The Devil's Handshake
Copyright 2014 Michael Reagan
All rights reserved
The moral right of the author has been asserted
ISBN: 978-0-992-70140-6
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Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
London
Chapter Two
Holland Park 2007
Chapter Three
Ashgabat 1998
Chapter Four
Holland Park 2007
Chapter Five
Hong Kong / Dubai / Aeolian Islands 2007
Chapter Six
Africa / Los Angeles / Washington D.C
Chapter Seven
Ashgabat / Moscow 1998
Chapter Eight
Washington D.C.
Chapter Nine
Moscow
Chapter Ten
London
Chapter Eleven
Venice 2001
Chapter Twelve
London
Chapter Thirteen
Cote D'Azur
Chapter Fourteen
Langley
Chapter Fifteen
Borama
Chapter Sixteen
Washington D.C.
Chapter Seventeen
Borama
Chapter Eighteen
Washington D.C
Chapter Nineteen
Cote D'Azur
Chapter Twenty
Borama
Chapter Twenty-One
Cote D'Azur
Chapter Twenty-Two
Washington D.C / Moscow / London
Chapter Twenty-Three
Kenya 2006
Chapter Twenty-Four
Ros Kamboni 2006
Chapter Twenty-Five
Lamu 2006
Chapter Twenty-Six
London
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Washington D.C
Chapter Twenty-Eight
London
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Los Angeles / New York / Washington D.C
Chapter Thirty
Dubai
Chapter Thirty-One
Upper Burpham
Chapter Thirty-Two
Borama
Chapter Thirty-Three
Moscow
Chapter Thirty-Four
Bangkok
Chapter Thirty-Five
Moscow
Chapter Thirty-Six
The Wood
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Borama
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Dubai International Airport / Borama
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Aden Isaaq International Airport / Borama
Chapter Forty
Roschinsky
Chapter Forty-One
Borama
Chapter Forty-Two
Aw-Barre
Chapter Forty-Three
Langley
Chapter Forty-Four
Borama
Chapter Forty-Five
Lughaya
Chapter Forty-Six
Borama
Chapter Forty-Seven
Langley
Chapter Forty-Eight
Washington D.C / Moscow
Chapter Forty-Nine
Borama
Chapter Fifty
Washington D.C
Chapter Fifty-One
Borama
Chapter Fifty-Two
Moscow
Chapter Fifty-Three
Borama
Chapter Fifty-Four
Washington D.C.
Chapter Fifty-Five
Aden Isaaq International Airport
Chapter Fifty-Six
London
Chapter Fifty-Seven
St Ageranus School
Chapter Fifty-Eight
London
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Nouakchott
Chapter Sixty
London
Chapter Sixty-One
Nouakchott International Airport / Nouakchott
Epilogue
London
Acknowledgements
About Michael Reagan
Prologue
"What's the crack, Stevie?" asked the Commander of Charlie Three Zero, who at first glance looked more like a local Bedouin tribesman with his dark long matted hair and scraggy long beard rather than an officer of the British Army.
"The fucking RSM wants to call a staff meeting at the pickup point!" said the Liverpudlian Corporal shaking his head as he disconnected the call from the encrypted radio.
The man smiled at the statement, the RSM who apart from being the Special Air Services (SAS) Regimental Sergeant Major also doubled as the Commander of Alpha One Zero always had a dry sense of humor.
The young officer was just twenty-seven, well-built and possessing a set of deep brown eyes that could look into one's soul, was in the second year of his secondment as a language expert to the SAS from the Royal Gurkhas Rifles asked what the RSM wanted to discuss. Figuring it was more than likely something to do with the new intelligence from the Yanks that they had received on their prime objective-the location and destruction of Scud missiles in the western corridor of Iraq.
"Boss, you don't want to know," answered the young Trooper, a title given to enlisted men of British Army elite fighting force that is comparable in status to the United States Navy 'SEAL' or 'Operator' in its DELTA force.
The young officer's look told him otherwise.
"The fucking new furniture for the dining room in Hereford!" replied Stevie, rolling his eyes.
"Typical," the old sage of the unit a Staff Sergeant called Richard "Taffy" Jones muttered in his rich Welsh accent before continuing, "I'm telling you!"
"Tommy," he said to the young officer, using his first name as rank titles were never used in the Regiment when it's members spoke to one another. "The RSM is fucking cracked!"
Thomas smiled at the Trooper. He took the request for what it was: a morale booster, something the Regiment certainly needed having just got the news they had lost four of their own men on a mission last week.
"I think you might find, Stevie," Thomas replied. "That's the RSM's way of sticking two fingers up at Saddam," he continued in an attempt to support a man who wasn't present to defend himself as he looked at his Casio G-SHOCK watch on his wrist.
"FUCK THAT!" answered the Staff Sergeant who wasn't the RSM's greatest fan even at the best of times.
Ignoring the banter of his No. 2 for the moment, Thomas refocused his mind on the mission they had been given: The location and destruction of a very special Scud Al-Hussein missile launcher and its payload.
It wasn't going to be easy. The terrain was rugged and flat and after being dropped in by a Chinook helicopter, it had taken them a day to make their Lay Up Point (LUP) as they were overloaded with the equipment they needed to destroy the rocket launcher. Nevertheless, Thomas tried to make his mind relax as he lay in a depression in the ground.
The American Intelligence officer who had operational command of this mission wanted a "hit and run" night raid that echoed the days of the North African campaign of World War II. This was in order to make it look as if a routine patrol had stumbled onto the launcher in spite of the mission being anything but that.
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br /> When Thomas had asked the man in front of RSM and the Colonel as to why they were sure that the square building with a massive antenna and satellite dishes surrounding it was housing the missile launcher and why didn't they just call in an air strike and destroy it all, he was given an answer that had shocked him.
"Captain, we understand the Scud missiles are carrying Anthrax," the man, whom Thomas had ascertained was of Pakistani origin despite his New York accent, had said.
"Is this a school?" the RSM had asked while pointing at the map to a small building by the side of the one that intelligence had assumed contained the hidden missile. Grimly, it had dawned on Thomas and those around the table why an air strike wasn't possible. If an air strike hit its intended target, then the most likely collateral damage would be the deaths of the children the Iraqis were using as a human shield. The ensuing propaganda generated for Saddam would be: a) the Americans had destroyed a school and b) they had used chemical weapons-a spurious claim that, although it would be denied by the coalition, would gain useful political capital in striking a wedge between the fragile partnership of the Western and Arab nations. Worse still and the most likely result was something the Colonel had confirmed to all around the table in his stiff tone as "It would be impossible to keep Israel out of the conflict as they would argue that the missile could be the first of many that be directed in the direction of Tel Aviv."
"How many of these blighters are in operation?" the Colonel had asked, referring to the missile launcher.
"Our intelligence informs us so far this is the only one," the American-Pakistani had responded. Thomas had looked at him disbelievingly for a second but didn't comment further. It wasn't his job to question the intelligence.
"I understand," Thomas had answered.
"Unfortunately, we don't have any confirmed intelligence on the number of troops guarding the Scud," the American had continued. "But intelligence points to them as almost certainly being members of the Brigade of Mukhabarat, an elite group from the Iraq Intelligence Services (IIS) that reports directly to Saddam," the man had explained
"Don't worry. I am sure we be able to handle them!" Thomas had answered proudly.
"Of that, I have no doubt Captain," the American had replied. With Thomas's mind finally starting to shut down for a couple of hours, he was about to find out if his bold statement was going to be true or not.
"David, I have briefed the SAS team who is going to be handling the operation," The CIA Officer had said to his line officer, on the encrypted telephone link to Riyadh just two days before the team had gone in.
"Your assessment of them?" the Virginian had asked.
"The Captain is young and capable," the officer had answered. "He speaks Arabic like a native and moreover looks like one," he had added, with a hint of admiration. "Mackintosh calls him one of his best," he had further added, referring to the colonel of the regiment.
"Good."
"We can't allow that missile to be missed," the voice at the end of the phone had declared.
The CIA Officer, an American-Pakistani called Ali Mansoor, did not need his boss to tell him that. If that missile landed anywhere in Israel, then the President would not be able to keep the Coalition together. He knew the risks better than anybody.
This intelligence was as good as it got. It had come from a source deep inside the PLO who had visited the site with Yasser Arafat earlier in the year and just four months before Saddam had invaded Kuwait. As was usual in human intelligence, the information was treated with skepticism because up to that point it was believed that the Iraqis hadn't mastered the fuse technology and trigger mechanism that would be needed to detonate a warhead. That had quickly changed though when the Scuds started their reign of terror.
"Come on Walid," Ali had said to the asset in the small Tunis caf? over a cup of sweet coffee. "Why would Saddam show Yasser such an important place and risk operational security?" "Because he is desperate, Habib," Walid had replied before going on to explain to Ali that the Iraqi leader needed Arafat to join him politically when he made his move against the Kuwaitis, who, as Iraq's biggest creditor, had begun putting international pressure on Iraq to pay back the eighty billion dollars he had borrowed from Kuwait to act as a security buffer against Iran.
"Okay, I can just about buy that," Ali had answered at the time. The President of Iraq was always one for grand gestures designed to show his military power even to the point of comparing himself as a modern day reincarnation of Nebuchadnezzar, a sixth century B.C. Babylonian king who had built his kingdom into the most powerful nation in the world by ruthlessly annexing the neighboring countries around his own.
"But an invasion!" he had said, not quite believing even Saddam would go that far. "Listen to these, then make up your mind," the source had answered, handing over to Ali the set of tapes that Arafat had asked him to transcribe from the small personal tape recorder he had carried on him throughout his meetings and visits to the facilities with Saddam. That meant this intelligence alone was pure gold.
Yet it was only when Ali had returned to Langley from Tunis with the tape recordings and had heard the voices on the tapes that the asset had bravely copied, did both David and he change their minds; Leaving them in no doubt that it was just a question of when the invasion was going to happen, not if!
"Iraq has the chemical weapons it successfully used against the Iranians during the eight-year War, and I promise you, my dear, I won't hesitate to use them against Tel Aviv," Saddam's voice had said on the tape. "This missile enables us to strike at Israel."
"You mean military targets?" Arafat had asked. "No, my dear, we consider every city within Israel a target!"
"When will you use such a weapon, my friend?" the Leader of the PLO had fawningly replied.
"It will be kept in reserve so as to deter the Americans or the Israelis from using their chemical, biological, or nuclear weapons on the homeland and to prevent any invader from ever marching on Baghdad," the President of Iraq had said proudly and with authority.
"Ali," David had said, pausing the tape for a moment. "We need to confirm where and how many of these missiles Saddam has!" he had instructed.
"Walid indicated that this was the only one so far."
"How is he so sure?" David had asked.
"According to Arafat?"
"Yes!" Answered Ali, "It seemed Saddam indicated to Yasser that he had been experiencing problems getting the necessary software microchip for the missile," He then continued in an effort try to put his superior at ease before they completed the review of the rest of the transcripts from Yasser's visit. "And You believe that?" David had doubtfully questioned at the time.
"It isn't exactly the sort of chip you can buy off the back of the bus!" continued Ali, "However, we are aware that IIS agents have been in Japan trying to purchase chips via the Yazuka and have made visits to North Korea over the last three months, so for once evidence suggest that Saddam is telling Yasser the truth."
Yet despite this, it was only when Saddam invaded Kuwait did the "powers that be" at the Agency finally begin to take the Middle East and Near East desk's intelligence seriously.
The direct benefit of which for Ali had been a promotion and a career boost for David as it had caused the instant firing of his immediate superior he reported to because he had chosen not to pass the information up the line to the President's National Security Council via the Director.
"Amazing," Ali had said as the pair had continued to plough through the tapes.
"He's likening the situation with Kuwait to fighting in the playground!" Ali had continued while shaking his head in disbelief at one of Saddam's comments during one of his dinners with Arafat. Where he had claimed that if it wasn't for him, Ayatollah Khomeini and Iran would have occupied the entire Arab world and as such, he expected the Arab world to support them during and after the war. Before launching into another venomous tirade with regard to Kuwait, whom he felt had been keeping the pric
e of their oil at $7 U.S. dollars per barrel to stop Iraq from rebuilding its infrastructure.
"You know what those dogs said to Hammadi," Saddam had said in disgust, referring to his Minister of Foreign Affairs. "We'll make the economy in Iraq so bad, one would be able to sleep with an Iraqi woman for ten dinars."
"They steal our oil using the practice of slant drilling!" Saddam ranted.
"Then laugh at us by saying they have only taken two and a half billion barrels!" He continued,
"And then tell OPEC that they will not abide by its decision!" he had ranted on, referring to Kuwait's veto when the other members of Organization of Petroleum Exporting Countries had agreed to appease Iraq by fixing the price between sixteen and seventeen U.S. dollars per barrel.
"It was them, I tell you, Yasser, who convinced our brothers to call in their loans instead of what it was supposed to be 'free aid' in order not to upset the dogs at Iraq's door" Saddam had said, spitting on the floor, or so it had sounded to both Ali and David.
"And why? Yasser," Saddam's voice had ranted on, "Do they do this? I will tell you why! Because it is a conspiracy! A conspiracy against Iraq, the Iraqi leadership, and our economy, all led by our mutual enemy via their conduit: the Great Satan - America! Zionist power and influence in the United States dictates its foreign policy. Any country viewed as a threat to Israel, such as Iraq, becomes a target of the conspiracy."
"Look," he had said making his gambit in effort to garner Arafat's support by referring to Israel's latest official statement saying any peace agreement with Arab countries must include Iraq. "They aren't hoping for peace. Only other countries to abide by their wishes."
"The Soviet Union is weak," Saddam had rambled on. "Recent agreements between the two shows this," he had said referring to America and the Soviet Union. "Therefore it is easier for the two powers to agree rather than attempt to get many to agree."
"So what does this mean?" Saddam announced. "I will tell you what! We are left with economics led by certain Zionist entities within the United States, including the weapons manufacturers and elements in the military all of who favor war due to the financial profit which can be reaped."
"With the Soviet Union falling apart," he had continued now in full flow, "We represent a suitable new enemy to replace them. So we must defend by attacking! History dictates that Kuwait is part of Iraq. If Qasim wanted to make a Kuwait a district of Iraq in sixty-one," he had said referring to the former President of Iraq, "Then this my friend, gives me the justification to act and make my people and brothers ready for the fight that one day would come to Iraq's shores, and force those dogs of Al Sabahs to heel," Saddam had said referring to the ruling family of Kuwait.
By the end of the tapes, both men had looked at one another. David made a comment that at the time had surprised Ali.
"Well, he's right about one thing," David had said, chuckling, something Ali found inappropriate but kept his own council.
"What's that?" Ali had asked instead.
"America does need an enemy once the Soviet Union falls."
"You think the Soviets are going to fall?"
David had laughed. "Ali, they can't afford a bath plug, let alone a foreign policy. Unfortunately America does need an enemy to justify its Energy Security position."
Ali mentally shook his head. David scared him sometimes. Everything to him was a game of chess. Assets were merely pieces on the board to be moved or sacrificed as when needed. Yet the fact remained because he was so politically connected and by definition going places, with his next posting most likely to be Moscow as a Station Chief at just thirty-five years of age, it made sense to remain close and stay friends with him so not make him an enemy within the Agency.
"Still for the moment we need to make sure that this gets passed up the line," David had said, changing the subject. "The last thing we need is getting caught with our pants down, and we get the blame!" he had said with a smile.
"By that statement, you don't think anybody is going to listen to us."
David had continued to smile at him, but didn't say anything. Instead, he had replied, "A great piece of work, Ali."
Six hours later, having reached their primary target and unaware of the global politics and instead focused on the mission, Thomas and the team approached the buildings. Immediately they encountered a large long truck with a canopy around it. Using his night vision goggles he quickly spotted only two men guarding it, and everything was very, very quiet.
The young Captain was pleased. The mission was going without a hitch so far.
Giving the silent order to advance by way of fist pumps and points, the eight man assault team quickly went in, killing the two guards with their knives and then setting the explosives on the truck.
Suddenly, Thomas sensed movement to his right side, coming from the door opening in the building.
He didn't have time to think. The instincts of one of his troopers reacted for him as the magazine was emptied into the person at the door.
The whole place erupted. The patrol was compromised.
Straight away, heavy machine gunfire rained down on the patrol as they attempted to make their escape.
Sensing they were in danger of being overwhelmed, Thomas gave the order to withdraw with a hand signal. As he did so, a tracer round whizzed past his ear, and the patrol moved back quickly to a place of cover. His heart pumped faster. Adrenaline pumped through his veins.
Being well trained, he didn't need to give the order for the team to stop, turn, and return fire to stall the retreat. Three hundred yards out on cue, they did it automatically, immediately unleashing a barrage of covering fire in the direction of the Iraqi guards.
Screams erupted.
Yet still not one word had been said by the men of Thomas's assault team only a group hand signals between one another to signal where to aim their fire.
Suddenly the Iraqi night sky lit up!
"Bigwig this is Hawkbit," over the radio's loudspeaker quickly caught the attention of Ali Mansoor, the Colonel and the RSM. He was using the codenames of characters from the famous story of Watership Down. Another of the RSM's witty ideas!
"Objective successful," confirmed the crackling voice.
"Woundwort destroyed," came the confirmation. "Under heavy fire. Requesting immediately air support and EXFIL ASAP at original drop-in!" squawked Thomas's voice, referring to the Standard Operation Procedure (SOP) of returning to your original drop in point to wait for a helicopter that once every twenty-four hours would return to pick up a comprised patrol.
The relieved looking Colonel immediately went to pick up the radio. The hand of the man belonging to a CIA Intelligence officer who had flown in the afternoon from Riyadh stopped him.
"Sorry, Colonel," the Virginian said. "No, Air support or emergency Air Vac," he ordered.
"WHAT!"
"This mission is off-book," the Virginian calmly stated. "Emergency Air support requires logs and confirmation and gets journalists who hang around the base very interested as to why," he said coolly and without emotion.
The fury in the face of the Colonel said it all. "Those are my bloody men out there! I am NOT leaving them to FUCKING DIE."
The Senior CIA officer looked at him impassively, calmly pulled a letter out of his briefcase, and then offered it towards the Colonel.
The RSM snatched it from the Virginian's hand, quickly handing it to his commanding officer. He promptly read it.
"RSM," the Colonel said with sad eyes. "Pass me the radio."
"Understood Bigwig," answered Thomas despite his mind thinking anything but as he turned towards the team. "Looks like we on our own," he said. Nobody said a word. They didn't have to.
"It's the back-up plan then," said Taff Jones. Grimly, Thomas nodded.
"Well at least I don't have to listen to the fucking RSM talking about tablecloths!" Taff offered in the way of humor.
Split into two teams of four and as had been pre-agreed i
n their pre-mission briefing if they couldn't EXFIL. One team led by Taff Jones set off for Saudi Arabia, whilst the other led by Thomas headed for the Syrian border and their secondary pick up point that was about twenty-five miles away from the border, a distance that was at least hundred and twenty miles away from where they were now.
As freezing wind and driving sleet hit their faces, Thomas and his team watched Taff and rest of boys disappear into the night. He had no idea that it would be the last time he ever saw them again.
Forty miles into the trek, as they took a break in the first of the four LUP they had planned to take on water, Thomas and the men had their first contact since they destroyed the missile.
The hand signal of Mickey Ward, a thin and willowy Trooper from Essex, about eight hundred yards in front on point alerted them to the danger.
