His feelings regarding Dame Ann were one hundred percent positive. She had amply rewarded his professionalism, and he found it very difficult to understand why this group should be so negative. After all, when all said and done, she was the deputy Prime Minister! As a result, he decided to confide in Dame Ann at the medical examination.
She, again, was extremely grateful and rewarded his loyalty with a particularly intimate sexual act that took John’s breath away. As a result, John became an even more stalwart acolyte of his new mistress.
Of course, Dame Ann was playing him, as she had played dozens of other ‘useful’ men she had encountered in her meteoric rise up the diplomatic and political ladder. A brief taste of honey ensured his continued loyalty, and she could rely on any further snippets of information concerning the conspirators flying straight to her ears.
Naturally, John hoped for another ‘brief encounter’ but it never came. He never spoke to the woman again and was shocked to learn of her untimely demise in the UK News. The inference was that foul play had been involved, and so he could not but help imagine that Brady, Bryant and Patric had been closely involved. (Of course, he was completely mistaken).
However, after the three men disappeared – along with Chloe – he was utterly flummoxed. He couldn’t make any sense of the conundrum, and so decided to accept the situation. After all, there was very little he could do to clarify the position – he was a mere surgeon. Therefore, he settled for building a new life for his family in Brussels with a view to moving abroad – perhaps to the USA, in due course. His medical talents were highly prized and a new and lucrative career in America was extremely inviting. He would do nothing to prejudice that potential.
Consequently, he and the family were dining at the CSC, enjoying the privileges of his position. He was building up a new circle of influential associates and they were slowly beginning to forget their old life back in London. Of course, they missed their family and friends a great deal, and John maintained a daily watch of the survivor’s database, on the off chance that someone they knew turned up on the list.
However, the search and rescue operation over the UK had been suspended indefinitely, so there was now very little hope of any friends or relatives surfacing alive.
Bryan Wester approached their table in the CSC and engaged them in conversation:
‘Long time no see, Dr Stubbins. Are you well?’
‘Oh, hello Bryan. Yes, we’re all very well. How about you? Do you know my wife Eve and the children?’
Introductions were completed and small talk ensued for several minutes until the subject of Brady, Bryant and Patric arose.
‘Have you seen or heard anything of the three gentlemen, doctor? In particular, I’d like to see Mr Silver again. You know, it was his influence that gained me this position. I'm extremely grateful and would like the opportunity to thank him properly, now that I'm back on my feet.’
Dr John was equally bewildered by their disappearances:
‘I'm puzzled by their vanishing acts, Bryan. I've heard nothing from any of them – which in itself is highly suspicious.’
‘I agree, Doctor. Do you think they had anything to do with the murder of the deputy Prime Minister?’
John was not prepared to commit himself on that delicate subject, especially within earshot of so many senior personnel from UKRA dining at the club.
‘I've no idea, Bryan. But I wouldn't talk too loudly in this particular environment regarding the subject. It's all highly sensitive.’
Bryan looked suitably rebuked, nodded sagely and took his leave, bidding the family a pleasant evening. This clearly wasn’t the right time to bring up the other subject that was completely dominating his thoughts.
A subject that beggared all reasonable belief!
Dr John made a mental note of the conversation, which mirrored his own views. However, he continued to keep his own counsel. He had too much to lose by sticking his nose in where it wasn’t wanted.
Day 150
Tuesday 14th May
HQ UKRA – Brussels
Viscount, the Lord Irvine of Nelson sat at the head of a large mahogany conference table in a side room off the main conference hall that dominated the 10th floor of the HQ UKRA building in central Brussels.
A tall, domineering man of super high intellect, he had served as the Cabinet secretary during the Blair and Brown administrations, and had dominated the British civil service – and therefore politics – for over fifteen years.
Although now seventy years of age, he maintained a full head of dark ginger-brown hair and had lost none of his mental acuity and managerial powers, and had maintained his personal fitness through a strict diet regime and regular rounds of golf in his new home in Central Florida.
He was preparing to celebrate Christmas with his family at his extensive villa in the winter sun when the snowstorm began. He watched with growing interest as Britain and the World reacted to the disaster, but kept his distance – as he knew Sir Ian James well and respected his judgement. He also knew Dame Ann Fletcher and suspected that she might use the situation to feather her own nest – probably at the expense of anybody who dared to get in her way.
However, the situation in Brussels had changed dramatically since the ‘death’ of Ann and the theft of the British gold from under the noses of the inept administration. Consequently, there had been a change of direction in early April and it was as a result of what some called a ‘coup’ that he was sitting in Brussels with two heavily armed military guards standing outside the heavy panelled entrance door.
There were three others sitting at the same table – a ‘triumvirate’ if you like, and the recently installed ‘First Minister’ addressed them in turn. There was no Private Secretary to take notes or witness the meeting – the discussion would be far too dangerous for any possibility of an unauthorised leak seeping into the general population. There would be instant and widespread pandemonium!
‘Admiral, can you give me the up to date situation concerning our naval forces?’
