Terror in Britain

by Martha Twine

  There was a short flight of steps. I went up them and found myself in a large formal garden, with well-cut lawns and trees. On the other side of the garden was an enormous red-brick building that looked like a palace. It was oblong, and instead of a roof there was an enormous red-brick dome. A fountain was playing outside the building, and the side of the building was decorated with thick white ropes, hanging in curved loops, about four feet above the ground.

  I looked up at the red-brick dome. There were round windows like portholes running along the sides. I went in through one, and found an enormous dormitory, with fifty camp beds in it. Each bed was neatly covered with white linen, as if waiting for a specific occasion. But the place was deserted.

  I went down some stairs on to the first floor. There was a private area, with an enormous bedroom, and a bed with a canopy and red velvet curtains, and a door leading to a sunken bathroom, with what might have been a jacuzzi in it. I followed the corridor into a large reception room, with ornate chairs around the walls, and several three-piece suites, with elaborate coverings, on thick-pile red carpet. The design of the carpet looked Chinese. Then I went through a door into the next room. It was similar to the first room, but at the other end, on a raised dais, was a large desk and chair, with curtains on each side. A man dressed like a Sultan wearing a large turban was sitting at the desk. His feet rested on a footstool which protruded from underneath the desk. The reason for this became apparent, when a man wearing white robes, like the ones I had seen earlier, entered, and prostrated himself, before reaching to kiss the feet that protruded from under the desk.

  At that moment, a liveried servant appeared, announcing the arrival of two honoured guests. The first guest, a man of South American ethnicity, dressed in the uniform of a General, strode into the room. The Sultan came down from the dais and took him by the hand, greeting him warmly. The General was accompanied by an entourage of twelve soldiers, wearing green, red and white uniforms, who lined the walls of the reception room outside.

  Then the second guest arrived. He was an emaciated man in his eighties in a wheelchair, wearing a light brown suit, accompanied by one attendant, who withdrew to the reception room. His face was drawn and grey, and I guessed immediately that he was an IRA senior officer. He held the rank of Brigadier.

  Drinks and aperitifs were served. The General drank whisky with obvious appreciation. The IRA Brigadier had a gin and tonic, and the Sultan sipped a glass of what looked like red wine.

  ‘What a strange combination!’ I thought, not sure whether I was referring to the drinks or to the meeting participants.

  ‘I am grateful that you were able to come at such short notice,’ said the Sultan.

  ‘Always a pleasure to see you again,’ replied the General.

  ‘Perhaps we could get straight down to business,’ said the IRA Brigadier. ‘I have to be somewhere else within an hour’.

  ‘Of course, of course,’ said the General, lighting a cigar. ‘Come on then, what’s this all about?’

  The Sultan lowered his voice.

  ‘You know we have had trouble in the Far East, losing several yachts, and some of our staff are on display in aerial cages over the South of England.’

  ‘I did hear something about that,’ smiled the General.

  ‘What is your point, Sultan?’ asked the IRA Brigadier.

  ‘She has been seen in this area,’ said the Sultan.

  ‘How could she find out?’ asked the General. ‘No one knows about this place. What’s your view, Brigadier?’

  The Brigadier looked uncomfortable.

  ‘We will need to review the situation and come back to you. You must understand that this is the first I have heard of these developments.’

  ‘Well, all right,’ said the Sultan. ‘But don’t be too long about it. Can I suggest that we meet again tomorrow morning? We really cannot leave it any later.’

  ‘Tomorrow morning is fine,’ said the Brigadier. ‘By then I hope to have better news for you.’

  ‘Great! That’s what we like to hear,’ laughed the General.

  The three men stood up and took leave of each other, the General again escorted by his twelve henchmen.

  ‘I wonder what the French Government would make of all this?’ I thought to myself. ‘These people should not be at large.’

  I looked up French prisons on the internet. I found one in the centre of Paris. It looked like a walled fortress and was described as a high security prison. Returning to the French safe house, I scooped up all the people in the underground meeting, and the man in the adjoining room, together with all their filing cabinets. Then I called up a picture of the prison in my mind and tuned in to its frequency. I found myself in a large hall, leading to other buildings. People were walking through large archway doors on either side, leading to courtyards outside.

  ‘If I dump all these people and their furniture on the ground, they might get hurt,’ I thought.

  So I created some large mattresses to form a cushion on which to place things.

  As soon as I threw down the mattresses, there was a commotion. Prison officers blew whistles, and iron curtains were drawn across the archway doors, sealing the hall off completely. I carefully deposited the men and the office furniture on separate mattresses. The prison security must have involved some advanced technology, because the prison officers could see me.

  ‘Who are these men?’ asked a prison officer.

  ‘They are Islamic State, Al-Qaida and IRA terrorists,’ I replied. ‘I found them plotting terrorist activities in a safe house leading to an underground tunnel three kilometres long. At the end of the tunnel is a foreign palace where a terrorist potentate from the Far East is living.’

  The Prison officer interrogated the men I had brought in.

  ‘Who are you?’ he asked one of the robed Arabs.