In the open and with limited cover all knew their options were few. Thomas focused in eyes in front of him. It was an Armored Personnel Carrier and an infantry truck that had spotted them.
He didn't hesitate and neither did the rest of the three-man team, despite the Standard Operation Procedure (SOP) calling for a soldier to run away from Armor as fast as possible.
Mickey Ward fired the first shot, taking out the man on the top of the Armored Personnel Carrier with the 7.62mm machine gun.
Following the Trooper's lead, Thomas let off a volley of anti-armor grenades, advancing quickly towards the enemy and Mickey's position while Stevie provided cover fire with his FN Mimi 5.62mm machine gun in the direction of the truck.
The sounds of screaming Iraqis being hit by the rounds of ammunition rippled across the ground towards them as he closed the gap.
On reaching a position just to the left of Mickey in a matter of seconds, Thomas stopped and knelt on one knee continuing to let off more rounds towards the direction of the troops exiting from the armored personnel carrier. More screams erupted from the Iraqis.
As Thomas began to focus his gaze towards the threat of the truck, his peripheral vision took in the sight of Mickey being hit.
Traveling at speeds exceeding 3,200 feet per second and despite a soldier's training, he may or may not see a bullet coming. In the end that is pretty much irrelevant, as you're certainly not going to have time to respond to it.
That was why Ward didn't duck, yell, or indicate to Thomas he had been hit.
Instead, Thomas relied on the blood spatter with Mickey's hair, skin, and muscle hitting his face, followed by the acrid smell of powder burning flesh assailing his nostrils to tell him that the Trooper had been hit.
The Iraqi who released the round into Mickey also didn't have time to respond. The 5.62mm rounds of his and Stevie Wiltshire's machine guns tore him to pieces.
Seconds after that, Thomas gave the order to cease-fire with a hand pump signal from Thomas.
The early morning wind brought the sound of whimpering soldiers to be added to the smell of burning flesh that filled the air around him.
"Take his tag," he ordered Stevie without emotion, referring to the bracelet with his name, rank, and serial number on it. The time for mourning would be at the Trooper's memorial service at Hereford if they made it. Without saying a word, the Trooper did just that.
Stevie and the other remaining Trooper, who also doubled as the team's Medic, Tony Patterson, calmly made sure there were no survivors in the burning truck and Armored Personnel Carrier. Taking out his binoculars, Thomas focused his gaze on the horizon, ignoring the screams in Arabic of the wounded Iraqis as he did so.
He knew what his men were doing was a war crime. Article 12 of the Geneva Convention states "Wounded and sick soldiers who are out of the battle should be humanely treated, and in particular should not be killed, injured, tortured, or subjected to biological experimentation." Thomas didn't care. Those Iraqis made their choice, and in any case they couldn't very well take prisoners with them.
Instead, the young Captain chose to focus his mind on the billowing black smoke being emitted from the destroyed equipment. He knew the "contact" (the term used to describe a military engagement) would be most likely seen for miles. The direct consequence therefore would be most likely more troops on top of them within a matter of minutes rather than hours. This meant they would have to move out quickly to at least have half a chance of escaping,?something they couldn't do with 200-pound Bergen rucksacks they were carrying on their backs. This meant Thomas and the lads would have to ditch their warm weather clothing, food, and heavy weapons and just keep the water and ammunition for their remaining weapons. In his case, the M72 and an AK-47, a Russian weapon, but one Thomas had chosen as his own personal weapon of choice because it was the weapon most used by the Iraqi army as it didn't require a lot of tender loving care and rarely jammed. In addition, since he had spent most his time since August pretending to be a tribesman since the invasion and as there were hundred million AK-47s worldwide, he reasoned that if he was ever in a contact he should be able to use ammunition of the dead or buy some from any Bedouin as needed.
At the time, the boys of the regiment had made jokes at his expense nicknaming him "Lawrence." He doubted they would be now if they were here.
Knowing that they couldn't engage with another bout of armored weaponry, Thomas took the decision to ditch his M72 anti-tank weapon. Weight was king in a fight for survival.
The wall of sand rolling in from the direction of Saudi Arabian border in the south brought him a sense of relief.
"What's the plan?" asked Stevie handing him a collection of magazines full of ammo so as to save Thomas the time of picking the bodies of the dead Iraqis for resupplies.
Thomas nodded towards the wall of sand. "That might just be our friend, lads," he said.
Stevie and Tony looked at each other and then nodded at the suggestion, fully understanding what Thomas meant.
"We will need to ditch our kits though," offered Thomas. With temperatures of minus ten degrees Centigrade at night, it was, although nobody mentioned it, a prospect that terrified them more than another contact with the Iraqis.
"And we will need to make another fifty miles over the next twenty-four hours, lads, in order to make the back-up drop in," he added, driving his knife home even more.
"But it's your choice," stated Thomas, referring to the one rule of the SAS being that, in the field, all Troopers were entitled to have their say regardless of rank.
Both men looked at the body of Mickey. Neither said anything for a moment.
"Drop the kit," was Tony's response.
"I thought fucking selection was hard," answered Stevie before walking off in the direction of Mickey to say a silent pray for his fallen comrade and say his goodbyes. Thirty minutes later, the sand arrived and engulfed them. The three remaining members of Charlie One Zero set off in the direction of Syria.
During the next day, using the storm initially as a cover, they completed the fifty-mile target they had set for themselves, due partly to the steady pace set by Stevie and because they only took two stops for water. Yet it didn't take a genius for the three men to realize that with only a couple of bottles of water on each of them, they were burning too much body fat in the cold by maintaining this pace.
Their training told them that losing five percent of body fat in a short amount of time and not replacing it causes the body to seize up as a consequence; the three of them knew the next five hours would be crucial.
As it was Thomas's turn to set the pace he took the lead. Half way to the second LUP, he stopped and turned, only to find nobody was with him. That in it's self wasn't unusual; groups on a romp often separated.
Despite knowing he was exhausted, he focused on his training. Again following the SOP of the Regiment, Thomas pulled out his personal tactical beacon (or TACBE) as the device is known) so he could alert any planes or helicopters that might be overhead or nearby to his position. Designed primarily as a distress signal, it could also be used as a short-range communications device to nearby aircraft
by indicating that someone is in danger and needs help. Five minutes later, having not received any response, he turned off the beacon and waited for his team to turn up. Half an hour later, he was fighting off the urge to sleep, knowing if he did he would most likely die from hypothermia, when they still hadn't turned up after an hour it started to dawn on Thomas that he was on his own. A Trooper's training tells to focus on the goal. Use your willpower to drive you on. But that, unfortunately, doesn't stop you from second guessing yourself.
Thomas's tired and troubled mind tried to focus. He checked his water can. His lips were cracked and sore. He could feel all the joints in his body and fingers becoming numb. That was a bad sign.
"Half a can," he muttered as he fought the urge to sip it all, and questioned whether he should try to find his missing colleagues.
Suddenly the face of his dead mother appeared in front of him. He knew his mind was beginning to play tricks. He shook his head in an attempt to break free. He felt his muscles began to cramp up. He knew what that meant. His body was shutting down to reabsorb fluid from his blood and his other body tissues. He was about to go into shock. That meant he had to rehydrate. Yet before he could, the delirium arrived.
"Move darling," she said.
"I need to wait Mummy," he said to her out loud as though he was eight and heading off to boarding school.
Then the face of his hated father appeared in front of him.
"Fuck off!" he said as the wind continued to whistle around him. He shook his head to break free. He tried to focus on the waterproof map that he had pulled from the inside of his combat jacket, forgetting in the process about the urgent need to take on more water to stop the delirium playing havoc with his mind.
Then it was the turn of the mythical face of the legend Homer that he had used in his Thesis at Oxford to appear before him.
"Thomas, you must live," the Greek ordered.
"Do not shrink from it. Have inner strength. Your Kelos will be won later through great deeds," the voice whistled, referring to the Greek word meaning "What others hear about you" through accomplishing great deeds, often through death.
"It is not Hades' time to welcome you yet!" the voice instructed, referring to the Greek god of the underworld. "For the Gods have other plans for you. Your Odyssey is only beginning,"
Thomas's entire world went black.
The word "Bedouin" is derived from a plural form of the Arabic word Badawi, and literally translates as "nomad" or "wanderer."
Amongst the Bedouin, there are as many as one hundred and fifty tribes in Iraq. One such Clan is The Dulaym. Today many prominent Iraqis carry the last name "Dulaym," because it signaled to the other Clans of the country and the area that they belong to the tribal confederation. Since 1968, the Clan had been allied with Saddam Hussein. They supported him throughout his war with Iran with manpower and ruthlessly opposed anyone that had tried to dispose of him. As a consequence, members of their clan held important positions within government, mostly in and around the western province of al-Anbar. Yet that link was severed forever when Saddam, by way of the arrest and removal of individuals that held close ties to Saudi Arabia via family connections, chose to break that bond.
One such man was Hassan Karim Dulaym, a senior chieftain in Albuminr. Charismatic and popular, the former Special Forces commander who had made his reputation during 1984 when he had led a helicopter assault on Iranian troops that were atop a mountain in Kurdistan.
It was because of this popularity Saddam, fearing him to be a rival for the Presidency had tried to have him arrested as soon as Iraq invaded Kuwait. In response, Hassan along with his sons somewhat foolhardily, instead of escaping and leading an opposition, had tried to orchestrate a failed coup attempt against Saddam utilizing former members of his unit that the dictator had disbanded.
"Drink! My dear," came the voice filtering through the blackness.
Immediately Thomas's mind switched back on. His eyes tried to open.
The first thing that struck Thomas was his body was covered in wet clothes. He knew instantly this meant he had been captured and the captors were now talking to him as they tried to return moisture back to his body.
"Drink!" came the voice again.
This time Thomas opened his eyes as the firm hand lifted his head and forced the liquid onto his dried lips. His eyes focused. The face of a man of about sixty with a salt and pepper beard with dark eyes and Bedouin smock was staring back at him. Thomas's eyes moved to left and right quickly. He tried to move his body but because he was still weak, he couldn't. A searing headache attacked his brain. Then as he swallowed the water, he felt the urge to vomit.
"Slowly," the man ordered this time.
Thomas's mind, if not body, was fully alert and answered in Arabic, "Thank you."
"You are welcome my dear," came a voice in fluent English.
"I do not understand?" replied Thomas in Arabic, in an attempt to convince his captor that he was local tribesman.
The face smiled.
"You are a British Solider. Although I must say your Arabic is most excellent, my dear. Now rest," the man ordered. Being still too weak to fight, Thomas obeyed.
Two hours later, Thomas awoke again. His head was still throbbing. But he was alert.
This time it was the face of a boy of about fourteen with the same eyes of the man who greeted him earlier.
Wearily, Thomas lifted his body. He took in his surroundings. It appeared as though he was in a tent.
"Baba," cried the boy. Immediately the entrance to the tent opened.
"Good afternoon, my dear," said the man using the Arabic term of endearment. Thomas eyed him with suspicion. His instincts told him he wasn't a solider but more likely a tribesman of the area allied to Hussein.
"I am Brigadier-General Hassan Karim Dulaym," he said offering his hand in friendship. "And like you, I am no friend of Hussein," he said with narrowed eyes.
"Kismet is a funny thing my dear," said Hassan to Thomas, referring to the term that means that events are as ordered or "inevitable" and unavoidable as the three of them made their way to the border and the emergency pick up point.
"Just a year ago I would have handed you over to Saddam without a second thought," he said before explaining why he too was on the run from the IIS and how he had lost his two oldest sons a Major and a Captain, in an attempt?to overthrow Saddam just two months previously. After being betrayed by one of his own men he was now trying to save the life of his youngest son, the same boy who that had stumbled across the near lifeless body of Thomas.
"But today our journey finds us on the same path," he said. "So who am I to refuse the Qadar!" he said, referring to the decree of Allah.
"Hassan," replied Thomas, making the effort to bond with the man. "Classical and European mythology features Kismet as three goddesses dispensing a fate, known as Moirai in Greek mythology," he said in Arabic. "They determine the events of the world through the mystic spinning of threads that represent individual human fates." He continued as the two men watched Saleem walk in front of them so he could act as their spotter.
The man looked at Thomas for a second.
"So that was the language you were speaking in your torment," he said as he smiled.
In the three days since the General and his son had found him close to death through a mixture of hypothermia and, and while he recovered well enough to make the journey, both men had learnt a lot about each other.
Hassan had even ventured to suggest that he would be a suitable alternative to Saddam and that the United States should support him in his Jihad, despite Thomas trying to tell the General that he doubted the Americans would take him seriously. He had insisted that at he had at least tried.
"Consider it the price of my Dakhala," said Hassan referring to the law of protection that the tribes of Iraq practiced. That translated meant "Once a person passes the pegs that hold the tent ropes ta
ut, then that person is entitled to the protection of the owner of the tent."
During this time Thomas had also come to terms with the knowledge that Stevie and Tony had to be dead, a conclusion he reached when the General had told him he had heard on his shortwave radio he was carrying that a patrol had come across the dead bodies of two soldiers, not more than twenty-five miles from where he had been found. Although he had been saddened by the news at the time, he didn't dwell on it the time for mourning would come later once he made it back to Hereford.
Instead, he focused his thoughts on the CIA man the colonel had told him over the radio that had refused his request to lift him and his team out. Whatever happened, swore Thomas silently, the day would come when he would find and pay that man back in full. "His honor code demanded it!"
Suddenly the movement of Saleem into a crouching position quickly had both men alert and focused on what lay ahead of them instead of their discussion.
At a trot both made their way to the boy. Once reaching him they joined him in kneeling down in the thick grassland so to hide their position. Then they removed their binoculars.
"Looks like we have squatters on our family well," replied the General in Arabic as both men focused on what looked a troop detail guarding the water well. The last place they planned to stop before the last twenty-five miles to the extraction point.
"They know this is one of my family's wells," said the General in disgust. "So I fear, my dear, they are looking for me and not you," he continued.
"Maybe we can use that to our advantage?" offered Thomas, referring to the fact that he didn't think Hassan would have a highly trained soldier with him.
The General looked at him for a moment. "What is your idea?"
"There are five of them."
"What do you suggest?" he asked.
As the first rays of morning light illuminated, Hassan and Thomas moved covertly towards the two sleeping men guarding the tent that contained three remaining guards, while Saleem remained under cover in the thick brush.
In readiness, both men pulled their knives from their belts. In Thomas's case, his weapon of choice was the fearsome gift he had once received from the men of his platoon known by the Gurkhas as a Khurki.
When the General had asked him why he carried such an unusual weapon earlier, Thomas had responded with the Ghurkha's motto, "Better to die than live a coward," and the circumstances behind the gift.
The General with acknowledgement of respect had replied, "I have heard of these fearsome warriors. This explains why the desert didn't take you." He had handed it back to him with a smile.
Creeping towards the two sleeping guards, Thomas could smell the breath of his sleeping target, he was that close.
The plan of using their knives to kill the two guards was a last resort and not without risk. Without the luxury of silencers on their weapons, they had to be sure at the very least that they could kill?the two guards before the others realized. If they used their weapons then there was a good chance the remaining three would be able to escape and out gun them. Thomas was still weak. So physically he was in no shape for long drawn out gunfight. Unfortunately before Thomas could kill the guard, disaster struck. The guard that Hassan was about to kill stirred, mayhem arrived in full force.
"Ali!" The guard shouted just as Hassan was in the process of trying to slice his vocal cords from behind.
Knife combat is one of the most terrifying and primal ways to kill. The rules are simple. Expect to get cut, time is of the essence, and finally, the most important imperative, "Survival is everything." Don't hesitate. Lose control of those three rules and you are dead.
Although Thomas had been trained for it, nothing prepares you for the look of a man's eyes in that situation. Resting his weight on the balls of his feet, Thomas slightly bent his front knee and made sure his elbows were in at the sides, his left hand was up for protection and leading, so to support his cutting hand by controlling the enemy's weapon. In this case, the young Iraqi's AK-47.
The young guard suddenly awake and alert to the screams of his fellow guards panicked as he tried to gather his bearings. He tried to pull the trigger to kill Thomas but hadn't realized he still had his safety on. As he scrambled to find the catch on the weapon, the last thing he saw was Thomas's Khurki taking his head off all in one movement.
Turning towards Hassan, Thomas dropped the Khurki, then pulled and removed the pin on the M67 grenade containing 6.5 ounces of composition B explosive from his jacket and lobbed the device into the tent just as one of the men attempted to exit it quickly to help the two soldiers outside. Designed to explode just four seconds after release and kill anything within five meters, Thomas threw the device underarm into the tent knowing that the explosive force of the weapon could disburse steel fragments fifteen yards from the center of the explosion.
Aware that Hassan and he were inside that radius, Thomas shouted, "Grenade!" Just as he ducked for cover, a loud and savage bang followed a wall of heat and wind ripped through the air. Hassan and the guard he was fighting with were both thrown into the air while the two remaining guards in the tent and the one who had been trying to exit it were torn to pieces by the blast and wall of flames.
"Hassan!" cried Thomas fearing the worst as he got up and made his way to his new friend who was now lying on the ground on the top of the soldier he had killed just as the blast erupted.
Reaching him within seconds, Thomas ignored the screams of the wounded Iraqi soldier who had exited the tent.
"Hassan," Thomas whispered knowing that instantly his friend was wounded badly.
"Baba!" came the repeated cry of Saleem running from the high brush outside the camp.
The General looked up at Thomas as he checked him over.
"Fuck!" Thomas said. A piece of fragment was lodged deeply into his gut, and blood was pouring out at an alarming rate. Thomas knew instantly there was no way he could make the twenty-five miles to the extraction point.
"I know it's bad, Thomas," whispered the old solider, seeing the guilt on Thomas's face.
He murmured weakly, "It was the only way, my dear."
"Do not blame yourself," he ordered taking Thomas's arm. "It is my Qadar," he smiled in an attempt to soothe. "Take Saleem and deliver him to his mother in Syria," he ordered Thomas just as Saleem arrived at their sides.
"No, Baba," replied Saleem with tears in his eyes. "I want to stay with you," cried the son as he cradled his father's head in his arms.
"Your mother and sisters need you," said Hassan weakly. "You're the head of our family now," he said with fatalistic understanding of his future.
Thomas looked at Saleem then Hassan.
"From this day forward, I promise you that your family is my responsibility," Thomas said.
When Thomas arrived and stepped on to the back of the Chinook just ten days after the still secret mission, he looked like a modern version of T. E. Lawrence with the smock of an Arabian Sheikh of from the nineteenth century around his head and full beard and child at his side.
Legend goes within Hereford that Thomas had replied somewhat flippantly to the RSM who had picked him up had asked how he had managed to walk out of the desert accompanied by a boy of no more than fourteen at his side and to survive, had killed over a hundred Iraqis along the way.
"Train Hard, Fight easy." Yet that wasn't what that the old timers of regiment still to this day talk about long after the young officer had Returned to Unit (RTU) and left the Army. Nor did they talk about the Military Cross he had been awarded when they described his escape to new recruits after their selection. That honor instead always belonged to the look Thomas had on his face when he walked into the Forward Operating Base (FOB) in Saudi, asking to see the Colonel.
"So what was it like?" Troopers would often ask.
"He had the eyes of the fucking devil," came the reply of the NCOs with just a hint of admiration.
1
London
It
was not a typical spring morning as residents and visitors of central London alike scurried through Mayfair's famous Berkeley Square trying hard to avoid the icy spring rain that lashed at them.