Admiral of the Fleet, Sir William Drake, sat in this room as the officer representing the Royal Navy and all of its associated interests. He was a career mariner, who could trace his family back to the time of the Spanish Armada, and had been a full and committed member of the 1st of April ‘coup’.
‘Well, sir, we have recovered all naval shipping worldwide and it now either sits in dock in Brittany or is patrolling the waters surrounding the United Kingdom, continuing the search for survivors – although they are few and far between these days. The only exception is the Task Force in the South Atlantic.’
Viscount Irvine nodded and turned to the Chief of the General staff, Field Marshal Dame Sarah Hughes, who had also come out of retirement to join the group now responsible for the interests of the British people.
‘Dame Sarah – our armies?’
A stout and astute woman, in her mid-sixties, she had risen through the ranks and won the unqualified respect and admiration of her peers. There had been no male objection to her appointment on this exclusive board.
‘The vast majority are now mobilising and heading south as previously briefed. There is a detachment of SAS, SBS and Royal Marine Commandos aboard HMS Sheffield down south, and the troops in barracks supervising the last of the transit camps will join their colleagues when that job is complete. We have small detachments at Embassies and Legations worldwide, but that accounts for a very small percentage.’
‘Excellent, all in hand as I would expect Sarah. Air Marshal – our Air Force, if you please?’
Marshal of the Royal Air Force, Lord Harris DFC and bar, cleared his throat before summarising the disposition of his forces.
‘There is a full ‘Order of Battle’ contained within the folder in front of you, sir. We have a number of helicopters patrolling the UK daily, watching for survivors. However, we haven’t picked up anyone for ten days. The majority of our aircraft are stationed in Germany and France, but will all transfer t
o the nominated airfields in due course. It was ‘fortunate’, one might say, that many of our fighters, bombers and transport aircraft were in Saudi Arabia, Afghanistan or Cyprus when the snow began. Most nearly all of the aircraft sitting on the ground in the UK were lost, (as were civilian airliners), but we did scramble a few away before the snow took hold. However, many hundreds of our passenger jets were already abroad when the crisis hit and in due course, these will be recovered and assembled into one new ‘Brittany Airways’. I will be taking responsibility for the transition. It's not a bad picture at all.’
Lord Irvine stared intensely at his three colleagues, pausing for a few seconds before continuing.
‘Sarah, William, Stephen – thank you. I have complete confidence in your abilities – or you wouldn't be sitting in this room. In fact, a damned sight more confidence than in any bloody politician. Those morons have completely buggered up this recovery programme with their greed and self-serving policies. This brings me nicely onto the sensitive subject I wish to discuss before we go next door and address the world press corps.’
Viscount Irvine braced himself and could barely bring himself to mention her name -
‘I refer to, of course, that ‘bloody woman’ – and this is strictly for your ears only.’
The Triumvirate could guess what was coming – they all knew that the First Minister had been closely supervising the investigation into her ‘death’.
Lord Irvine continued with real venom in his tone:
‘That bloody woman – Ann Fletcher, just in case you couldn’t guess, has behaved despicably. Her actions are without precedence and will go down in the annals of infamy – if the full story ever gets out.’
Lord Irvine was fuming.
‘That bloody woman abused her position of power to steal over 300 tonnes of British gold from London. She wasn’t murdered in the car at the restaurant. We recovered the vehicle and extracted enough DNA from the two women to determine beyond doubt that she was not the female victim. Fletcher had left a telltale hairbrush in her apartment and we now know that she had duped a ‘doppelganger’ - one Carol Leslie, into taking her place. This ‘double’ had been parading around Brussels for some weeks, and had been accepted as Fletcher in several places around town – the CSC, exclusive shops and at the ‘Claret Jug’ restaurant, near where she died. Nobody expected a double to be in the car with Richard Castle and the Belgian investigation was far too hasty, unprofessional and flawed. The rapid Post Mortem and subsequent cremation left little room for detailed investigation.’
The Triumvirate’s eyebrows lifted as one. Lord Irvine sipped some Evian water and continued.
‘We know that the bloody woman escaped Brussels with her daughter Chloe, and that other sexually perverted harridan, Susan Macintyre, and all three have been traced, by using CCTV, running firstly to Madrid, where they boarded flights to Caracas. In fact, two MI6 agents followed her, but have disappeared without trace. Subsequently, Fletcher and her cohorts have departed Caracas and the trail has gone cold. However, I have a crack team working on the search. She won't get away with it. The CIA, FBI, NSA and Homeland Security are all hard at work looking for the bloody woman. Our friends at Hereford are also involved. She cannot stay hidden forever. It's entirely possible that she is using the name Leslie, and that may be her downfall. We are going through flight manifests to identify possible pseudonyms.’
The Admiral interjected:
‘So Castle was an innocent victim?’
