could have been drugged.’ Francine nodded

  ‘I know, I thought that too, but it doesn’t make any sense. Who could have done it, and how? The psychiatrist says I have bipolar disorder and schizophrenia. If I mention anything more about what happened, they’ll say I’m paranoid.’ Francine sighed despairingly.

  ‘I now wonder if I will ever get out of here. Those invisible people are still there hurting me during the day, but the terrible dreams I was having have gone. I’m on sleeping pills now, you see.’ She smiled regretfully.

  ‘Do you have any friends here?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Francine nodded. ‘There are some kind people here: the nurses, you know; and some of the patients, but it makes me sad to see their mental suffering.’

  It was time to go, and I said goodbye. As I left, I had an image of Francine waving from the door, calling after me, ‘Thank you, thank you!’

  I wished that there was something I could do, but I felt helpless, knowing so little about Francine’s life and current situation.

  After three months, Francine came out of hospital and went to stay with her son and his wife. I was surprised to see that she was extremely calm and collected. A year later, her mental health was back to normal, but she had been forced out of her flat, and the terrorists had got what they wanted.