At the window of one of the many townhouses located around the Square that act as private offices for wealthy men and women of the world using the London as a base, stood a distinguished man of forty-eight and lost in thought.
Sir Thomas Litchfield, or simply "Tommy," to his friends or lovers was dressed in an expensively tailored double-breasted cashmere and silk suit, cut in a Prince of Wales style. He stood 6'2" in height, had a mop of black hair with flecks of white scattered through it, a pair of deeply set eyes that could look as if they could penetrate one's soul, a strong clean-shaven jaw and muscular physique.
The digital phone on top of the antique walnut writing desk buzzed and interrupted his thoughts and brought him back to the world.
Leaving the window, the proud looking man took a short walk to the high desk in the center of the room and pressed the speakerphone option on it.
"Sir Thomas, I have Miss. Gurbanammedowova on line, shall I put her through?" asked the crisp upper class English voice of his personal assistant.
He answered with polite affirmative.
"Nara," he said letting the recipient know they were connected.
The lady in question, or to be more precise "Gunara," to quote the world's newspapers and gossip magazines when the woman was often followed and photographed by them, was his thirty six years old Muslim Turkman, his companion and mother to his twelve year-old daughter, Victoria Emilia Litchfield.
Nara; blessed with a full naturally athletic, exotically bronzed body, stood 5'10" tall, with an angular, oval shaped face with high naturally puffed up cheeks, thinly plucked eyebrows over a set of deeply dark brown eyes surrounded by long black eyelashes, a pair of luscious lips, and a mane of incredibly long straight coal black hair; was considered to be amongst of the most beautiful women in the world.
"Hello, my darling. You wanted me?" Nara asked in her English Russian accent that Thomas had always found rather sexy.
Never one for small talk on telephones except when talking to their daughter, as time was money, he got straight to the point.
"Yes, I need you to fly down to Nice tomorrow and prepare yacht for the weekend," he ordered.
"Of course, my Thomas," Nara responded in return without hesitation, using the word "my" in front of his name as a kind of respect to his position when given a task.
A natural linguist fluent in Russian and Arabic and a passable knowledge of Turkman, Mandarin, and Japanese, and who had read Russian and Classics at Oxford before joining the Army. Thomas's education had provided him with the unique understanding of the endocentric constructions of languages, so he knew the use of "my" was Nara's way of indicating to him the hold he held over and in her life. He had never bothered to try and correct her English despite the many years they had been together.
In the early part of his adult life, this education had been one of the reasons how he had ended up in the Special Air Service (SAS) as part of the Mobility Troop Squadron. When he left the Army in 1991 after the First Gulf War it had also enabled him to build his Empire in the ashes of Yeltsin's Russia.
"Excellent, Louise will send over the details and requirements to you."
"Of course, my Thomas," again she repeated firmly, wanting to please him.
The call out of the way, Thomas sat down behind his desk and went back to reading the contract notes from the lawyers he had been mulling over at the window.
On the street corner was an alert man dressed in a single-breasted dark blue suit, which gave the impression of someone that shouldn't be "messed with", watching for possible threats.
At his side, stood a beautiful woman who in contrast to that of her bodyguard who looked anything but that of a woman that shopped in a local Marks and Spencer for her wardrobe. Her mane of long hair was pulled back, a tight black silk tight top showed off her full ample cleavage, and a pair of black skinny jeans wrapped around her legs as though they were part of her. Wearing a pair of black simple Ballerina shoes on her feet all under her couture half Sable Fur by the famous Marc Kaufmann, the personal designer of choice of the wealthy Russian ?migr? women that lived in 'Londongrad', was Nara Gurbanammedowova.
The Blackberry's "hum and buzz" indicated to her that an email had been received at the same time as her call with Thomas ended. Focusing her mind, she clicked open the email.
Skimming it, the beautiful woman quickly decided to stop her mission to "shop before she dropped" in order to allow her to return home to prepare herself for tonight's dinner with one of his business associates.
After all, she only had three hours to ensure she looked the part for the evening.
"Mason, I would like to go home," Nara ordered.
Immediately the bodyguard sprang into action. He touched his earpiece and spoke a few words. Seconds later, a black Vogue Armored Super-charged Range Rover pulled up alongside them.
Opening the door to the private section of the two-ton luxury four-wheel vehicle and still fully alert to any threats, Mason allowed his charge enter the vehicle.
He then closed the door behind her, took one last look around to make sure there were no threats on the horizon and then climbed into the front seat.
"Let's go!" he said to the driver at once, disappointing the on-looking shop assistant of the boutique Nara had been about to enter before her call. Such was her reputation for being able to spend.
As they sped off, Nara reflected on the abruptness of the conservation she had just had with Thomas. She nibbled her bottom lip as the Range Rover began to weave its way through the traffic.
"Is he losing interest in me?" she pondered. A deeply complex man, honorable, hard, yet fair unless crossed or dishonored collectively, something he once described to her as the "Homeric" code of honor, loyalty, and revenge. Yet to her it sounded more like the tribal laws of her Turkmenistan unknowingly due to her limited knowledge of the Classics that those laws had actually come from Alexander the Great, a follower of Homer and the conqueror of Turkmenistan thousands of years ago. She loved him passionately.
Compassionate, intelligent, powerful even humorous, something again Nara had observed over the years they had been together, that he often used as a defense mechanism whenever he was deflecting difficult questions. Although still passionate in their lovemaking, it was only on rare occasions he reciprocated and told her he loved her these days. This in spite of her losing count of the number of times she told him that he was the only man she ever loved. No small thing as she had been a man-hater up to the moment he entered and took possession of her life.
For his all idiosyncrasies, one thing she loved most about him completely, unlike her own father, was Thomas's parenting abilities.
He had even allowed her to register Victoria, his only heir, as a Muslim and always backed her in matters relating to their daughter.
"Well at least until recently!" she thought nibbling her lip nervously, again thinking back to their recent horrible argument over their baby, as she thought of her current insecurities over her future role in his life.
Twenty minutes later, after her protection team had confirmed that it was safe for her exit, the beautiful woman stepped out from the four-wheel drive and made her way up the path towards the large mansion. Yet before she could even reach the door of the house, a man opened it to greet her.
Anybody meeting Stephen Pritchard would assume he represented a classic literary image of the quintessential British Butler with his manners and demeanor.
He was a tall man of 5'11", single never married, and obsessive in regard to standards relating to dignity. Physically, he would be best described as thin, willowy, and long. He had grey hair and a pair of blue eyes hidden under his simple silver rimmed glasses, and something the beautiful woman whom he had open the door for had never seen him out of in all the years she had known him; his classi
c butler's uniform of black long coat, white shirt with butlers tie, and morning suit trousers all finished off with a pair of extra black polished Northampton soled shoes.
He was sixty years old, but Nara had never checked nor had she even wished him 'happy birthday' during the twelve years he had served her.
The mansion had once belonged to the late mother of Thomas that meant Pritchard's loyalty towards that of the Litchfield family was total, having served them and her love since he was fourteen. Unfortunately, this had also meant the man was by definition "untouchable," despite her many attempts to get rid of him over the years.
"Good Afternoon, Lady Gunara," Pritchard said without smiling, using the term that he only used when Thomas wasn't in the house. For when her love was in the residence it was, "Miss Gunara."
To Nara this insult was taken by her as Geci's way of sending the message that she was only his Mistress for short periods, and thereby here at the grace and favor of Thomas and Victoria, who he always referred to as either "Sir Thomas" or "Lady Victoria" or "My little Lady."
Affection was something Stephen certainly never shown towards her in any shape or form in all the years Nara had known him. Today was no different.
Where this mutual distrust and resentment had come from had its roots in an event seven years ago, when the old "Ge?i" meaning "Goat" in Turkman, as Nara always thought of him, had complained to Thomas about her conduct over the disciplining of a member of the household staff.
The shame and embarrassment the exotic woman felt from that moment still burned deeply within her and as a consequence would never leave her. As far as far as the butler was concerned the incident had showed him well and truly where the "little cow," as he thought of her, stood within the pecking order of the house.
Although the butler had never quite comprehended exactly what Thomas saw in this uneducated, fiery, and impolite Russian woman from central Asia, despite her physical attributes, his feelings towards their daughter were a completely different matter. In the little girl's case, she could do no wrong. He absolutely adored her. She was the grandchild that Stephen had never had.
2
Holland Park 2007
With a heavy heart because Stephen felt he had been left with little choice but to resign his position, which was why the butler found himself opposite Sir Thomas in the study of the house explaining what his "Woman" had done to the young and inexperienced member of his staff.
Twenty minutes later, having finished his explanation and despite being red-faced Stephen waited for his Master's response. He didn't have to wait long. It was instant and without hesitation.
"Stephen please pay the girl ?30,000 on the condition she signs a binding Private and Confidentiality Agreement, and please make sure we give her an excellent introduction and reference," Thomas ordered his face impassive as he came straight to the point.
The statement caught the old butler off guard because Thomas had used his Christian name. That was something done he hadn't since he was young boy. Gathering his thoughts, Stephen offered first a singular nod as to his acceptance of the task. He then answered. "A very generous offer, Sir Thomas. I am sure young Jackie will accept." as he believed it was an extremely fair offer for it was equivalent to two years' salary for the girl.
"So there will be no need for your resignation?" queried Thomas, hoping he had put an end to the matter.
The man was the only real link he had left to his mother, as he had chosen to cut all ties with his father and didn't want to lose Pritchard over the incredibly stupid actions of Nara.
"No, Sir Thomas, my mind is made up! I cannot work for such a person who has no respect for the people who are only trying to make her life easier! Physically attacking a poor young girl over an accident is just not acceptable in any society," Stephen answered sticking to his guns resolutely.
"He's right of course, Nara is thoroughly out of bloody order and has acted no better than the bloody animal that once owned her life!" Thomas reasoned inwardly. "Well I am certainly putting a stop to that! Right now!" He thought with conviction. "Maybe that will work" he concluded, his mind made up as to his next course of action.
"Stephen would you mind waiting for one moment please?" he asked trying hard not to show his anger.
"Of course, Sir Thomas," answered the butler as his master got up and left the room.
Less than a minute later, he returned with a sweat-covered Nara in tow from the private gym in the house. Looking up at her, Stephen immediately felt uncomfortable.
"Does he really believe an apology from the little tart is going to work," Stephen angrily thought with distain and disappointment showing on his face. He had expected more from Thomas.
"Nara, did you hit Jackie?" Thomas asked, ignoring the disapproving look from his long-standing butler.
"Yes, my Thomas, I did!" Nara answered without remorse and with fire in her eyes.
"Why?" Thomas queried.
"Because the little 'gulluk?y' spilt boiling tea over me in front of my friends, so she needed to be taught a lesson!" Nara answered, using the Turkman word for servant disparagingly.
Suddenly without warning, all in one movement Thomas smacked Nara across her face with a stinging slap.
"HOW DARE YOU, THIS IS NOT FUCKING TURKMENISTAN!" Thomas shouted loudly towards Nara. "WE DO NOT ACT LIKE THE DICTATORS OF YOUR COUNTRY AND HIT OUR STAFF LIKE ANIMALS! IN DOING SO YOU HAVE NOW EMBARRASSED ME AND MY NAME WITH PRITCHARD, FOR THAT YOU WILL BE PUNISHED"
"N-O, N-O P-L-E-A-S-E M-Y THOMAS" "P-L-E-A-S-E," Nara screamed with terror as it suddenly dawned on her that Thomas was about to beat her.
Unknown to the Butler watching them, she had not experienced a beating since Turkmenistan at the hands of her pimp. "NOT IN FRONT OF PRITCHARD. PLEASE I BEG-"
The fury in Thomas's eyes burned her like a hot iron.
"Sir Thomas! PLEASE!" Pritchard had pleaded with perspiration starting to form on his head from a raised heartbeat. The dark look from Thomas as he turned his head sent shivers through Stephen, even more so than the one he had given his own father over his mother's grave.
Suddenly as if realizing he had gone too far, Pritchard watched the devil in Thomas's eyes disappear back into the depths of his soul.
"My god!" he thought, "He's punished her for my benefit!" Unsure of what he should do next, he looked on in stunned silence that was until his master made the decision for him.
"Go to our room Nara," Thomas ordered evenly as when punishing their daughter for being naughty.
Watching her quickly scurry out of the room, his master's eyes now normal again, the room fell silent as though everything was now settled. Thomas focused his eyes on Stephen.
"I take it that has satisfied you as suitable punishment and your honor is restored?" Thomas asked breaking the uneasy silence between them. The butler nodded.
"Good, I am certain she won't ever do it again! Oh and thank you Pritchard," Thomas said.
Taking this as the signal to leave the difficult meeting, Stephen nodded once more, but this time chose not to say anything as he left the room for his resignation was no longer needed, his honor had been restored.
Nara ran through the house and up the stairs with tears streaming down her face. The "Gates of Hell" that had been held back until that moment in Nara's mind unlocked and opened with a vengeance and in doing so with it came all the worst nightmares that she had long forgotten.
The image of her pimp from Turkmenistan, the man who had purchased her from her Papa as a thirteen-year-old, manifested in front of her and with it his evil laughter ring loudly in her ears. Endeavoring to escape from him, Nara fled into their bedroom.
Nowhere else to run, having hit the wall, she turned and collapsed to the floor. She began rocking herself with her arms clutched in front of her legs that were pushed up into her chest, sobbing loudly.
Thirty minutes later, a distraught and now an extremely guilty Thomas came up the stairs to their bedroom to find he
r. Entering the room he immediately found her in a semi-comatose state, rocking herself back and forth and staring into the floor.
"Oh my God! What have I done?" he thought in horror as he rushed to her.
He sat down at her side and gently pulled her under his shoulder. She flinched at his touch. He went to kiss her head but she pulled away without saying anything.
It was half an hour before the intimacy of them locked together finally appeared to work its magic. Nara looked at up him weakly. She attempted to offer him a smile.
Taking it as his cue to make amends, in response Thomas kissed her hair.
"I am sorry, my Thomas," she said shaking, fearing he might slap her again.
"Shh," murmured Thomas before releasing her. Then without a word he stood and offered his damp hand for her to take.
"Nara," he said simply, his foolish pride stopping him from apologizing to her for his loss of his temper despite her unacceptable actions with regard to Jackie.
Nervously, Nara looked at him for a second. Despite fearing another assault she, with a touch of hesitation, took his outstretched hand.
Pulling her up and into his arm, it suddenly dawned on him by the way she was shaking that she still was terrified of him.
"God!" he thought guiltily. "What have I done?"
Trying to make amends. He leaned down then kissed her on the lips. She flinched again at his touch.
"I won't hurt you my love," he whispered.
It was only when he picked her up in his arms in one movement that Nara started to realize that he was no longer angry with her.
Nevertheless, still gripped by fear she carefully placed her arms around his neck while he carried into the bedroom.
In effort to please him, just had she once done with Oleg all those years ago, she kissed him on his lips.
"I am sorry my love," she repeated again, earning another. "Shhh," in return from Thomas.
"I am the one at fault," he stated.
"I should know better!" he admonished himself.
Reaching the bed, Thomas gently placed Nara on it, stroked her face again and lightly as a feather brushed her long hair away to the sides while never losing eye contact with her.
"Tell me my darling. What was it?" Thomas had guessed that his raising of his hand and slapping her had released something terrible from her past in Turkmenistan.
She nodded, wiping her face with her arm while releasing a little sniffle. Wanting to please him so his terrible beast would not return Nara looked up him once more then started to tell him what had happened to her the afternoon Allah had sent him to save her.
By the time she finished, with tears in his eyes, he swore he would never raise his hand again.
3
Ashgabat 1998
In 1998 Ashgabat the capital of Turkmenistan, unlike the semi-modern self-gloried city it is today, then could only be described as a typical city of the former Soviet Union with it rows upon rows of low-rise soviet style buildings and a population of approximately one million souls.
Led by Saparmurat Niyazov, an old style communist and his bunch of cronies, the country was a very necessary, if somewhat corrupt, supplier of natural gas to the world.
One such crony of the President was Oleg M?likguly?ewi? Rejejow. Hailing from Gipchak, the hometown of the President, through his mother's side and the son of a former Turkman General in the Soviet Union, he came from the privileged set that had ruled through the Communist Party of Turkmenistan since the twenties.
A bright child who graduated as expected from Moscow University in the mid-1980s in Foreign Affairs, Oleg had then joined the KGB. Rising to the rank of Major, before returning home to Turkmenistan in the early 1990s because of the failure of the KGB led coup in Moscow.
Ambitious and determined to secure a job in the new government, he joined the local KGB. Spotted by Niyazov, who having started his purge of Russians in the State Intelligence Services wanted Turkmen in the senior officer positions to cement his power, the President had quickly promoted Oleg to the rank of Munbashi with a unique responsibility for International Relations.
In reality, that title was merely a cover to allow Oleg to put his talents into the setting up of money laundering operations in Turkey and Germany for US$3 billion the President had skimmed from the financial exploitation of the natural resources of his country, while allowing him at the same time to set up his drug smuggling and prostitution rings. This was something he did with great effect by the use of violence amongst the tribes and through killing and torturing at will those who didn't fall into line and his use of the President's name to expand his empire. As a direct result, he was considered one of the most powerful members of the President's entourage.
Possessing a stocky build and a rounded face with closed puffy eyes that made him look as if he were a nasty, aggressive temple dog guarding its territory-It was a look that only reinforced his legend.
Although debt collection was considered an Onbashi task, Oleg somewhat perversely rather enjoyed it and as such he took great delight performing this chore himself.
On the night he had entered Nara's life, he was planning to torture her father, but when the bloodied, desperate man had offered up his daughter as security for his debt by showing and giving him a blood stained photograph of her, the brutal enforcer had changed his mind and instead accepted the beautiful angelic looking child instead.
From that moment on Nara's, who was just thirteen at the time, remaining childhood turned into a hellish nightmare that often returned to haunt her at night in the following years.
To survive, she quickly developed street smarts: teaching herself English by watching movies from America, learning to mask her emotions and keeping herself in shape by staying off the drugs, while throughout constantly telling Oleg she loved him when pleasuring him to ensure she remained one of his favorite concubines.
In order to survive this continuing torment over years, the pretty teenager created a private place in her mind where she would escape to, that place was "an ocean of tranquility-blue clear water under a cloudless sky" and had been so ever since her parents took her to the Caspian Sea when she was a child.
Although Nara had never seen a real ocean, as Oleg would never allow his favorite concubine to leave Turkmenistan, it had remained her dream to reach it. Today she hoped that it would finally come true by the repayment of her father's debt so allowing her to escape to Dubai!
When Nara had told her mother of her plan to repay him the twenty thousand U.S. dollars of her father's debt, the total sum she had managed to squirrel away from the tips of the men and women who used her body, her mother had insisted as per their tribal law that she should go with her as the family representative. She had reasoned that there would be a need for a witness as her father had drunk himself to death on cheap "jet-fuel" vodka over the guilt of what he forced his daughter into. Despite arguing heavily with her and against her better judgment, Nara had allowed her mother to come with her.
Arriving at his office next door to the newly built Sheraton Grand Hotel, neither Nara nor her mother had any idea of how the next forty-five minutes would mold, change, and shape their family's destiny forever.