‘No William, he was not! A victim, yes, but he was conspiring with Fletcher, until she used and disposed of him. We all know that she has certain sexual preferences – and Castle didn’t qualify! We have also ‘spoken’ to Dirk Koopman, the South African owner of the ship that carted the gold away from the UK. He was disinclined to impart any information, but our chaps were, let me say, ‘persuasive’, and we discovered that the gold is in Montevideo, lying in harbour, awaiting sale or disposal. This is why the Task Force is en-route. I fully expect to recover the gold within one week. The Uruguayans are happily co-operating and there should be no difficulties in recovering our property. We have a man in Montevideo, MI5 in fact, and he has been very useful. More importantly, he revealed that he paid Fletcher $2 billion for the gold – in cash. She is a very rich woman now.’
‘What about Koopman,’ asked the Field Marshal?
‘He’ll suffer an unfortunate accident, probably,’ smirked the First Minister.
‘This brings me to other co-conspirators - Messrs Group Captain Andrew Brady, Lieutenant Ross Bryant, SAS, and a relatively unknown gentleman – Patric Silver and his wife Joan. Do we know much about Brady, Air Marshal?’
‘A fair deal, sir,’ responded Harris, ‘he was a career navigator stationed at RAF Station Wittering when the snow began. We believe his wife and children died very early on and he made a successful attempt to reach mainland Europe, where he met up with his ex-wife – guess who – yes, that bloody woman Fletcher. Apparently, she duped him into returning unauthorized to London with Lt Bryant to rescue her daughter, Chloe. They were successful and subsequently Chloe has also apparently fallen under the woman’s spell. US$2 billion is a great deal of money and would turn many a head! Brady is currently in the West Indies - St Kitts in fact, searching for his daughter. We – the CIA that is - have a man watching him. Brady may well lead us to Fletcher.’
‘Yes, Stephen, that's the information I had. Hopefully his ill-gotten gains will allow him to grease a few palms on his quest.’
The other three looked puzzled.
‘Oh, I see. You aren't fully aware of his ingenuity and cunning. Even I will concede that he used superb initiative to grasp an opportunity with Bryant and Silver when they were in Guernsey. Somehow, they discovered – before anyone else - that the gold stored there was not in fact ‘gold’ but the Ferro-Tungsten – supplied by Koopman. They flew out to the ‘Pretoria Queen’ off the Isle of Wight and blackmailed Koopman into paying them US$10 million each to keep quiet, giving him enough time to escape south with the real gold. Koopman told our friends from Vauxhall Cross as much. It was the perfect ‘sting’. They even sent a crate of real gold to Brussels to muddy the waters. It worked a treat. I can't really fault their resourcefulness – but they are thieves and traitors nonetheless – and must be brought to justice. We can use Brady for the time being, but our tentacles are stretching out towards Silver and Bryant – even though we believe they purchased new identities in Belgium.’
‘How do we know of their subterfuge?’ asked the Admiral.
‘The MI5 man I spoke about - one Freddy Almond. The South Africans on the ‘Pretoria Queen’ held him hostage – and instead of tossing him overboard in the middle of the Atlantic, dumped him in Montevideo. Luckily for us, he was a witness to the whole deal. It's he who is co-ordinating the gold recovery operation in Uruguay.’
The First Minister sipped at his water before continuing to his final point. It was close to midday and the fateful appointment with the Fourth Estate.
‘There's only one issue to confirm. The remaining gold beneath the Bank of England. I believe that it has become a joint military operation?’
The Admiral took the floor:
‘Yes sir. As a result of your decision last week, we have commenced an Operation Auric II, in order to recover the remaining gold from the vaults. We are using Fletcher’s proven method and are transferring it to secret locations aboard Royal Naval vessels. Of course, it's not our gold – but as you so rightly stated – if we don’t recover it, who will? Clearly, 4500 tonnes of gold is extremely useful, and will buy a great deal of support. If objections are raised by the original owners, we will pontificate. ‘Finders – keepers’ goes the old school ground adage! And who will really want to confront the perils that our military team are currently encountering.’
The First Minister smiled thinly.
‘Yes, I am sure that many objections will be raised, but if our grand design is successful, we will be able to defend it
from a position of strength. It is becoming patently clear to most commentators that the UK is permanently uninhabitable. The evil rising from the flood is unimaginable, and quite frankly, unbelievable. We will be fortunate indeed to recover the gold before our troops are overrun. What is the situation on the ground, Sarah?’
‘It grows more hazardous with every passing day. Our armed forces are working round the clock to extract the gold, but are under constant attack. They are holding their own for the time being, and our losses have been light. Our weaponry has been more than successful and the Bank of England is easy to defend. The attackers are not particularly mobile.’
‘Thank you Sarah; gentlemen. Now, unless there is anything else, let's go next door. I have got a great deal to tell the waiting world. And, remember – everything we've discussed today in here stays in here. Do I make myself clear? We will convene tomorrow at midday to discuss the very grave situation on mainland Britain, as I have called in several experts to advise us on the possible options.’
The Triumvirate nodded in unison, stood and followed Lord Irvine into the great conference hall, where the World’s Press and several world leaders waited with baited breath.
Snow! The Series [Books 1-4] Page 110