  ‘My master lives in the palace at the end of the underground corridor. It is to the North of Paris. My house can also be reached from the underground corridor,’ he added.

  ‘Can you take us to this place?’ asked the prison officer.

  ‘Yes sir, of course,’ said the Arab, politely.

  French prison officers had already lined up the Islamic Soldiers against the wall and disarmed them. The prison officer then turned to the two Europeans.

  ‘So, are you the IRA?’ he asked. One of them nodded. But the other one looked towards the filing cabinets, table and chair that had once been his office. Two gendarmes were loading them on to wheeled pallets to take them away.

  ‘Stop!’ he cried, ‘That’s my furniture. Don’t you touch it. You’ve no right. It’s mine!’

  He ran and sat in the chair with his elbows on the table.

  ‘Alright, here you are then,’ said one of the gendarmes, in a good-natured fashion.

  He and his mate lifted the table and chair, with the IRA clerical worker still sitting there, and moved them to one side. Meanwhile, another gendarme was reading papers he had taken from the filing cabinet.

  ‘And you, Madame,’ said the prison officer, looking at me. ‘What is your name, please?’

  I told him my name, but it was unfamiliar to him, and he asked me to spell it. At this point the other IRA man decided to step in, and wrote down my name for the prison officer. It seems that he had been well briefed by his English colleagues.

  ‘Well, then,’ said the French prison officer, smiling at me, ‘Thank you for your help.’

  I was rather taken aback by that, as no one had ever thanked me like that before.

  ‘Oh, my pleasure,’ I stammered. ‘I will leave you to your work. Goodbye.’

  And I left.

  A couple of hours later, I checked in on the French safe house. There were gendarmes everywhere. I went down in the underground corridor. There were some Arabs in handcuffs up one end, but I could hear the sound of shouting and fighting up the other end. An Arab was driving a kind of wheeled vehicle along the corridor, while another was firing a semi-automatic weapon at some ge
ndarmes, and other Arabs were throwing missiles. There was smoke everywhere, and some of the corridor lights had gone out. I could just see three gendarmes pointing handguns. One of the gendarmes was hit in the arm.

  Luckily, several more gendarmes came running from the other end of the corridor. The Arab who had been driving the vehicle produced an incendiary device and was shot dead. Then the other Arabs surrendered. I went outside into the palace garden. There were some police vehicles parked in the entrance to the drive, and a number of Islamic State soldiers in handcuffs. They had been picked up at various points from houses that led to the underground corridor. I searched the palace for the Sultan, but he was not there.

  Next day I recalled an image of the Sultan from my mind and tuned into the frequency of it, in an effort to find out what had happened to him. I found him in a cage with bars round it, watched by prison officers. No longer wearing a turban, or rich clothes, he was lying on a wooden bunk bed. His cage included a table and chair. A prison officer brought him a plate of chips, and he got up and sat at the table, eating them, while he and the prison officer chatted. He seemed hardly troubled by his sudden reversal of fortune.

  I was glad to see that he was behind bars, and impressed with the speed and bravery with which the gendarmes had acted to protect the public from the threat of terrorism. There was no mention of these events in the French newspapers, and people went about their business as usual, unware of what had taken place the night before.

  ILLEGAL RESEARCH ACTIVITIES

  Over the five years that I spent in close company with the IRA and North American mafia, it seemed to me that about thirty per cent of their operations related to illegal, non-consensual, human clinical research carried out on white people.

  The principle of consensual human subject research on volunteers is perfectly legitimate. Say that your country has funded research into certain types of cancer. There will be dedicated research facilities, some attached to hospitals and universities, authorised to carry out properly regulated tests on cancer suffers. These cancer patients will have consented to take part in trials on new drugs that offer hope of a better quality of life for longer.

  Private clinical research companies also carry out similar research as part of large multinational research projects. Finding enough patients with the right medical conditions is not always that easy, particularly if the sample specifications require them to be in a particular age range, gender or ethnicity.

  Private sector multinational research organisations are highly regulated, but I learned from IRA terrorist discussions that a few, based outside the UK, used subcontractors who were willing to pay unethical companies to go touting for sample cases. This might simply mean scanning government health computer records for people recorded with medical conditions that fit the sample profile, and approaching their doctors to ask their patients if they would be willing to participate in the trials. I met an IRA operative who worked as a local council health worker. She had access to the government NHS computer which lists all UK patients’ records. The health worker had been bribed to obtain details of patients living in her locality for a fee. I heard that this arrangement applied in other parts of the UK as well.

  The North American mafia employ unethical scientists who will do anything for money. They are willing to target people in the right demographic groups, using remote technologies, and to give them artificially created symptoms of diseases, such as accelerated or irregular heartbeat. The victims then visit their doctors because of their symptoms, get accepted by a consultant, and may be invited to participate in research trials.