Walking into the office they were met at the door by his best man and enforcer who was wearing a cheap green suit, shirt, and white tie made by a Pakistani tailor from Lahore, a pair of cheap black shoes, and his pistol showing under his jacket. He smelled of the strong perfume that men from the Middle East often wore to mask their body odor known as Yuri Karaja?ewi? Gorbunow.
A typical looking Turkman with a Chinese look to his face, dark thick hair with obsidian dead eyes, stocky in build, around 5'8" and had a body of 210 pounds of rock hard muscle. A veteran of Afghanistan, where as a member with the 105th Guard's airborne division, he had earned a fearsome reputation as a sadistic, brutal killer who took enjoyment in celebrating his kills by removing the ears of the Mujahideen with his hunting knife. He had always desired Nara
ever since Oleg had once, as a reward for a particular job well done, given him access to her young body.
The beautiful teenager felt her entire body shiver, a reaction she always felt when he looked upon her with his leering smile. Today this terror was even worse, for Nara could have sworn she saw him lick his lips the second he set eyes on her mama.
"The Boss will see you in five minutes; he is just finishing with an important client," he stated as he continued to leer at her and her mother. Forcing her troubled mind to acknowledge him, Nara did so with a polite "thank you," followed by a forced smile, her only weapon in an attempt to disarm him.
An attractive looking forty year-old woman, Tania, possessed looks that would be best be described as similar to that of her daughter. Her face had the same high naturally puffed up cheeks, extremely thinly plucked eyebrows, deep brown eyes with one or two laughter lines surrounded by dark eyelashes and her natural pout smile and luscious lips framed with long jet black hair gave an observer a direct link to Nara. Yet because she was 5'4" in height and had a naturally bronzed, fuller, curvy figure, something that was reinforced by her ample breasts and larger rounded bottom compared to that of her daughter who was six inches taller than her, she was considered curvy rather than statuesque.
A full-time secretary who worked for a bank as did many women in her country who worked to support their ethnic Russian husbands who had lost their jobs. She was a proud woman who had absolutely hated her husband for what he had done to their daughter through his weakness and had lost no sleep when he died from a heart attack, sadly, so different to the young Engineer of the Oil Refinery under the days of the Soviets that had married her. It was why, despite her fears, she had accompanied her daughter today.
To look conservative, Tania had insisted that they dress in a more formal way by wearing red and green long one piece dresses. Unfortunately as Nara grimly reflected by the look of Yuri, it certainly hadn't worked.
In contrast to him, as they sat down to wait their turn, Nara noticed the man standing opposite them was a truly different sort of individual.
A tall, striking man with short military style blonde hair, piercing blue eyes and a solid muscular frame he was dressed in an expensively tailored simple, but elegant, dark blue suit, light blue shirt, and dark blue tie by a designer Nara immediately assumed was Italian. With his pistol nestling discreetly underneath his jacket and his feet shod in an expensive pair of dark tanned English style shoes; he looked the polar opposite in class and style to Yuri.
The man known as Mikhail Olegovich Pshenicnikov she would later find out, she realized was assessing her but then without saying a word, he put Nara quickly at ease by smiling at her and then respectively offered a nod towards her mother.
Having spotted Mikhail's respectful actions, Yuri decided to mark his territory almost as was a dog cocking his leg by retorting, "You can't afford her Mikhail!" while laughing at his own joke.
It was spiteful comment that immediately sent a shiver down Nara's spine. She hated it when men treated her as a piece of meat, evermore so as it was in front of her mama.
Seeing that her daughter was biting her lip and knowing that she was worried and nervous, Tania put her hand across hers gently and patted it, almost to imply it didn't matter in an effort to comfort her. The young lady smiled in response towards her mother but didn't say anything. She also caught sight of the polite man shooting Yuri a look, dismissing him for the prick he was. It warmed her as he turned again towards them and repeated his respectful nod again.
Feeling better, Nara offered a smile of her own as a way of a thank you, thinking to herself as she did so that he looked Jewish.
"Whatever he is he is a gentleman!" Nara thought. "At very least a bodyguard to very powerful Oligarch who was meeting with Oleg!" she quickly summarized as she continued to smile back.
Her instinct had served her well for she was right on both accounts being Jewish then secondly being a bodyguard to a powerful man.
Born in Soviet Russia in 1964 to Jewish parents that were later allowed to emigrate, to Israel, the young Mikhail had joined the Israeli Army at eighteen where his talents as an excellent soldier were honed in the Shakbat and then in its Protective Security Department.
He had served six years and rose to the rank of Chief Sergeant before leaving and going on the reserve list as all Israeli's did until they reach sixty-five.
Having just managed to survive a bad operation in Bosnia that involved the extraction of ethnic Jews who had been caught up in the war between the Muslims and Christians in 1992, Mikhail, like many other Russian ?migr?s around the same time, headed back to home to Russia to find work as a personal bodyguard for the new Jewish Oligarchs who were making their fortunes and wanting individuals with 'special skills.'
That was where he had met his current boss who was doing business with the principal he was working for around the same time.
Recognizing Mikhail's professionalism the man had contacted him and invited him for a drink, something at the time that had surprised him, as most the principals he found himself working for didn't give him the time of day. Finding he liked the man, it hadn't taken much for him to readily accept his offer to come and work with him and watch his back.
However it was a night three years ago, when they were under fire?during an attempt?on the man's life by a Moldovan Mafiosi who was trying to force him to sell an asset in Moscow, that their loyalty to each other was sealed in blood.
That night had been a bloodbath. Upon leaving the upscale restaurant, they were suddenly hit by a team intent on killing the man and anybody who got in their way. Yet instead of panicking, as one would expect when one of the guards from Mikhail's handpicked team was killed next to him taking a bullet for him, the man had instead picked up the bodyguard's Glock pistol and fought alongside them.
Moving forward in a technique known "Offensive Movement Action" to close the gap on the kill zone, they had then proceeded to take out the assassination team in a matter of moments.
After Mikhail had been hit, the man had led the way and while the other men secured the area, he had professionally finished the assassins off with double taps to their heads each in turn before finally pausing over the badly wounded leader, lying on the floor with blood pouring out of him.
Seeing all of this take place as he lay badly wounded, Mikhail watched the man say something in Russian to the remaining live Mafioso before shooting him in the head without any emotion or hesitation.
"B-o-s-s what d-i-d y-o-u s-a-y to him?" Mikhail had asked as he laid on the verge of passing out having seen his principal in action and now knowing he was a professional like him.
"There won't be a next time! Now let's be getting you to the clinic, Old Chap" the man had said looking at him steely eyed with a grim smile.
Remaining by his side for he knew full well that with Mikhail being an ex-Russian and worse an Israeli, it was likely that he would have been the "fall guy" when the FSB turned up. He had taken care of everything, ensuring the FSB and Moscow Police buried Mikhail's wounded presence in the process. A gesture, Mikhail later learned, had cost the man a quarter of a million U.S. dollars in bribes.
As for the Israeli family of the young man who died protecting him, Mikhail had later learned that he taken care of them as well by placing them under his protection and ensuring that his widow received million U.S. dollars per year until his three children reached eighteen. These two gestures alone ensured that Mikhail had never faced a problem in recruitment in the following years. To him and the men who protected him, he had truly Chesed, a unique word in Hebrew as it was a word that couldn't be translated into English, but nonetheless to the Jews meant 'loving-kindness,' 'mercy,' 'steadfast love,' and sometimes 'loyalty.'
Every member of his security team was treated as if they were family and each shared in the spoils as he made his fortune in the development of the new Russia.
When they flew back to London five weeks later
whilst Mikhail was still recuperating from his wound, the entire team shared a bottle of 'Blue Label' to toast their fallen comrade's life. It was at that moment as the head of his security team Mikhail had asked him where he had honed his skills as it was the topic of gossip amongst the men and the wives.
"Hereford," the man had replied referring to the famous home of the SAS base that lies on the border of Wales.
Nothing more needed to be said amongst the men who guarded him. They knew what meant.
"Hashem yikom damo (We will avenge his blood)" the man had whispered in Hebrew.
Mikhail looked at him for a bit, puzzled.
"That's what I said to the Moldovan," the man clarified in answer to Mikhail's question when he had been lying on the floor wounded.
Silence descended on the cabin. Then over the plane's engines he said, "To Avram."
Soon after, the Moldovan who had ordered the hit was found hanging by piano wire in his Moscow apartment by the local police.
It was news at the time and had made The Times of London as just another gangland murder in the Yeltsin-led Russia. To the men who guarded the man, it was a debt of honor that had been repaid in full and helped forge him a legend in Russia as a man not to be crossed.
Of course, the beautiful young street-smart childlike young teenager knew none of this, just that her instincts told her correctly Mikhail was a man of principle and a professional.
The room was silent for a few minutes until the doors to Oleg's office opened.
Immediately Yuri stood to attention and sensing that somebody of great importance and power was coming out, so did Tania and Nara as well.
As Thomas Litchfield walked out, Nara could see she was right with her assumption. Dressed elegantly as the man she had assumed was his bodyguard and wearing what she again assumed was a very expensive tailored grey and yellow pinstriped suit with a Cornish cream shirt, light pink tie, and black English shoes, Nara immediately felt his presence and power as he stopped and took her in. Their eyes meeting for the first time, her heart jumped. She smiled at him.
Unbeknownst to the beautiful young woman, Thomas was also feeling something he had never felt before in life as his eyes met hers, but sensing they were Muslim women he chose not give his hand as to do so in their culture would be an offence. Instead, noting the older woman's presence in the room, he politely greeted what he assumed was this stunning creature's mother with a respectful smile, then winked towards the girl earning another shy smile in return.
"My god, what a woman!" Thomas thought as he left the office with Mikhail behind him not hearing what was said in his wake.
"If you're lucky tonight you'll feel his cock in you!" offered the Turkmen in Russian with acid in his voice. "In you go, Gunara, he is waiting," he followed up this time in Turkmen as both women watched Thomas and Mikhail leave the building.
Forcing herself not to tell him to "go to hell," her mother took her hand as they entered. It was not lost on Nara that her mother's hand was trembling. She squeezed it.
Once inside they found Oleg sitting behind a long desk with ivory tusks for legs. He didn't get up. Manners were something he never bothered with even at the best of times. Instead, both women stood waiting for permission to sit down.
Unaware that Oleg had only agreed to this meeting as he wanted to see where his most productive Jelep's looks had come from, and because he already knew from the other girls of his harem what they were there for, he wanted to it make it as uncomfortable as possible for them. He made them stand.
Enjoying his moment of power to the full, Oleg continued to lustfully stare at them both, feeling his erection grow?by the second in anticipation.
"My little pet's mother doesn't disappoint!" he thought with an evil intent.
Giving his signal to begin with the motion of his hand, Nara's mother started in Turkmen instead of the more common Russian that was often used by the residents of the capital.
"Munbashi Rejejow, we are here to ask for your release of Gunara from our family's debt," the proud woman asked using Oleg's military rank as a sign of respect.
Looking at them, his erection now fully extended, he asked how they intended to do this.
Quickly, Tania motioned her daughter to give him the Chanel bag containing the twenty thousand U.S. dollars.
As Nara went to do so he slammed his hand on the desk, catching the both of them by surprise.
Standing up, fire in his eyes, his erection bulged beneath his suit trousers something that was immediately noticed by both women. He rushed from around his desk, forcibly grabbing hold of Tania by the arm whilst Yuri restrained Nara by her arms, pulling them behind her back all in one movement.
"YOU FUCKING JELEP?. YOUR FUCKING DEBT ENDS WHEN I SAY SO!" Oleg venomously spat towards Nara whilst dragging her absolutely terrified mother by the arm screaming, until her poor mother was forced to stand behind the desk in front of her shaking daughter with the evil looking Oleg behind her.
"NOOOOOOO!" cried Nara as he pushed her mother down on the desk, knowing what was about to happen.
The begging, fear, tears, and whimpering of the women in contrast to his and Yuri's evil laughter echoed around the room as Oleg proceeded to savagely rape the both of them in turn from behind.
Once finished, Oleg zipped up his trousers. He looked at the stripped half-naked mother and daughter for a second. Power flowed through him as his eyes enjoyed the sight of them cowering in the corner of the office.
"Make sure this fucking Jelep is dressed for this evening," he ordered Yuri, pointing at Nara.
"Sure, Boss," answered Yuri before dragging them screaming out of the office, their honor in tatters from the sodomy Oleg had inflicted upon them.
4
Holland Park 2007
The punishment Thomas had inflicted upon her in front his servant had brought that afternoon's terrible trauma back with a vengeance.
With Nara cradled in his arms and as he listened to her tell him of what the animal had done to the both of them, Thomas silently swore revenge on behalf of the blood of his daughter.
Hiding his anger at the actions of Oleg Rejejow, he looked into Nara's eyes. He took hold of her hand gently and pulled it tenderly to his lips. He kissed it long and hard.
Without waiting for a response, she removed her training top releasing her beautiful large breasts then leaned into him to him and grabbed his head forcefully to pull his lips to hers, a gesture designed for two purposes: firstly to show him that she had forgiven him for his earlier punishment and secondly to avoid any possible further punishment. They kissed passionately for a long minute.
"I am so sorry, my love," he whispered with tears in his eyes.
Ever the skilled courtesan Nara studied his face. Sex had always been a defense mechanism she used to protect herself. It would be again. Men had often punished her before taking her in life, and now it appeared the man she loved and thought was her protector was no better than those monsters. Her dormant survival instincts kicked back in.
She lifted her hand to his face. Then stroked the tear under his eye.
"Are you?" she asked still not quite believing him.
"I am ashamed of myself," he said with emotion in his face.
"Then show me," she ordered pulling his head into her forcibly. Sex had been her weapon once, and it would be again.
5
Hong Kong / Dubai / Aeolian Islands 2007
Once Thomas had told Mikhail what had happened to Nara at the hands of Rejejow and of his intention to avenge her honor, the bodyguard knew there would be no talking him out of it despite the possible repercussions to TLH and himself if he were caught. Nevertheless the former Israeli operative insisted on helping him.
"This is my fight," Thomas had responded.
"We Jews have a saying, Thomas," Mikhail had answered shaking his head, not taking no for an answer. "Whoever destroys a soul, it is considered as if he destroyed an entire world and whoever saves a li
fe, it is considered as if he saved an entire world." He was referring to the passage from the Babylonian Talmud called Tractate Sanhedrin 37a.
"That animal destroyed the soul of Nara and her mother" Mikhail had continued with disgust. "So because you saved my life on that street in Moscow and that of Nara and Tania for that matter on your journey, to right the wrongs of your life our souls are forever entwined with that of yours," Mikhail had concluded with his ever-present fatalist outlook on life.
"I may not understand all what drives you on your quest," Mikhail had carried on in reference to Thomas's determination find those who had betrayed him in Iraq. "But it is my turn to help save your soul from yourself old friend." He ended the discussion.
"Let me make some enquiries," Mikhail had offered. "I am still owed one or two favors at the Institute," He had said with a grim smile referring to the headquarters of his former employers.
The favor called. Three weeks later, Thomas and Mikhail found themselves in a suite at the Mandarin Oriental in Hong Kong greeting a Hasidic Jew and former colleague of Mikhail's who made his living as a diamond dealer in Hong Kong while doubling as an intelligence officer of the Mossad.
There is perhaps no other ethnic group that is as?inextricably intertwined with the?world's?diamond trade than the Jewish people. A position that they as a collective have held ever since the Portuguese explorer Vasco da Gama discovered India in 1488. Ever?alert to?a business?opportunity, the first traders who were based in Lisbon and belonging to the Sephardi opened their cutting houses and quickly gained a dominant role in the diamond-polishing industry before moving to Holland and then London to escape persecution. Yet despite financing the East India Company in the seventeenth century and running all of the diamond trade, it was not until the discovery of South Africa's vast reserves during the late nineteenth century that they came to dominate the trade.
Concerned over a glut in the diamond market throughout, London's diamond merchants a group of wealthy Jewish dealers of the Hasidic sect to pooled their resources to form 'the Syndicate.'
The Syndicate's purpose was simple in design: "Soak up all of the excess capacity being created by South Africa" in order to prevent the devaluation of diamonds. So successful in their endeavor did they become, that it enabled the dealers of London and New York to remain the driving force that lies behind the multi-billion dollar diamond industry that exists today throughout the world.
Possessing a long beard and wearing a simple jet-black suit, Yoel Teitebaum embodied to a 'T' what one would expect of a man belonging to the famous trader's sect.
In the world of terrorists and criminals where diamonds had long been the currency of choice it made sense for the Mossad to place their assets in different locations around the world to keep an eye on the various individuals who acted as brokers and financiers.
Yoel was one such man. Recruited out of a northern Israel kibbutz at eighteen, he had served Israel faithfully in Hong Kong over the years. To his friends and business partners he was a successful diamond merchant who did business with anybody as long as the price was right. He was also the source of intelligence that had been passed on the Americans before 9/11 by the Institute (the Israeli's name for the Mossad), warning them that a diamond merchant working for Bin Laden had been purchasing Sierra Leone diamonds from Charles Taylor, the dictator of the Sierra Leone.
Buying at a rate of three hundred thousand U.S. dollars per week between December 2000 and September 2001, then sending the diamonds to Hong Kong to sell them and transfer the funds into the money trader's Dubai bank accounts, Yoel had passed on to the Institute the location of the funds he had transferred who in turn had then tracked them to Hamburg and then to America and into Atta's and the other 9/11 terrorists bank accounts. It was these assets who had provided the intelligence to their Americans counterparts at Langley, before they, at their peril, had chosen to ignore the information until after the event.
"So Mikhail," Yoel said after their expressive hugs were out the way.
"This is the famous Sir Thomas Litchfield," he said offering his hand in the direction Thomas warmly.
"My pleasure Mr. Teitlebaum," Thomas said in Yiddish taking the hand of Yoel.
"All lies," Thomas answered with a smile in reference to Yoel's 'famous' remark.
The man smiled but didn't comment further as he took off his Beaver fur hat and sat down on the suite's sitting room's couch.
Neither Mikhail nor Thomas offered Yoel anything to eat, as they knew he would refuse it because the religious law of the Hasidic sects forbids a gentile from making food for Jews. Instead, because he was Jewish, Mikhail made and then poured him a cup of green tea.
Yoel thanked his old friend and got straight down to business. He didn't ask the reasons why he had been asked to find a man within Oleg Rejejow's criminal organization that could be approached to betray him. It wasn't his place. It was also one of the reasons why he had stayed alive as long as he had, living in the shadowy world of criminals and terrorists. His role was merely to find, report, and pass on information.
"The man you seek is a diplomat in the Beijing Embassy. He is their local resident," Yoel stated with authority, "But more importantly he is Oleg's dealmaker with the Japanese Yazuka who uses their country's diplomatic 'bag' to transport their illicit methamphetamines from North Korea via China into Western Europe."
"My sources tell me that he has expensive tastes," he continued with a smile that said it all before providing them with an outline of what they were. "I have set up a meeting with him tomorrow at Peninsula Hotel for you," he said referring to the famous hotel located on Kowloon Island of Hong Kong where the tourists and members of the jewelry and apparel trades like to stay.
"Now, Mikhail tell me how is your family?" Yoel asked changing the subject to more palatable matters.
The next day, at five o'clock in the evening, a member of staff from the hotel led Ruslan Amangyly? Mingazow into a conference room overlooking Hong Kong harbor.
Instantly Thomas and Mikhail could see the colorful description of the man by Yoel who had described him as a 'Cane Toad' was spot on. In his late forties, medium height, possessing the typical rounded features of the tribes of Central Asia, and weighing at least two hundred and thirty pounds he moved like a man who was overweight. Thomas quickly sized up the man. He could see he had the look of one of Turkmenistan's famous mountain men but being a trained diplomat, his mannerisms were anything but that of his brethren.
"Sir Thomas," he said offering his hand respectfully.
"Thank you for agreeing to meet with me, Yuzbashi," replied Thomas, formally using his military rank as he shook his hand.
"I am always happy to meet one of our President's dear friends and partners," he replied in a manner and style that Thomas concluded was creepy by the way the man smiled.
After the formalities of coffee were out of the way, Thomas got straight down to business.
"I am not going to waste your time," he said. "I seek your help to settle a matter of honor relating to my family," said Thomas.
"Sir Thomas," the diplomat started.
"Qan dushar is illegal," he continued referring to the term that means 'blood reaches' and an unwritten law of the tribes of Turkmenistan that allowed an individual with a common patrilineal ancestor who is not more than seven generations removed to seek revenge on the killer and their immediate kin, but had been declared illegal ever since the Soviets had ruled Turkmenistan.
"And in any case the law does cover foreigners," he continued.
"Yuzbashi."
"I am claiming the right on behalf of my daughter who is the granddaughter of T??myrat Ba?ramow," answered Thomas using Nara's grandfather's name on her mother's side. The man looked at Thomas for a second. He hesitated for a moment.
"The law only covers the patrilineal side of the family, not its?matrilineal side," the diplomat responded somewhat uncomfortably, implying he knew where the conversation between them was heading.
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"Your woman's father was Russian," he tried to answer in the manner he had been trained.
"By definition because he is a foreigner the qan dashar cannot be claimed"
Thomas's eyes narrowed, and then focused on the man. He kept his anger in check, but decided to take control of the situation.
"Ruslan Amangyly?. You will find I can be a most generous friend," Thomas said making his move.
The man licked his lips. Thomas took this as a signal of greed he had been looking for.
"How generous?" He asked, falling in line with Yoel's assessment of him.
"One million U.S. dollars!" answered Thomas.
Mingazow carefully picked up his glass of water. He sipped slowly to gather his thoughts. As he did so, Thomas assessed the man. He could see he was attempting to act cool. The offer was generous but not without risk. He was asking him to betray one of the most dangerous of individuals in his government's list of henchmen.
"Who is the person the qan dashar will be performed on?" asked Mingazow with caution despite already indicating through his body language that he knew the answer.
"Oleg M?likguly?ewi? Rejejow," Thomas replied without hesitation.
Mingazow's eyes widened. The fact he was sitting here meant that if Thomas failed with his attempted bribe, then the Turkmen would be facing certain death, for Thomas could not allow him to leave the room alive if he refused to help him.
"Five million upfront," came the response of Mingazow without hesitation.
Thomas nodded. One never bargained with a person on matters of betrayal. Each man had a price that they valued their life at.
"I am not finished," replied Mingazow forcefully laying down his terms. He put down the glass trying hard not to shake.
"If you're successful, I want your support for my political ambitions in Ashgabat."
Thomas nodded again.
"And a seat on the board of your Turkmen Company."
At this statement, it was Mikhail's turn to get angry. A look from Thomas defused the situation. Mikhail's body language immediately relaxed at the instruction.
"With a salary and profit share I assume?" Thomas asked picking up his cup of green tea.
"Yes," replied the diplomat without a flicker of emotion.
Again Thomas nodded.
"I will make the arrangements."
"Then we have a deal," replied Ruslan with a smile and offering his hand for Thomas to shake.
"We do indeed," replied Thomas with the devil's eyes.
Later that month, good to his word, Ruslan arranged for the setup, using the pretense that one of their partners in Japan wanted to meet with a man who could introduce him to the President to discuss a lucrative gas deal.
Being a trusted lieutenant in his business, Oleg didn't even bat an eyelid when Ruslan had told him that the client wanted him to come to Dubai as he always enjoyed his trips to the Emirate. Nor did the Munbashi question the location of the meeting that was due to take place at a small four star hotel located on the busy road of Al Maktoum Street in Deira, known as the Moscow Hotel, because the hotel contained one of favorite dancing troops all drawn from Russia's famous ballet schools who girls represented just the type of plaything he loved. Young, beautiful, elegant, and graceful but best of all, with limited experience in the ways of the world having been recruited from some of Russia's famous dancing troops, therefore by definition, weren't professionals, unlike the Jeleps he kept in Ashgabat and thus more innocent. As such his stays at the hotel were always thoroughly enjoyable.
"The manager has arranged for a private showing," said Ruslan referring to the group of girls he had arranged to be delivered to the suite in order to pick one or two to share his bed as they were being driven to the hotel in a Sand Gold colored Vogue Range Rover by Yuri.
Already in a good mood because he had an excellent meal at the Emirates Towers Hotel's Japanese restaurant, Oleg smacked his knee, making Ruslan wince in the process as he started the conversation.
"Who is this person the Katamaya-Gumi are sending us?" Oleg asked referring to their Yazuka partners from Osaka in Japan.
"Oleg M?likguly?ewi?," Ruslan answered formally, as nobody below him in the business was allowed to be informal when addressing him. "His name is Yaturo Nakajima and he represents one of the biggest Gas cartels in Tokyo."
"What's our take going to be?" Oleg asked, despite already knowing the answer. He just wanted to be sure the man wasn't skimming anything.
"Twenty-five-year contract at $200 USD per 1,000 cubic meter gas delivered," Ruslan answered, using the figure and term to reflect they would pay the transport costs of the Gas by sea that Thomas had given him.
"It will be worth two billion U.S. dollars to the President," he offered nervously dangling the carrot just like Thomas told him to do so.
Oleg looked at him and smiled. Ruslan prayed to Allah that he would survive tonight. When the Jew had told him that the famous Sir Thomas Litchfield was looking for a good man to introduce him to Katamaya-Gumi he had jumped at the chance to earn some extra money on the side. Only to have that?hope dashed as soon as the meeting started in Hong Kong.
He also knew if had refused then he was a dead man. Being a survivor,?Ruslan?tried to make the best deal possible out of a bad situation. He had no love for Oleg so the choice?in the end?had been relatively easy for him.?That though didn't stop him feeling nervous and terrified. If they failed tonight, his entire family would suffer.
"Who knows, you pull this off we might send you to Paris next," Oleg said as the car pulled up in front of the hotel.
"Thank you Munbashi," Ruslan replied with a nervous smile.
As they walked into the lobby, neither man spotted the dark looking Arab sitting there as they entered nor did they hear him mutter that the targets had entered the lift with a pair of locals dressed in their dish-dashes.
Exiting the lift moments later leaving the locals in the lift, the three men quickly made their way to the suite.
Once outside the door they rang the bell. The door opened and a Japanese man wearing a dark blue suit and red tie greeted them.
"Gentleman," said the man warmly. "Do please come in."
Once inside the Asian man, as was the Japanese way, presented his business card to Oleg and Yuri.
Although surprised that he had been given a business card, Yuri took it and made the pretense of being able to understand what was written on it so not to cause offence before promptly placing it into the pocket of his cheap tailored green suit.
"Thank you Nakajima-San," replied Oleg respectfully as he took his card with both hands before presenting the man his own business card in the same manner.
They sat down and almost immediately both Oleg and Yuri started to feel out of breath and dizzy. An odor hit their nostrils. It was then they realized with horror where the smell was coming from. Their hands!
"YOU TRAIT?." was all Oleg managed to blurt out as his and Yuri's world went black.
Originally developed by the Czechoslovak communist State Security secret police in the 1980s, the version of scopolamine used on Oleg and Yuri was four times more powerful than most date rape drugs that are sold and regularly used by the Colombian cartel known as "Devil's Breath." When a drugged person wakes, the first things that hit them are the side effects. A mixture of blurred vision, dizziness, and hypertension, Oleg felt all of these as his eyes opened.
A searing pain flowed through his brain. He tried to move his hands, but couldn't. It was then he realized he was hanging by his arms above his head held up by a set of chains.
"Hello Oleg," said the voice.
The second?Oleg?heard that English accent, he knew instantly who his captor was.
"LITCHFELD," he said using the Russian form of Thomas's name.
"DO YOU KNOW WHAT THE FUCK YOU ARE YOU DOING?" he demanded as his blurry eyes began to focus on Thomas's face as a pair of black soulless eyes stared back him.
"Spare
me the tantrums, Oleg," Thomas answered calmly.
"THE PRESIDENTS WON'T STAND FOR THIS," Oleg said desperately.
Thomas looked at the man. He chose not to respond to the statement.
"Oleg, you are my prisoner because I am claiming the right of qan dashar on behalf of my daughter's grandfather."
"Qan dashar?"
He appeared confused?before it?suddenly?dawned on him. Oleg's venom returned in full force.
"FUCKING JELEPS CANNOT CLAIM THAT RIGHT, YOU PRIZA!" Oleg said referring to Nara's previous position. "Poshel na knuy," he said, meaning "fuck you."
Still Thomas said nothing.
Because Oleg knew that he was only moments from death, he decided to go out with pride. He started laughing.
"I always knew that bitch gave the best blowjobs! I just never expected just how good!" he said continuing with an evil laugh that echoed around the room.
Thomas's eyes narrowed. The demon in his soul surfaced.
"I bet?the bitch didn't tell you the words you're supposed to say when honor is claimed," he taunted Thomas. Still Thomas said nothing.
"Before you kill me, Englishman, you should know that your bitch and her mother had screamed like little piglets when I took them," he said as he spat on the floor.
"Seni? mertebe bolmak meni? mertebe," meaning "Your fate is my honor," Thomas whispered as he lifted Oleg's famous gold pistol and pointed it at him and fired, taking his head off his spinal cord as he riddled with it all the bullets of the magazine in the process.
It wasn't long after that Nara had told him that day in their bedroom of what had happened that it transpired by a strange coincidence Oleg's own bodyguard had killed him with his own pistol before disappearing in Ashgabat.
It was even stranger, when it was reported that the bodyguard also had turned up dead in Dubai with his throat cut and an ear missing less than a week later.
Although the news only made Sky News and The Times of London as a minor item, in Turkmenistan it was about as significant as news got for he was considered a powerful man with connections to the Government.
The police and the government both promised to investigate, but despite reported intense efforts being made throughout the country nobody so far, had been caught for the murders.
Nara came breathlessly running into his study upon The Libertine that were moored of the coast of the sky blue waters of the Aeolian Islands with her hair loose, wearing a sarong around her waist. She wore an orange sexy bikini top to tell him of the gift that had been granted from Allah to her and mama. He knew instantly why.
"Thomas!" she said, not stopping to draw breath, her breasts moving up and down seductively. "Mama says the pig is dead!" she announced excitedly.
Without a word, Thomas smiled at her, pulled out a walnut polished box from his desk drawer then got up and walked around the desk until he came to stand in front of her. Pausing for a moment, he looked into her seductive brown eyes.
"Open it, Darling," he ordered softly, giving it to her whilst stroking her hair away from her face gently with his other hand.
Thinking it was just another one of his gifts of guilt that he had bought her as a way of an apology since that terrible afternoon of few weeks ago, Nara's face immediately showed intense disappointment.
"He doesn't understand!" she thought.
Nevertheless she did as he told her.
Upon setting eyes on the box's contents that lay on green velvet, she quickly stared straight back up him in shock and awe.
"It's the p-i-g's pistol!" she exclaimed, recognizing it straight away.
"Is this his animal's ear?" she asked referring to the piece of shrived up anatomy that was lying next to a knife that she had instantly recognized as belonging to Yuri.
"Seni? mertebe bolmak meni? mertebe," Thomas said quietly in Turkmen, which meant, "Your fate is my honor." He kissed her forehead beneath him ignoring her question.
Immediately, tears arrived in Nara's eyes as she began to comprehend the enormity what her love had done in her name.
6
Africa Two Weeks Ago
The meetings in Borama, a city that for some unknown reason is twinned with Henley-on-Thames in England, but more importantly is the capital of a new country born out of the ashes of Somalia, and known as Adwalland, had been both trying and complicated for Thomas over the last few days.
Much more difficult to that of a typical natural resources deal with a host country he usually experienced because of the additional intricacies of the wider issues of superpower politics and global dominance were brought into play.
Adwalland, the world's newest country was situated right in the middle of a plan that would see Russia's re-emergence on the world stage as a military power with Thomas acting as the point of the sword as the country's lead proxy investor.
As to why Thomas had been drawn into this position was complicated. Due initially, to TLH's (Thomas's Holding Company) strong ties with Russia through its present control of one of Siberia's major Oil and Gas fields but primarily it was due to the close personal relationship Thomas had with the young President of the country. A former mailroom employee whom Thomas had befriended five years ago when he had contacted TLH offering exploration rights in Awdalland in an attempt to try to raise funds for a permanent diplomatic mission in London so they could build the momentum of their country's right to exist as a legitimate State.
A buccaneer at heart, Thomas knew that the only way to get TLH into point position for the area's rich natural resources was to ensure his young friend got a seat at the negotiating table, especially as Somalia had already previously granted the same rights to the U.S. Oil exploration companies main competitors of TLH in the business of exploration rights. Although skeptical at first, it wasn't until he had visited the little self-governing area when he was impressed by the shared determination of all the tribal leaders to bring the rule of law to this small desperate area of Africa, did he take the initiative to set the ball in motion.
Thomas provided the struggling little organization with the five million U.S. dollars they needed for their Missions in London and New York and then placed TLH Public Relations teams at their disposal so they could build the necessary momentum to ensure this dream they held came to fruition.
Although it was incredibly difficult with the United States of America opposing the break-up of Somalia all the way, seeing it as a threat to their national security objectives related to the defeat of Al-Qaeda and because of their determination to protect their leading oil companies existing rights in the area, the end result was eventually achieved.
The little country now included at the negotiating table, with the support of Russia and China and much to the disgust of the US Oil explorers, who had lost their exploration rights in the process, became Africa's newest state.
Unfortunately, like all young states born out of years of struggle and pain, not all of the Adwallians shared the elders' vision for a respectful, peaceful country.
One such opportunist was a forty-five-year-old former pirate named Wasir Osman Hassan.
By using the money he had earned from the payment of ransoms in the lawless days of 1990s, Hassan had bought himself the post of the Interior Minister and staffed the Ministry with those loyal to his tribe to ensure he kept everybody in place with a "rod of iron" in the process.
It was this man who had given Thomas the most problems because the President, although a good and honest person, certainly wasn't a wolf despite the traditional role of his tribe to be so in the region. This meant Thomas needed to ensure that the Minister was kept happy as he controlled the capital's security. That meant money and lots of it was needed to change hands.
He was not new to this, as ever since he had arrived in Russia, twenty-seven years old, flush with money from U.S. Private equity and fresh from the hairiest experience?of his life in Iraq in 1991, Thomas had carved his own way free and away from his father's influence, doing deals includi
ng a couple involving the use of the gun. It was because this unique business experience and having had done his fair share of deals with the devil that Thomas understood the problem the young President was facing.
One such a deal for Thomas was in 1996 and involved a meeting with the 'Mayor' of St Petersburg otherwise known as Vladimir Vladimirovich Putin.
At the time, the future President of Russia was foolishly considered by some as a mere bag carrier for Yeltsin and as such was dismissed by the new oligarchs "carpet-bagging" the country being fuelled with U.S. finance as being of limited importance in Russian politics.
However when Thomas met him he immediately grasped that sitting across him was a man of the principle who only cared about one thing, Russia, and was determined to do this through his newly promoted "National Champions" political concept.
This ideology was born out of Putin's education and experience from the ashes of communism, his idea, was simple in design-the largest corporations in strategic sectors?of Russia's economy?are expected to not only to seek profit, but also to "advance the interests of the nation."
Yet for all of Thomas's initial skepticism his basic instinct told him that he would be foolish to attempt to discredit him, or worse, ignore him at his peril, so instead Thomas offered the hand of friendship and support for Putin's ideas.
It was a move that would bind Thomas to his fate forever.
At the time, The 'Mayor' suspiciously had taken his hand and money with a mere nod then a sip of his black tea without a flicker of emotion.
Over the four years that followed as both of their mutual fortunes rose, Thomas had watched the Mayor rise first to the top of the FSB, Russia's replacement for the KGB and then to Deputy Prime Minister before?finally taking the Presidency from his mentor six months later on the 31st December 1999 and in one night ruthlessly take out those who stood in the way of his vision of a new Russia for the twenty-first century.
"We have three years," Thomas had said to Mikhail at the time as they watched the Mayor's handover speech whilst celebrating the New Year in Haifa over a traditional Jewish feast with Nara and Hanna, his wife.
"Three years?" Mikhail had replied confused.
"Before he comes to take back Russia's rights!" Thomas had grimly answered.
The exit strategy Thomas planned was simple in design and required the diversification of the group's assets quickly, the taking on debt to fund it, whilst spreading his wings in the process, so absolutely sure in his assessment that someday the Mayor would come "calling."
In the early days of 2003, the Mayor did just that. By that time the international influence of TLH had grown to make him one of largest privately owned natural resources companies in the world, its power extended well beyond that of owning yachts or the football clubs like some of his contemporaries. Knighted in his own right by the Queen for his business acumen, Thomas had become a man who influenced the political elite of the World.
However, he stilled faced one problem: the lifeblood of the company depended on the cash flow from the oil and gas revenues of the assets of its Russian companies.
Sensing the changing mood correctly with the way the state oligarchs were "toeing the line," Thomas decided that when he received an approach from the 'fixer' representing the Sheikh of Dubai (flush with money by selling the sand of his Emirate and then mortgaging it) offering to buy his forty-nine percent stake in his Oil Company for US$30 billion he concluded the time was right to leave Russia forever.
With the deal all but signed and just as he was about to get on the plane to head for the United Arab Emirates Thomas's private mobile went off with the screen flashing "Mayor."
The oligarch took a deep breath and answered on the second ring. The conversation was curt and in English.
"Thomas, I want you to join me in Sochi tonight." No greeting or small talk after three years of silence, just an order to be obeyed.
"Yes, Mr. President," Thomas's reply was equally short.
"Mayor?" Mikhail asked, already knowing the answer.
"Better tell the Captain we are going to Sochi!" Thomas ordered. The expression on his face said it all.
The flight took nearly four hours. Thomas didn't speak once as he sat opposite his trusted aide and bodyguard lost in his thoughts, something Mikhail later remarked had worried him immensely for he was never like that.
Once the plane landed they were met by the President's protection team and with only Mikhail allowed to travel with him, but not before he had to with great reluctance his hand over his weapon, they were driven to the Mayor's summer residence.
Arriving at the grand villa on Bocharov Ruchey, Thomas was shown directly into the President's office while Mikhail was asked to wait outside.
The sight of the Mayor standing behind his desk, as was his way, signing papers with two aides at his side greeted Thomas as he entered the room. Motioning for him to sit in a chair in front of the desk Thomas did so in silence for five minutes. It was pure theatre by the Mayor designed to impress upon Thomas his position and power.
Finished and dismissing the aides, The Mayor opened the discussion.
"Thomas," he said, taking a pause as his signal to answer reflecting his position over Thomas and it was his turn to answer. The Oligarch did just that.
"Mr. President," he replied, dominance established.
"How are Miss Gurbanammedowova and Victoria?"?The Mayor asked, providing him a signal that he always kept tabs on him.