  Simply getting the victim to visit their doctor gets the perpetrator a cash bonus under Al-Qaida’s funding arrangements. Getting the victim to see specific unethical consultants gains another bonus. In the UK, if the victim ends up having an artificial hip or knee replacement, the perpetrator gains a large bonus. In some cases, apparently, the supplier of the prostheses offers the inducements. It sounds unbelievable, but it has happened. It is hard to spot this type of urban terrorism. Some of the terrorists I met used to be involved in such crimes, but they got caught by various governments, struck off approved lists of health research subcontractors, and some served prison sentences in the US.

  I found out that the US mafia, in collaboration with the IRA, had registered me as a consensual human subject involved in a number of different clinical trials, using different names and addresses, but always using my body. The trials were registered in the United States. All the tests were performed on the one person at the same time, which would never happen with legitimate research, and the perpetrators tried to falsify the test results to conceal these irregularities. After a while the research companies got wise to this and prevented further falsification of evidence. But that did not stop the non-consensual research altogether. The perpetrators just moved to another country.

  The fact that there was nothing wrong with my health made me an attractive subject for illegal research, as human guinea-pigs must not be receiving any medication prior to starting trials. If I so much as took a hay-fever tablet, that stopped the terrorists’ research attacks for twenty-four hours, as it showed up on their telemetry print-outs.

  The terrorists tried, unsuccessfully, to give me the symptoms of arthritis in hip and knee joints and diabetes. They also operated as subcontractors for an illegal research organisation using me for non-consensual trials on a remedy which enabled people to work normally despite extensive sleep deprivation, and tests on long-term effects of exposure to ultrasound synthetic telepathy.

  How did they do it? There was an IRA house about twenty yards away from my bedroom window. They occupied that house, and had their own clinical facilities, using wi-fi telemetry to target specific parts of my body. The terrorists had created a CD containing my biodata and a record of the wi-fi frequency required to locate the microchip at the back of my head, from which to calculate the placement of my body.

  There was a full time female doctor who supervised a number of IRA research laboratories, and she lived at the safe house, with a qualified nurse who was supposedly her daughter. They subsequently transferred to more lucrative posts in central London, but were replaced by other qualified clinicians.

  I bought a ‘smog meter’ which measures microwave radiation. I can remember reading articles about the environmental dangers of microwave radiation form cell-phone towers. Using the smog meter, I found out that radiation from our local cell phone tower was minimal in comparison to almost every piece of kit used by the IRA terrorists to target my apartment, my father’s house, and the houses of other British citizens living in our area. It was easy to find where the terrorists were operating, by walking up and down the roads where I lived with my smog meter.

  Terrorists delivered various chemicals to my skin and respiratory tract using a carbon dioxide laser. They had gas canisters and loaded the contents into some kind of laser gun. Occasionally, I saw these laser shots firing through thin walls outside my apartment. They looked like tiny fleeting lights that disappeared immediately. The range for these devices could only be about twenty to thirty yards.

  The terrorists also tried to create stomach lesions, by inducing a raised acid balance in the stomach. I am not sure exactly how they did this, but it resulted in a burning sensation in the stomach, which I neutralised by taking a sip of cider vinegar.

  I could hear the perpetrators discussing remote scans using diagnostic equipment to assess my ph. level. From then on, I always put several slices of fresh lemon in any drink I had. That made me unsuitable for various illegal research trials, and stopped the attacks.

  The terrorists prided themselves on their targeting of hip and knee joints, which brought them a steady income from new cases referred to clinical consultants, requiring hip and knee replacements. Attacks on joints were initiated by a skilled telemetry operative, who directed a laser to crack the outer casing, after which less skilled perpetrators went in and spent some time creating pain and swelling i
n the victim’s joints.

  A lady in our road was targeted in this way, and in two months she went from never having had any pain in her joints to having evidence of severe damage in one hip. She was immediately referred for a private hip replacement operation. While she was still in hospital, the perpetrators started targeting her other hip. Several people in my road, and people known to me, developed these sudden acute symptoms.

  In one particularly tragic case, a poor gentleman whose hip had been targeted, delayed his hip operation because the perpetrators had also targeted his daughter with cancer, and he wanted to be sure that he could be at his daughter’s bedside when she passed away. The daughter left three children without a mother.

  The lowest of the criminal fraternity were being employed by the IRA to carry out prison guarding, to guarantee that victims were in the right place at the right time for whatever clinical interventions were required. They did this by making sure their victims became tired at certain times of the day, delivering sedative gases via carbon dioxide lasers.

  They discouraged their victims from walking too far, by the use of a ‘drag-net’ which projects a magnetic force field over the victim’s own magnetic field, altering the gravity of the person, so that they feel heavy and pulled down when they try to walk. Most of the IRA’s targets were elderly people, because so much of the illegal research required their human subjects to be over fifty.

  There was a lot of initial investment for illegal research activities, before any money came in for the terrorists. The perpetrators had to be fairly close, in order to provide this twenty-four-hours-a-day supervision. The target’s regular activities had to be recorded, and a CD of biodata had to be developed. It could take up to six months to set up a case, involving renting of rooms on the top floor, which enabled perpetrators to direct laser beams downwards. Rooms had to be visible to other perpetrators working in cars nearby, so that they could triangulate against a naked light bulb and refine their targeting, using Global Positioning Satellite calculations.