"They are extremely well, Sir," Thomas offered in reply that earned a single nod back in return.
The "Presidential style" small talk over, the President of Russia got up then requested that they go out on to the terrace.
Having sat down at a cast iron table in the sun, the Mayor picked up the silver tea set and poured Thomas a cup of black tea and then one for him.
"Why are you selling to the Sheikh?" the President asked as he stirred the glass to release the flavor.
"His offer is a good one, Sir," Thomas responded, leaving his tea untouched.
"Not for Russia my friend!" the President answered referring to the fact a foreign state not even a country but a mere city state within an OPEC nation potentially owning a Russian Oil Company thereby affecting its Energy Security position was not an acceptable situation.
Sensing that the conversation was now not a negotiation, but that of a directive, Thomas knew instantly that his deal with the Sheikh was dead.
"Do you have a preferred buyer, Sir?" Thomas asked, for being a wise man, he knew now was a time when to bow down at the throne.
"Niet."
"This is going to be extremely difficult!" Thomas thought as he took a sip of his black tea trying desperately hard not to show his nerves.
"Then what would you suggest, Sir, as I am sure now that my business does not comply with your National Champions Policy," Thomas stated, knowing that if the man nationalized his business the cash-flow loss on his entire business would almost certainly break him.
The Mayor smiled at him. "The solution is simple, you either keep it or give it back!" There it was, in pure terms, no escape.
As if sensing his discomfort, the President then continued. "The price for giving it back is six billion U.S. dollars in cash from us."
"Twenty-four billion under the deal I agreed with the Sheikh's people," Thomas thought knowing full well that such a deal would be difficult if not impossible as it would affect the entire debt structures of the group he had put into place upon the sale of his stake in New York, London, and Hong Kong.
"However, I would prefer that you kept it, as your blood belongs to Mother Russia," The President said as he picked up his tea. "You have an obligation to our country that has given you everything," he continued, referring to and using his daughter's heritage of Soviet Russia by the use of the term "Mother Russia" to justify his expectation that despite his offer Thomas never had the option of taking it and walking away.
Inwardly despite being relieved as only
moments before he assumed his core business was about to be nationalized by State, Thomas knew it was only temporary because whatever happened from this point on the lives of his and Nara's family was entirely tied to the will of Russia.
Reluctantly, Thomas gave the answer he was expected to give.
"I understand, Sir."
"Good," the President answered with a wry smile.
The rest of the discussion then reverted to what he would like to see happen on various projects in Russia and of course with it a request veiled as an invitation from him to invest, thereby dragging Thomas back into Russia to never escape completely.
Forty-five minutes later, the President ended the meeting by placing his hand inside his blazer jacket and removing a pair of new Russian Passports that he promptly gave to Thomas. Opening them, Russia's latest "National Champion" found his and Victoria's details respectively in each of them.
"We must do this again, Fama," he said, using the Russian form of his Christian name to reflect his new citizenship.
On the plane back, a truly relieved Mikhail, having been briefed by Thomas on what had happened got up, took a bottle of The Macallan 1965 from the drinks cabinet for them to share, then slumped sat back down in his seat. As he offered him a glass with large measure Mikhail smiled at him, then said in English, "Next Year in Jerusalem," a typical Jewish response of the Israeli Special Forces members used to describe a classic 'Catch-22' situation.
As the plane returned back across the African landscapes to Europe, Thomas told himself, "No little warlord is going to change the rules!"
Looking towards Mikhail and the rest of his protection team and seeing they were all asleep, as they hadn't slept the whole time they were in-country for longer than a couple of hours each day, he asked the pretty air hostess to serve him a light supper of a Blue Stilton, Pear and Walnut Salad, with a very good chilled Puligny-Montrachet.
Once finished, Thomas picked up the phone and dialed Steve Krivets.
Steve Krivets was born into the world of filmmaking in Hollywood in the 1960s. Tall, thin set, short blonde hair with piercing blue eyes inherited from his Belorussian roots, and like most Americans a full set of brilliant white teeth, he was the CEO of Media News Group known as MNG. He had assumed the role the same day Thomas had backed his three-and-a-half billion U.S. dollars management buyout bid of MNG to ensure THL's public interest and media profile always had a counterpoint. The group was described as "Titan," with only Murdoch's News International group being larger, certainly did that for Thomas.
With this latest deal signed and sealed, and fallout that what would come with it, was almost certainly going to create waves and Thomas knew he needed to make sure the "Media Management" was carefully deployed to his organization's advantage.
Steve was asleep in bed with his latest conquest, a young starlet of just eighteen, when the phone went off.
"What the fuck!" he moaned before wearily reaching across for the phone. Seeing it was Thomas, he pressed 'to accept the call' request immediately.
"Steve, sorry to bother you. A quick question," Thomas asked without ceremony before he could answer otherwise.
"No problem, Thomas," Steve answered having decided that telling one of your significant shareholders, not to mention debt holders, to "fuck off" even if he was calling you at three o'clock in the morning would not be a good idea.
Listening carefully although still half-awake Steve thought to himself, "Oh fuck!" as he processed what his English friend was telling him, he said, "No problem, I have just the person." He sensed it was a request to be followed without question once the briefing was over.
"Excellent, meet me in London next week."
"Who was that, babe?" asked his teenage companion, now fully awake.
"Nobody? Go back to sleep, honey," Steve ordered before finding the number of his contact at the State Department figuring that this could not wait, and because he didn't want to forget anything while it was clear in his mind.
The number Steve dialed was that of Joseph McGiven, who unlike himself, as the time in Washington D.C. was six o'clock in the morning, was already up drinking his first coffee of the day. A tough political operator of thirty-nine, he was Counselor and Chief of Staff to the Secretary of State.
As Counselor, his role was to serve as special advisor on major foreign policy challenges. As Chief of Staff, he managed the Department's staff that provided the support to the Secretary in administering operations of the Department. He did both jobs with ruthless efficiency and for one goal only: the enrichment of the "Interests of the United States of America."
Seeing it was Steve Krivets, one of the most famous media barons in the country, he picked it up quickly.
"Steve this is a pleasant surprise," he answered in his Bostonian accent that, despite his years in Washington, he accentuated.
"Hi Joe, I know it's early but have you got a moment?" the mogul asked.
By the time, Steve had finished his briefing he had earned a promise to do lunch plus round of golf with the Secretary of State next time he was in L.A. in exchange for being a good American.
"HOLY FUCK!" the Chief of Staff said out loud once the telephone call was disconnected, grasping what he had just been told by Steve.
One hour later having reached and entered his office, McGiven switched on his desktop computer then entered the secure cryptonym software that generates code words across all the National Security Platforms of the United States of America.
He generated a code word and then emailed his and the Secretary of State's executive assistants to get them to request and organize a meeting with the President, the National Security Advisor, and Director of CIA, all present with the subject line stating Project GOLDEN WOLF [RESTRICTED CONTENT].
7
Ashgabat 1998
Sitting across from a very pleased Oleg over the Gas pipeline construction deal he had just made on behalf of the President and drunk on a potent mixture of champagne, cognac and fresh sushi, sat a very bored Thomas.
His mood quickly bounced back though, the second he caught sight of the absolutely stunningly beautiful young creature he met in Oleg's office as she walked into the club together with several other women and even more so when he saw they were making their way over to their table.
"Oh yes, much better!" Thomas thought enjoying her arrival at the table, the visual feast of her exotic features, her long jet black hair in a ponytail over her shoulder, clothed in sexy black silk trouser suit as one might find on a concubine in a harem and with her belly button showing off what he assumed was a crystal stud.
"My God, she's ravishing!" he mused.
Getting up quickly, something he noted Oleg hadn't bothered to do, Thomas smiled at her just as he did earlier in the day, only this time he shook her hand as her mother was not present, then her companions one after another before motioning for them to take up position opposite him in the booth.
On autopilot from the trauma of the afternoon, Nara forced a smile back towards him as he took her hand. It wasn't lost on her that there appeared to be an aura surrounding him as she assessed his physical attributes. Tall, handsome black hair flecked with grey, and forcibly focused brown eyes, her initial impression was one a man of strength and maturity and in his late thirties.
"He looks as though he doesn't miss anything," she thought while tuning her mind into flirting mode. "Seen and done many things!" she further added, inwardly reasoning that you didn't become an Oligarch in Russia by being soft.
As he held on to her hand instead of kissing air on her cheek, as was common in her homeland, she felt his power in his firm but gentle grip as he continued to look into her eyes as he introduced himself. Immediately she felt her heart jump. Being well trained she knew that he was sexually attracted to her, Nara flicked her long jet-black hair.
Her staged "flirt" was ruined and she had to stop herself from the urge to throw up as Oleg took hold of her arm painfully to motion her to sit by him. It was not lost
on Thomas that it was sort of thing you would expect an alpha male gorilla to do so to establish his position over the females in his harem in response to an interloper.
Watching the beautiful girl wince as he grabbed her, Thomas sensed that it obvious she couldn't bear Oleg's touch although he didn't know why.
Awestruck by her beauty, Thomas continued to stare at her intently.
As he did so Nara smiled at him again while she picked up a flute of Champagne.
Having realized the increasing level of flirtation between them both, Oleg took the opportunity to assume a position of ownership over Nara by pawing the side of her face.
"THOMAS, YOU LIKE MY 'JELEP DOVE,' DON'T YOU?" Oleg asked over the Russian pop music.
"She most definitely doesn't like you, old boy!" Thomas thought, having caught sight of the beautiful girl's second wince of the night.
Pressing his ownership again over her, a move that Thomas assumed was merely for his benefit he watched as Oleg pawed her again only this time more firmly by grabbing the other side of her face and pulling towards him. It was a motion made easy because he had made her sit next to him.
"You should have seen her this afternoon when I was fucking her in the ass-" Suddenly with fire in her eyes, Thomas watched in awe as the beautiful girl smashed her champagne glass and went for Rejejow. The other girls screamed together in chorus.
"FUCKING PIG," she yelled in Russian then switching to Turkmen she screamed, "Gyrmak sen!" meaning, "I will kill you!" she hissed quickly in succession with such hatred and venom.
It was an effort that had also certainly saved her life, although she didn't know it at that time, as Oleg's guards appeared out of nowhere to forcibly grab her.
Nara fought them all the way as they leaned across the table and violently pulled her out of the booth spraying the bottles of champagne and whiskey, the flutes of the Epernay nectar, and plates of Sushi out of the way.
"Yuri, take this fucking whore away, and when you have finished with her get rid of her!" Oleg said in disgust while looking at his soaked suit.
Brushing it off as "matter of fact," flicking the liquid from his hand that had sprayed all over him from the champagne flutes plus other glasses that had gone flying in all directions, Thomas coolly and politely joined the conversation.
"Oleg M?likguly?ewi?, but then what will I do for the evening?"
Surprised, Oleg smiled in return before replying in Russian to his guest. "Well there plenty of other toys here, Thomas. This one's a wild horse who needs to be put down!"
Restrained in Yuri's arms, her "moment of fire" over, Thomas could see the young girl by her look of fear in her beautiful eyes, had calmed down enough to realize that she was now moments away of being raped then murdered.
"Yes, Oleg M?likguly?ewi?, but I want this one," he insisted looking into her eyes smiling, determined to defuse the situation by making fun of her afore-mentioned fire, by dismissing it as trivial in an effort to save her life.
Looking at her and seeing the same fear in her eyes over the folly of trying to "glass" him, Oleg denied Thomas's request again.
"No. Thomas, I do not want to risk any injury to you riding wild horses in Turkmenistan; it is a dangerous sport for the inexperienced," he said at his attempt at humor.
Instantly a chorus of evil laughs from his minions echoed around the table while the drained looking Nara stood slumped in Yuri's arms.
"Allah has decreed I am to die for committing sins of the flesh by the hand of his man," she thought in despair to herself as she waited to be dragged off.
"Oleg M?likguly?ewi?, would you sell her to me then? For one always needs a filly to break in?" Thomas asked again, making one final effort to save her life as he watched the light go out in the beautiful child-woman who was being held by his bodyguard.
This time, Oleg pondered the request as it suddenly dawned him on that the Englishman was serious.
The fact was that the Englishman was a powerful man and having been ordered by the President to look after him and keep him happy, Oleg was smart enough to recognize the opportunity his guest was offering him to regain his honor not to mention the chance to make a deal of which he would be the main beneficiary.
He accepted the challenge.
"Twenty-five-thousand U.S. dollars!" he quoted a price he thought even a man like Litchfield would baulk at.
"Done," Thomas answered without hesitation, as he reached into his jacket and promptly pulled out a thick wad of cash then put it on the table.
Having heard the interplay between them on the next table Mikhail motioned one of the assistants with him that was carrying a briefcase to hand it over to him.
Opening it Mikhail, then pulled out another collection of wads. Cash being king in the former Soviet Republic, you always made sure that you had money for bribes on you-just in case.
"There you go, Boss," interjected Mikhail handing over the money to Thomas who promptly parked another wad of dollar bills on top of the ones he had already set on the table as Nara and the other girls looked on dumbfounded.
"That should be the twenty-five! Please have her suitably delivered to my suite with her passport and travel papers!" Thomas said, the deal done.
Not wanting to lose face, but happy that he had made a good profit of forty-five-thousand dollars that day, if you included the money he had already taken off the beautiful Jelep who just tried to kill him, Oleg M?likguly?ewi? Rejejow offered his hand to reflect the agreement: changing Nara's and Thomas's life forever in the process.
"Allah?" Nara's mind whirled. "Who is this man?" she asked inwardly as Yuri dragged her off to collect her papers and things.
"Why in the hell did I just do that?" Thomas thought, as Oleg and he joked and toasted each other health for the umpteenth time that evening.
The romantic in him answered, "Maybe it's because I am drawn to her hate and fire mixed with such suppressed passion in her beauty?" The pragmatist in him dismissed the answer as rubbish. "If I hadn't she would have been raped to death and then tossed on an Ashgabat rubbish tip like a dead dog," he told himself taking a sip of his whiskey. "That's something I am most surely not going to allow to happen to such a beautiful creature!" he further convinced himself as he took a bite of a piece of California sushi roll.
On arriving back at his hotel an hour later having left Oleg to play with the remaining whores, Thomas was informed by Mikhail with a disapproving eye that his "purchase" was now in his suite. He looked at his friend but chose not to say anything.
Mikhail had become a changed man ever since he had married his young pretty redheaded wife Hanna, telling him at every opportunity to settle down and find a nice girl almost as if he was afraid that Thomas would burn himself out.
"Bit expensive though for a Jelep, Boss!" Mikhail joked despite his eyes saying otherwise using the Turkmen word for a whore within his English sentence.
"I know, Mikail," Thomas answered with a smile at Mikhail's attempt at humor before continuing, "But when in Turkmenistan, one has to buy a horse!" making reference to the passion of the Turkmen people as they entered the lift together and rode it to his suite.
"By the way, that prick Yuri wanted to make sure I gave you this," Mikhail said passing him an envelope.
Opening it, Thomas found it contained the girl's "Permission to Travel" documents from the Government and a pristine Turkman passport. Taking her passport out and flicking through it, he saw it only had?a?recently issued visa for the United Arab Emirates in it. Turning to the end page, he found her full name.
"That's a bit of a mouthful Boss!" Mikhail exclaimed, looked over his shoulder indicating his understanding of British humor for double entendre having been with him for so long.
"Indeed!" Thomas replied even though he hadn't been listening as he had been taking in the fact that even in a passport photo the girl was stunningly beautiful, a feat in itself.
"Christ, she's only nineteen!" he thought as her date of birth sunk in as he promptly cl
osed the passport and placed it back in the envelope. He resealed it before passing it back to Mikhail.
"You keep this but give a copy to the Captain," he said, referring to the skipper of his Gulfstream G-4 as he was going to need it for the paperwork for their return to Moscow in the morning.
"I don't want my wild horse running off and getting herself killed!" he joked. "Oh and when we get to Moscow can you sort out her visas at the British Embassy as well, please."
"Sure, Boss," answered Mikhail without question although nonetheless somewhat surprised that Thomas actually intended to take the young girl with them. Up until that moment Mikhail had thought Thomas had saved the girl's life because he was a 'white knight' but by the statement he had just given him it now appeared he was actually going to keep her. It disappointed him, but he decided against making comment. After all, despite their close relationship, he was the Boss.
"Hopefully he will do the right thing," Mikhail thought before asking, "What should I tell the Embassy in Moscow for her multiple re-entry visa?" knowing that an entry visa for the UK wouldn't be easy.
"Tell them she is the going to be the new Executive Director of The Libertine and as its parent company is English, that should be enough to get her an annual one."
"Will do, Boss," answered Mikhail. "I will get Rubin to get the paperwork sorted," he then said referring to the member of the team who was the bag carrier as filling in paperwork was never Mikhail's strong point. It reminded him too much of his days in the Shakbat.
Arriving at their floor they walked out of the lift then down the corridor that had the remaining members of his personal security team posted along it, to the suite.
"Night, Boss," said Mikhail once they reached the door giving yet another disapproving look before making a mental note to have some clothes sent up for her.
"Goodnight, Mikhail," replied Thomas, unaware of what was waiting for him in his suite.
Closing the door behind him, Thomas walked into the presidential suite. Taking off his tailored Saville Row blazer he then placed the garment on the long sofa and walked to the bar, whereupon he proceeded to get a champagne flute and a whiskey glass from the cupboard underneath and placed them on top of the bar.
It was that point he removed his Glock and holster. Something since that brutal night in Moscow he always wore. Putting the safety on the pistol, he placed it on the top of the bar.
Opening the refrigerator he found a bottle of Moet Chandon and some "exotic" Georgian Champagne.
"I think we give that miss," he said, over the thought of drinking Georgian Champagne, as he put some ice in a whiskey glass then opened the bottle of Johnnie Walker Black Label and poured two fingers of the whiskey over the ice.
Guessing that he would find his guest already in the bedroom waiting for him and hopefully under the covers he made his way to its entrance.
The second?Thomas?entered the bedroom with the drinks he immediately felt guilty for his quips in the lift with Mikhail on the way up.
Lying on the bed, with just a blanket covering her perfectly naked beautiful naturally bronzed skin, her long jet black hair running down her back over the blanket covering her, on her side, blindfolded, her hands tied behind her back, legs also bound together in flex cuffs so she could not escape and gagged, lay Nara.
"Fucking Hell, Oleg!" Thomas thought with disgust knowing that the animal had sent her to him naked because in his eyes, she owned nothing that wasn't his. He also knew now why he had been getting such disapproving looks from Mikhail. Although he couldn't quite grasp why his friend had chosen to leave her like that. He realized now it was Mikhail's way of sending him a message.
Seduction plans over, Thomas put down the Champagne flute followed by his whiskey glass on the table and then quickly walked to the bed, but, not before he had picked up the pair of cutters for the flexi-cuffs that had been left for him by Mikhail.
"Okay, Mikhail, I get the message!" Thomas thought, as he sat on the bed.
Drawn by her seductive beauty he listened for a few seconds to Nara's heavy panicked breathing. Then like a moth to the flame drawn to her pretty face he gently touched it. The action immediately caused her to shake followed by a scream through her gag.
"You bloody idiot!" he scolded his mind, realizing because she couldn't see the poor girl must have been terrified by his sudden unwanted touch. "Get control of yourself," he ordered his brain.
"GUNARA," Thomas said firmly, "ENOUGH," in Russian.
She screamed louder. Needing to take control quickly of the situation without a word Thomas roughly flipped from her side to her back forcing the blanket off her in the process.
Screaming this time from the pain in her shoulders as her body fell on her hands behind her back and because of the unknown of what was about to happen to her, Thomas took her head firmly in his hand then pulled her back by her hair.
"Gunara, ENOUGH," in Russian he repeated. "You have two choices, you must submit to my will and please me, or I give you back to Oleg," he continued using the terrible words as a shock tactic to try and get calm her down with the threat of a bigger fear. "Your choice?" he added in a softer tone. "Nod once if you want me to send you back to Oleg?" he concluded using the return to Oleg clutches like the ultimate fear factor.
It worked instantly. He could see Nara's fear fueled mind had started to calm down. She shook her head frenziedly. It appeared the mention of sending her back to Oleg had terrified her more than what he was about to do her, although he could help but look at incredible breasts as the continued to rise and fall as the result of her heavy breathing.
"Good," he said as he removed her blindfold to be greeted with terrified tear filled eyes. Immediately Thomas felt terribly guilty.
"S-i-r?I b-e-g d-o-n-'t" she said breathlessly once he removed the gag and then gulping as she said the words.
"Please don't send me back to Oleg M?likguly?ewi?," she added, tears arriving in full flow like a waterfall down her face.
"Thomas," he whispered to calm her. "Call me Thomas," he repeated this time taking a tear and brushing it away from her face and stroking her cheek softly.
Still breathing heavily and thus continuing to provide Thomas with the absolutely wonderful sight of her breasts while trying to cross her legs because she was still naked. She closed her eyes and then nodded.
"Thom?as," she said slowly.
Nara's mind was in turmoil.
Earlier, she had been absolutely terrified when Yuri had dragged her out of the club and back to her little flat. She thought despite what happened in the club with that strange Oligarch buying her, he was still going to kill her. Only that didn't happen; instead he asked her where her papers and passport were.
"I don't have one, Yuri," she had replied and earnt a hard slap across her face in response.
"Don't lie to me ganjyk. I know you do. We own this fucking country, everybody knows Oleg's M?likguly?ewi? girls!" he had said with evil intent.
Shaking with fear knowing now that even after paying one thousand U.S. dollars for her documents that it appeared that Oleg had known all along about her intentions to escape to Dubai, she did as she was told and gave them to him.
Ordering her to strip, fearing the worst she had initially refused, but when he pulled out his famous knife she wet herself for the first time since the terrible night she had been raped by Oleg as a child.
"N-O!" she had repeatedly screamed in Russian as he ripped at the material of her outfit.
"Don't worry ganjy, you're not the Boss's property anymore. So stop pissing! And fucking turn around," he had ordered whilst laughing. "I am not that fucking stupid!" he had added before he tossed and turned her around and bound her wrists behind her back with the flexi cuffs that he had pulled out of his pocket as he had known all about the rumors of what had happened those that had crossed the English Oligarch in past. A death sentence if he touched something that wasn't his was most definitely not on his agenda.
Having gagged and bli
ndfolded her, Yuri then pushed her on to bed so he could put a set of flexi cuffs on her ankles thus binding them together to stop her from trying to run away.
Finishing off his interpretation of "suitably delivered," he tore off all off her remaining clothes so to leave her naked with tears rolling down her face from the shame.
Then with a rough pull of her arm he lifted her limp body up and placed her over his shoulder, then promptly walked out of the little apartment along the corridor and down the stairs as her scared neighbors quickly closed their doors before he reached them, out through the apartment's entrance until he reached the black Mercedes S500 waiting outside.
Shoving her roughly in front of him first, he got in by the side of her. Once the door was closed they sped off towards the Sheraton.
As they made their way through the city, with her head pulled into Yuri groin forcing the terrified Nara to smell not just his strong perfume, but also the foul smell from his private parts in the process, she willed herself to ignore the groping of her breasts. She shut her eyes despite them already been covered.
"Allah. Am I going to die?" she asked but didn't receive an answer.
Finally, the car stopped. As he got out of car Nara heard the voice she had heard earlier.
"Yuri, for the love of god! Give the poor girl some respect!" the voice said as she felt a hand grasp her arm and drag her out of the car.
"Your boss said suitably prepared, so fuck off!" Yuri responded with venom.
"Here's the Jelep's papers," he said as she felt Yuri roughly hand her over to what she assumed was another person, as while the hand was firm it wasn't rough.
Suddenly Nara felt a jacket being put over her and then buttoned up at the front followed by the voice saying,
"I will keep you blindfolded, so you don't have to look upon your shame? while I get you upstairs," in Russian.
As he picked her up in his arms she felt him carry her into what she assumed was the elevator. Then after a few moments as she heard the doors open again and felt her body being carried down another corridor and then into what she assumed was a room before finally another room where she was gently placed on a bed.
As she felt the jacket being removed to leave her naked again, fearing her rape was about to begin Nara started breathing heavily only to calm down again when a blanket was placed on her,
"Don't worry," the voice said. "He won't hurt you."
What seemed like hours to her, but was, in fact, was only forty-five minutes Nara suddenly felt the presence of a person in the room and then, to her horror sit on the bed.
Fearing her second rape of the day was about to begin as she felt the hand of the person touch her face, she started screaming into the gag. Suddenly, she felt herself being flipped her over. Immediately a searing pain tore through her shoulders. She whimpered.
"It is the person who bought me from Oleg!" her mind had raced as she recognized the voice.
Ordered to calm down by him she only stopped screaming when his words sunk in that if she didn't, he would send her back to Oleg. Willing her mind to be strong as the blindfold came off, her eyes fixed on him.
Listening to him and fearing him now as the new Oleg in her life, she prepared herself for the worse, only that didn't happen!
Yes, she could see immediately he desired her by the way he looked up and down at her body, but instead to her surprise he cut her bonds off, one by one then surprised her further as she tried to cover her naked vulnerability when he got up and went to the bathroom.
Nara looked around to gather her bearings. She knew instantly where she was, having spent many an hour in the hotel's bedrooms but due to the fact she was naked without clothes she decided against making a break for it. Instead, her mind focused on the telephone.
"Do I call Mama?" she had thought before dismissing it. She knew her poor mother was still in shock from the attack of the afternoon. She couldn't ask her to come to the hotel.
"It will send her over the edge," she bitterly concluded as he wandered back into the room holding out for her a long robe with his eyes turned away.
Still half crazed Nara snatched it from him. Then he surprised her again. He kept his eyes shut while she put it on.
"That's odd!" she thought, bearing in mind how he had already seen her naked moments ago, but she didn't complain. Men were always strange. It appeared this one was no different.
Her modesty covered, Thomas opened his eyes, opened the champagne expertly then handed her a flute.
"Nostroviya," he said looking into her eyes where upon he drank his whiskey in his other hand.
Suspiciously, Nara returned his toast in an effort to satisfy him as she took a gulp of champagne to calm her mind. "Who is this strange, powerful oligarch?" she asked herself. She didn't get a chance to find out. He took over.
"Now, why don't you tell me your story," he ordered as he made his way to the sofa in the bedroom by the wall as she gingerly sat down on the bed and continued to stare at him.
To please him, as she would do when with Oleg or his many clients, she told him her story including to her surprise some of the worst bits for the next hour before exhausted from the stress of her day and the realization that the "strange man" who had bought her wasn't going to rape her, she felt herself falling into a restless sleep.
Watching the beautiful woman-child fall into a half sleep, Thomas knew without a shadow of doubt that this intoxicating young sensual creature of the Turkmenistan Mountains was the first love of his life.
"Such a determination to survive," he had thought with admiration as he listened to her tell her story and how she became one of Oleg's women. Keeping his counsel on the fact that she had been just a child of thirteen at the time had revolted him. He had known many women over the years in Russia who used prostitution to feed and support their families. He never judged them. Indeed he often enjoyed their company, this though was completely different.
"She was a baby!" he bitterly thought. As far Thomas was concerned, the fault lay with her father. He had seen many things on his travels, but the selling your own daughter to clear your debts. It had turned his stomach as she told him just as it was still doing now.
He made a decision. He would be her guardian no matter what destiny she wanted to choose for herself.
Seeing she was asleep, he got up from the sofa. He lifted up the blanket that had been discarded earlier and so as not to disturb her, as he could see the emotional exhaustion on her face, covered her with it.
He took one last look at her sleeping form. He smiled at her. Then he walked out of the bedroom and closed the door behind him.
The next morning, as she woke to get her bearings like she always did where or whoever's bed she was in for the night when on duty for Oleg, the beautiful teenager found a red Nike tracksuit, panties, a white t-shirt and some trainers at the bottom of the bed.
Getting up, Nara then on tiptoe walked into the bathroom to take a shower, where to her surprise she also found a fully stocked ladies makeup bag from Chanel on the side. Again she asked herself all the while looking at the expensive makeup bag, "Who is this man?"
As the power jets of the walk-in shower hit her body, the water doing its job, she reflected with a clearer understanding that he was certainly strange.
"He had bought me! Although he had touched me, he didn't take me! Then once I submitted to his will he promptly changed again into the respectful man that I had met with Mama? Questions? Questions?"
Thoughts raced through her mind as the spray continued to hit her body.
Finally ending her shower she asked a respectful question of Allah. "Have you sent me a guardian or the devil's illusion?"
Finishing her makeup, her hair now tied back, dressed in the tight satin tracksuit with the trainers on, Nara walked out of the bedroom into the lounge of the suite to find her guardian or foe sitting at the main table with his blonde bodyguard.
"Good morning, Gunara, please come and join us," Thomas
offered on seeing her enter the room. He stood up respectfully
Nodding her head dutifully to both men although incredibly nervous, Nara gingerly took up his offer and as she did so, his bodyguard who was with him in Oleg's office and the restaurant introduced himself.
"My name is Mikhail," he said offering his hand smiling to her. Taking it, Nara smiled, instantly recognizing his voice as belonging to the person who carried up to this room and tried to protect her privacy in the process.
Nara quickly sat down like a little girl by the side of Thomas opposite Mikhail while he poured her a cup of coffee. She saw him wink in the direction of Mikhail.
"Miss Gurbanmammedowova," Mikhail said taking his cue to leave with an additional smile.
Quietly, as Nara sipped her coffee Thomas opened his briefcase beside him, pulled out, then put her letter "Giving her permission to leave the country" and her passport that Mikhail had now returned to him after he advised him he was going to give her the decision to choose her destiny, on the table.
Something Mikhail had quickly said in response had pleased him, as he never saw Thomas as "Slave Master."
"I know Mikhail, I blame that prick Oleg's presence!" he responded.
"Er iz gevorn far ir di kapore!" Mikhail had muttered while shaking his head in disagreement drinking his coffee with his eyes twinkling. It was a Jewish saying, meaning, "He fell for her hook, line, and sinker!"
"Bugger off, you sod!" Thomas responded laughing understanding his joke.
"I will tell Hanna to stop her search!" Mikhail responded in kind continuing with the joke.
But now as?he?took in the sight of the beautiful young woman in front him Thomas?concluded that his old friend had been correct in spite of her being only just nineteen.
"I am going to release you from my protection," Thomas said causing her eyes to shoot up with panic. Sensing her fear, Thomas moved quickly to calm her.
"Don't worry Oleg won't touch you or your family," he said, guessing at what the look of terror in her eyes was about. "If you come with me I will expect that you obey by my rules and submit to my needs without question," Thomas carried on looking into her eyes again using Turkmen tribal law to provide Nara with an anchor despite it not being his intention at all.
He looked at her for a moment to try and gauge her. Then she answered.
"I and my family belong to you T-h-o-m-a-s. I will follow you until you say otherwise," she answered slowly in English to show her commitment. She was smart enough to recognize that he was offering her a way out of Turkmenistan.
Putting down her coffee cup she picked up his hand lifted it up and kissed it with her lips for the effect to show her acceptance. Her training as a concubine was on display for him.
"Good, now call your mother!" Thomas ordered as he gave her a mobile phone.
"I hope you know what you are doing, old chap!" he told himself as he watched her dial her mother's number on the mobile having caught her overt but bloody sexy professional attempt to satisfy him with an answer she knew he wanted to hear.
Later as they took off in his plane, something she had never done before, Nara watched the powerful man who now "owned" her despite his words to the contrary as he talked about things she assumed was his business with Mikhail while she pretended to flip through a fashion magazine.
She reflected on the whirlwind events of the last two days then concluded, "He is certainly different to any man I have ever met!"
"Baby, he means what he says, I know it!" her mother had said with tears in her eyes as they stood together in the bedroom absorbing his promise to look after Nara after her still traumatized mother had come to the hotel with some more clothes for her.
"Allah has sent you an angel!" her mother had said with authority.
"I know he has!" Nara had replied.
Knowing her mama was still in shock from the terrible savagery of the yesterday Nara had chosen not to argue with her not even when she had told her that she must not fail him but look after him and bear him children. That was something that was most definitely not going to happen as she had decided at the time as soon as she got Moscow she was going to escape from him and head to Dubai.
However it was only when they had emerged from the bedroom that she started to believe her mother's assessment.
Suspiciously she observed Thomas, as she now called him, take her mother aside then give her a large thick envelope.
As soon as her mother opened it she could see her face was one of shock, her body shaking. Worried, Nara bit her lip.
"Baby! Look, what your Angel has given me!" she said in Turkmen handling her the envelope shaking.
Looking inside, Nara saw what she assumed was fifty thousand U.S. dollars in cash!
"It is to give you choices, Madam Tania," Thomas had said with a smile as her mother set about hugging him in tears.
It was an action Nara had concluded that must have caught him off guard by the way he hesitantly patted her mother awkwardly in return.
"From now on you are under my protection and I will advise the President accordingly," he said. "If you need anything, call Gunara and I will take care of it," he stated with authority.
"No man had ever done that for them in their entire life certainly not her drunken father! And he was going to tell the President to look after Mama," Nara thought while watching him doing his paperwork.
"Who are you?" she pondered.
Arriving in Moscow in good time, the drive to his home in the diplomatic residence area of the city was less so. It took an hour and a half due the traffic, the bane of Moscow.
On reaching the house they were greeted by his personal butler Sergeant Tan (who she later found out, thinking him to be a Tajik at first, was Nepalese and Thomas's first platoon sergeant from his time in the army) and his wife.
"Sergeant and Mrs. Tan will look after you," he said, introducing them.
"Thank you," she replied as she watched him go into another room with Mikhail and his men.
"Please follow me, Madam Gunara," said Mrs. Tan indicating with her arm to do so.
"Madam?" thought Nara. That was a title given to the ladies of powerful men in her country. "Does it mean the same here?" she pondered as she followed the woman upstairs. Mrs. Tan first showed her to her bedroom then on to another room with built-in wardrobes.
"This is your dressing room, Madam Gunara," stated the servant, having already surprised her moments go by telling her that the beautiful bedroom was hers and not his.
"Dressing room!" that was something she only read about in Magazines, she thought.
Leaving her with a little bow a gesture that made feel like a Princess, Nara couldn't believe how much her life had just changed in two days.
"These rooms are five times bigger than my entire apartment!" she thought, dumbstruck, taking in her new surroundings. Opening the cupboards, she was further surprised once more to find a range of outfits, underwear, and shoes all from the pages of Vogue, although not all to her taste, nor completely fitting her, they were near enough as she picked them out to look at them.
"Who is this man?" she pondered again. "Allah, my thanks to you for blessing me!" she said closing her eyes again as she suddenly realized that God had heard her prayers.
At which point as Thomas entered the room. Nara turned quickly then ran into his arms like a schoolgirl, excitingly kissing him with force for the first time in their life.
"My Thomas," she murmured in a lusty sexy Russian accent.
"I take it you're happy then!" he said almost breathlessly after she kissed him.
He had asked Hanna to deliver a range of outfits from her friend's boutique for her, so he was hoping his friend's wife had chosen well. It appeared she had done so.
"Yes? of course my baby, but not because of the clothes," she replied in her English slowly like she were a little girl.
"Really?" he responded slightly disappointed.
"Because you had promised to look after my
Mama!"
A questioning look came from him followed by a question. "Why now?" Thomas asked now seeing quite?a?different girl to the professional one of earlier in the day.
"Because this was the first time I could be alone with you, my darling, for our first time," she answered looking up into his eyes as Nabokov's "Lolita" with wide-eyed innocence.
"I want you now!"
"Take what is yours!" she suddenly demanded, kissing him again and again as she wrapped a leg around him tugging at his black silk and wool trousers in the process. "T-h-o-m-a-s, I NEED YOU TAKE ME HERE NOW," she continued as if possessed, the trained Jelep in control figuring that to secure her position she must submit to him despite her dislike of men.
Undoing his belt buckle, she pressed her hips against his crotch as he roughly pulled at her Nike training tracksuit bottoms. Noting that they had come off rather easily as he yanked them down, Thomas inhaled deeply as he continued to kiss her, drinking from her moist lips as she stepped out of them.
Suddenly he felt his trousers around his ankles in moments. Then he felt her hands working on his underpants.
"I need to feel his strength now so to satisfy Allah and his will as well," she reasoned to herself as the professional in her kicked in.
Helping her get his underwear off he then offered to go to the bedroom but instead she simply grabbed hold off his now rigid manhood and wrapped her leg around him again. Easing him inside her so to let him slam himself quickly she pulled him into the built-in cupboard for balance as he entered her.
At that moment, Nara felt all the years of physical abuse and torture of the last two days flood over her. It was so intense it almost caused her to pass out, yet something else happened to her.
"What is this? No man has ever done this!" she thought as she wrapped her other leg around him.
Taking hold of her taut bottom, he drove himself into her over and over against the wardrobe.
He had wanted this release all day as he watched her on the plane, her incredible beauty bewitching him with every passing minute as the two of them made small talk and probed each other on their backgrounds. Now it was finally happening.
"Bloody hell!" he murmured for he had never felt anything like this with a woman before.
Kissing him deeply for a moment so she could catch her breath from the emotions that were now laying siege to her from his assault on her, the moans from both of them rang loudly in the room before back in control Nara encouraged him to take her even harder as if forcing out the "demons" whirling around in her head.
Taking her instruction verbatim, Thomas did as he was ordered to do with more force and animal lust as he drove up against her over and over again, slamming himself into her as her legs locked around him, causing her to start babbling.
They carried on like this for the following two minutes, bringing each other to the shared brink of orgasm before feeling herself come / first she held onto him tightly digging her nails into his back.
"MY T-H-O-M-A-S!" she screamed as her soaked sex clamped down on his manhood.
Feeling her intense orgasm arrive caused Thomas to lose all control as waves of release cascaded throughout his body as well, with his whole body becoming rigid just before he exploded into the young woman he sworn he would look after with his life.
Now breathless while he pressed himself into her Nara opened her eyes. Unwrapping from him, she put one leg on the ground then kissed him deeply. As she did so she separated from him, then lowered the other leg, pulling him close to her.
"I can feel your seed inside me, my love," she huskily whispered as she held him.
"Now we go to the bedroom!" she ordered the professional in her taking over.
8
Washington D.C
In the rather dull colored situation room of the White House, very unlike how one of the most secure locations in the world is portrayed in films, waiting for the President and the Chief of Staff to arrive for the regular debriefing on the latest national security threat that their country was facing were the Secretary of State, Director of the CIA, the National Security Adviser and finally Joseph McGiven.
In the week leading up to this briefing, each servant of the President's administration relevant institutions had been tasked to prepare a situation analysis and formulate recommendations for POTUS's consideration and action.
As this was the "pre-briefing," the Secretary, as the most senior member of the Administration, was chairing the meeting until the President's arrival.
A distinguished former member of the Senate and Presidential Candidate, John Kerry had possessed a unique understanding of U.S. Foreign Policy due in part from his education in Europe, at the sharp end with his decorated service in Vietnam, then once he was elected, by his stints on the committees for International Trade and Foreign Relations.
To kick-start the meeting he asked the Director of the CIA to begin his overview.
After a rather long-winded introduction during which the Director paused to drink a glass of water and irritating the Secretary in the process, the man finally reached a crucial point of the briefing.
"It's the Agency's opinion that this 'action' by the placing of this proposed base virtually next door to ours in Djibouti is purely about sending a message to African States and the rest of the world that Russia is ready to do business and as such represents a continuation of their confrontation policy with the United States, as recently demonstrated in Georgia Syria, Crimea and Ukraine."
He continued, turning a page of his notes. "As the African Continent is going to provide?a?quarter of the world's oil in the next ten years, coupled with the fact that Russia is now facing competition from the U.S, EU, Chinese, and Indian companies as well as with corporations from the Arabian Peninsula in the region, it is the Agency's belief that ARCTIC TIGER intends to rebuild what they perceive as their natural position in the world. It is also our belief Russia intends to achieve this ambition through its use of their competitive advantages in quality-price ratios they currently enjoy in the knowledge of prospecting, production, and transportation of natural resources in tandem with their military 'wrapper'!"
The Director paused again, ignoring the Secretary's gesture of throwing his pencil down to show his displeasure at him. He took another sip of water before continuing.
"With no traditional colonial influence in Africa; our analysts believe that Russia, by concluding this deal with the continent's newest state, are sending a message that they intend to compete against our U.S. trading links that we have under the AGOA (American Growth and Opportunities Act) within the region. This is furthermore supported by HUMINT intelligence sources that advise that ARCTIC TIGER privately sees the 'Arab Spring' policy of this Administration as re-branded product of the privatization policy U.S. Administrations have used in Russia in the nineties as a tool to degrade competition to U.S. interests."
The Secretary of State sighed inwardly. He wasn't a fan of Director Young seeing him as the epitome of elegant evil with his affectations, even if he was a fellow "Bonesman" from Yale.
He decided to push on, as the Director wasn't telling him anything he didn't already know having dealt with ARCTIC TIGER in frosty meetings in the past, none more so at the G8 summit last year where he had clearly stated his desire that it was Russia's right to be equal partners with the United States of America in the world and demonstrated it by out-foxing the administration with regard to the Ukraine's mineral rich Eastern Provinces return to the Russian fold, despite the sanctions.
"So, what you are saying is, this is the beginning of the second Cold War that the various 'Hawks' in our departments have been touting since Putin came to power and not just a sample of more of his grandstanding in manner of the Ukraine to score points of the President?" He ignored the use of Putin's ARCTIC TIGER "call sign," as he had enough of that when he had left the Navy in the sixties.
A former analyst, then the Station Chief of Moscow who had overseen operations to disable Russia in t
he early nineties, the Director had a total distrust of everything 'Putin' and saw him as many in the American Civil Service did as a modern day Stalin, just without the death camps.
So although he had only been in the top job for two months the man immediately seized this opportunity to promote his crusade to "not to drop the guard" against the "old enemy."
"Yes, Mr. Secretary. We now believe that is the case," David Patrick Young answered without a flicker of emotion on his face just as the President of United States of America walked into the room.
9
Moscow
Sitting at his desk so he could read the latest analysis reports around the world, Alexei Nikolai Anynkov, the Director of the SVR, the organization that is responsible for intelligence and espionage gathering outside the Russian Federation and within, providing the dissemination of intelligence to the Russian President, picked up a cup of black tea. He pulled the report from the resident asset manager in the US towards him, opened it and started to read.
Littered with "codenames" to reflect companies and senior individuals in the U.S. Government it provided him initially with an analysis of Krivet's conversation with Joseph McGiven. This wasn't an unusual event, as the SVR routinely monitored all the world's major media company C-Suite individual telephone communications just like their counterparts in the U.S. did from time to time. In the case of the famous U.S. media mogul, the monitoring of all his calls had only just been stepped up since the President, at a meeting he attended in Moscow two months ago, informed "Fama" the English Oligarch asset of the President that he would like him to lead the delegation of Russian businesses to invest in Africa.
The Russian President had chosen the "Anglichanin", as Alexei Nikolai Anynkov thought of Thomas, notwithstanding his Russian passport and his unique basket of business assets, but more importantly because he had seen how well he had built his company's position within the new African State. The President was convinced that in order for this plan to succeed they would need to engage in a program to win the "hearts and minds" of public opinion around the world, unlike they had in the past with Georgia and Syria. He had taken his time to find a possible opportunity that would enable Russia to do that.
The Federal Republic of Adwalland with its location at the entrance to Red Sea was rich in natural resources and he had determined that it represented the perfect situation to start the re-establishment of Russia as a military power, much to the surprise of Alexei, until he had explained why.
The day the Englishman had brought Krivets into the circle of trust meant that the cat was truly out of the bag and the game could begin on the political stage. This view, held by Alexei, was further supported by what he read next in his summary.
The local resident had reported that sources within National Security Organizations were now advising that, in the last week, their companies had been asked to elevate counterintelligence operations against Russia in all theatres.
Again, Alexis mused there was nothing new in this intelligence as the "Hawks" in the State Department and National Security Organizations of the United States had always held a deep suspicion of the Russian President and his objectives-so much so they were always making such recommendations. He had also come to the conclusion with the appointment of David Young to the head up the CIA a few months ago, the very man who had led his country into chaos with his assets through their advice and management of Yeltsin program of privatization in the 1990s, that this type of intelligence chatter would be now become more common.
It was the next line of the report that really caught his eye, with the phrase, "President's Authorization has been granted."
That was something he hadn't expected!
Immediately Alexei put down his tea picked up his phone then dialed the President's Office to ask for a time to see him that evening.
10
London
The dinner was arranged for quarter to eight o'clock but he was late and Thomas didn't have time to change, so instead he found himself in the study waiting for Nara to join him.
Nara, running late as was the norm, walked into the study just as the clock in the study chimed seven thirty. She was wearing a sexy, short, black couture dress from one of the many famous designers she gave her patronage to.
"By God, she is beautiful," reflected Thomas as he recovered from the stunning sight she presented.
The silk dress, designed with lace around the front and sides provided revealing glimpses of her bare olive skin from the thigh up to her cleavage in front, had left nothing to the imagination-she was a vision of alluring elegance.
"God knows how much that cost me?" he thought as for all her natural beauty and the ability to look stunning in anything, his 'wild horse' as he fondly thought of her certainly knew how to spend it. By definition, she fitted in well with the wives and girlfriends of the Oligarchs that were exiled in London.
To finish off her look, she wore a pair of high stilettos with ankle straps, the color of legendary soles of the designer matching her very kissable made up red lips. "Darling you look absolutely ravishing," he said as kissed her gently on her cheek so not to ruin her lipstick. He put an arm around her and felt his loins stir as his fingertips traced along the length of her long naked back.
"Thank you, my darling!" she sparkled. "I am pleased you like it," she followed up with an alluring smile to match her sparkling eyes that seemed to Thomas to be working in tandem with diamonds in her ears and around her neck.
Changing the subject quickly to fight the urge to cancel dinner there and then and take Nara to bed instead, he asked if she knew who the woman was that would be joining them for dinner as Steve's companion. His personal assistant had told him earlier she was an actress, but he had never heard of her.
"Yes! Darling, she is on the TV Show that Victoria watches-you know, the one with all the singing," Nara answered straight away with authority.
"That means she's young then, I suppose?" he said with a twinkle, as he knew Stevie liked his women young and had a reputation of using his position and the casting couch to full effect. Looking at his watch, the small talk over, he said, "We better make a move. I will brief you in the car."
During the short drive, he briefed his 'partner in crime' on the background of the night. Nara listened carefully as he spoke, so she didn't miss anything. It had filled her with immense pride that the President of Mother Russia saw 'Her Thomas' as a key part of his plans to rebuild her country's status in the world.
For Nara, like the vast majority of her contemporaries of the ?migr? community, considered him a strong and fair leader in direct contrast to rest of the world that fell outside his influence.
Being street smart, she had learned early on in her life that important men often like to impress pretty girls engaged in pillow talk after sex. Yet it was only after the time when he had made love to her after punishing on that terrible day that Thomas changed towards her in this regard and started to treat her as his sounding board by involving her in his thought forming processes.
Whenever he did, it proved to Nara that she was truly his woman not just Hisk?niz (meaning concubine). It also had the added effect of allaying her fears as to Thomas moving on from her, something that had been festering inside her since he took the decision to send Victoria to boarding school.
Most of the time she had learned Thomas preferred for her to sit quietly and listen, but one thing he always did without fail was to ask her at the end of the night for her impressions on his associates when acting as his hostess. This act alone made her feel special.
"I will not let you down my darling," she responded in Russian smiling at him taking his hand as he finished his briefing. Arriving at the restaurant, the resident paparazzi readied themselves as they pulled up just in case it was a famous person about to get out of the car.
On seeing it was Sir Thomas Litchfield with his famous girlfriend, the bulb flashes immediately lit up the street as they stepped out surrounded by t
heir bodyguards. Thomas straightened his back and helped Nara out of the Rolls Royce Phantom. They briskly walked together arm in arm into the restaurant, ignoring the volley of flashing lights.
Once inside they entered the bar, Steve, having already arrived with his companion and his own bodyguard quickly spotted them and waved them over to join them.
Expressively, he hugged Thomas first, as was his way, before respectfully kissing Nara on each cheek. Initial formalities out of the way, he introduced his young companion standing just to his side.
"Guys, this is Daniela," he said.
Thomas and Nara immediately thought that she was incredibly beautiful. Eighteen, she may be, but she came across as an illicit sixteen something they also surmised she almost certainly used to her advantage with certain types of men or women. Both also assumed unkindly that because she was with Steve, a man old enough to be her father and who had a passion for young girls, this was the reason why she was currently starring in the successful TV show set in a high school on the network owned by MNG.
"Yes," Nara reflected, recognizing a predator instantly. "In looks she maybe a child underneath, however, she is anything, but!" she thought with authority.
"Christ, Stevie, you're going get into trouble one day!" Thomas thought as he reached the same conclusion as his beautiful companion, just by a different route.
"It is a pleasure to meet you both," Danielle responded with her best apple pie accent and smile just as she did on her television show, kissing air with each of them in turn after she had said it.
Introductions over, they went straight to the table.
As Thomas slid into one of Nobu's famous booths, Nara immediately noticed the young girl had made sure her Thomas could see her legs.
"Jelep, I am not letting my Victoria watch her show anymore!" Nara jealously thought. Thomas, who unknown to Nara was into women and not children, blatantly ignored Daniele's very obvious attempt.
She perked up straight away when she spotted the young girl's disappointment that he done so.
"That's right, Jelep! He's mine," Nara thought glibly, ignoring the fact that she wasn't much older than the girl herself when she entered her Thomas's life all those years ago.
"Why don't you ladies do the ordering tonight?" Thomas asked.
"That's a fabulous idea, Thomas!" Steve replied jovially, in support of his friend and business partner.
Much to Daniele's annoyance, Nara immediately asserted her place as a senior female and did just that. She put the little starlet back in her place by not even consulting with the girl on the food for the night.
Inwardly Thomas chuckled, "God, she can be such a little cow when she wants to be," he thought having spotted straight away Nara displeasure over the way Danielle had been flirting with him. "But a sexy one," he added,
With the conversation over dinner touching on places, art, and music, interjected with several interruptions by fans for Daniele, friends of Nara, or business associates of both men, the point had come for them to discuss their business.
Taking her cue from Thomas with one of his famous winks, Nara suggested that Daniele and she go to the powder room. Again Thomas could instantly see it had infuriated the young starlet who had spent the entire dinner flirting with both him and Steve not to mention enjoying the attention of her fans, if not offering much on the subjects of general conversation.
But just as Daniele was about to decline, Steve backed up Nara by suggesting or ordering her to do so, depending on your point of view. Only then did the pretty teenager take the hint and did as she was told.
With the ladies out of earshot, the two men turned to business.
"Did McGiven take the bait?" Thomas asked as he sipped his chilled Sake.
"Because if the Chief of Staff hadn't taken the bait, then the both of them were going to have to come up some?other?another angle they might be able to use because for all your planning or planting of seeds, you just don't control an individual's understanding of the situation until it is presented to them," Thomas thought, using one of Homer's quotes on the aspects of human nature.
"Pretty much like you had said," Steve responded to the point at which, Thomas nodded and began to relax.
When the Mayor had first informed them of his desire for TLH to put forward the offer of a new Russian military base in Adwalland as part of his proposed infrastructure investment package into the new country by using the argument that it would support the Russian oil companies entering the region, Thomas had quickly grasped the dressed up offer for what it was: "Russia was re-entering the great game."
With the negotiations completed and the Memorandum of Understanding initialed and agreed with the Government and with the formal signing process to be completed in Borama after he had agreed the deal with the greedy minister on the yacht over the weekend, the only thing of the investment program that needed to be handled was the planned construction of the Russian Navy base on the coast of Africa's newest country.
At the meeting with the Mayor, he knew instantly why the Mayor had chosen him.
"Christ," Thomas had exclaimed. "It's like setting up shop in a 'surrogate' Cuba!"
"Yes, it could argue that it may not be ninety miles off the coast of America, but it may as well have been, with the Horn of Africa being one of the world's significant trading routes, has and sees eleven percent of the world's trade passing through it and by definition a 'choke point. Ukraine was only a test of resolve!" Thomas grimly thought.
Desperate not to be drawn into the political game, Thomas had started to argue that Gazprom as a state entity might be better placed to handle the offer of a military support. The Mayor had waved his hand dismissively as if irritated.
"Why do you think I have selected you, Fama!" he had said in English, with the use of Russian name instead of Thomas.
With a large shareholding in the U.S. media company sitting alongside his oil interests, it had quickly dawned on him why he was the chosen one. He was the perfect political proxy.
"I should have known! He knows full well that their great enemy isn't going allow a base a hundred and twenty miles away from their own one in Djibouti! Not without some kind of response, especially after the bloody nose he had given them in Syria and the Ukraine," Thomas had mused.
Having been put firmly in his place, Thomas then had known what this meant.
TLH and thereby him as the company's owner were about to become a piece on the Mayor's chessboard.
This meant Thomas was going to have to protect his position. If he did not then the collateral damage cost to his family and those who depend on him would be measured in billions of U.S. dollars.
Figuring he would at least try and be the one piece on?the?board that can escape from attack of a Queen, Thomas had formulated a plan.
Over the years, chess often acted as a sounding board in his strategizing when he started to think through a problem in business. It was something his father in one of their few moments of parental interaction had taught him when they holidayed at his estate outside Florence.
He still remembered that day like it was yesterday
"A knight can only move one square horizontally and two squares vertically or one square vertically and two squares horizontally, however its ability to move over the other pieces to a free square or capture the piece on that square makes the knight special," his father had said showing him the moves.
"In the best circumstances, Tommy," his father continued, "he can sidestep an attack." Again, he showed him the moves.
"A King moves one space in either direction so is limited in his movement, but he must be protected at all costs. A Queen is seen by many as the most powerful piece on the board, hence why it is always attacked or coveted as it reflects the power and strength," his father said smiling before he took a puff of his cigar. "A knight though, always has the ability to sidestep an attack and survive!" he stated through the smoke surrounding him.
"My friends, albeit unwitting
ly, are the Knights," Thomas decided. "A?controlled leak through Steve is the perfect way to kick start the backchannels," Thomas concluded. In his heart he hoped it would be political grandstanding but with recent state of relations between the two protagonists at recent all-time low it made sense to Thomas to try and have an insurance policy.
History taught Thomas that the world's conflicts were either started or ultimately stopped because men worked in the shadows of diplomacy and despite trying hard to avoid it, Thomas now found himself to be such a man.
"It will be just like when Kennedy used Scali in that role in the Cuban crisis in 1961 as the tensions, really started to rise," Thomas had said during his call to Steve while he was on the plane flying across Africa, referring to the famous news reporter who had acted as a back channel, as he was trying to convince Steve to use his contacts on his behalf.
"I have no doubt you will be able to earn yourself a lot of favors," he had offered as Thomas had continued his charm offensive, knowing full well his friend was thinking of a political career in the future, as it was something Steve had mentioned during their last dinner together.
In the Cuban crisis, the famous journalist had been rewarded with an Ambassadorship for service to his country, and as they took out their phones, Thomas wondered what reward his friend would seek.
Personally Thomas had never sought power or wealth though he readily accepted that it be could be argued he had both. His mantra was more akin to a quote he had once heard the late Margaret Thatcher say at Hereford during a visit to the base, to thank the men personally for their efforts in Northern Ireland: "Being powerful is like being a lady. If you have to tell people you are, you aren't."
Although she had used it as a sound bite to justify why their undercover work had to remain secret.
In Thomas's case he used it to justify his desire to survive.
Irrespective of your wealth and power, if you suddenly found yourself the target of a country's wrath above the line then you sure as hell not going to survive unless you had a piece of leverage, pure and simple.
When Steve had suggested it might be appropriate for him to call McGiven, to brief him on the background behind the deal, Thomas had quickly grasped at his friend's suggestion because it enabled three things.
Firstly, he knew that it would establish Steve's credentials as a potential backchannel that might be trusted by the State Department, if needed at some point. When his friend had recommended McGiven, he later admitted to himself after the call that it had gone better than he had hoped. For, until Steve had proposed McGiven himself, the best Thomas had hoped for was a high level introduction to somebody appropriate within the Administration.
This was high as it got: 'Two degrees of separation'.
Secondly, by involving his friend personally, Thomas knew that by playing to his ego as a CEO of a world media group, he was now a 'world player' in forging public opinion, not just feeding them the ideas of others. This meant that as long as he was smart and managed it carefully Thomas could pull the strings on the message and at the same time, ensure his overriding goal that being the protection of TLH's commercial position.
Lastly, though, on this part of his plan he couldn't be sure that there wasn't a?guarantee that anybody was listening, he was sending a signal to the Mayor that the ball was in play, thereby putting in place his survival goal of his plan.
His mind reflected on that last part of the plan for a few moments.
"Yes," he concluded. "It may be speculative to assume that SVR was monitoring all my communications just as it would be to assume that the National Security Organizations of the United States had been monitoring those calls but assume otherwise would be stupid."
So much so, it was something he shared with Steve. They had both taken their batteries out of their phones and placed them on the table before they started their update.
"One thing life's taught me," Thomas said as he opened up the back of the phone. "The day you stop attempting to work out what would the other side was going to do in their situation would either be your last day on earth or it will end up costing you money."
Steve laughed and then said, "One thing Snowden's affair has shown the world was that with the Cyber Intelligence Sharing and Protection Act allowing for the sharing of Internet traffic information between the U.S. government and technology and manufacturing companies it would be foolish not to assume that from the moment I called Joe McGiven, if not before, then all our communications together are going to be recorded and reviewed. So don't worry, I am on the same page, old buddy."
Thomas smiled at his friend. "Excellent Stevie! Welcome to the great game," he said, offering him a toast in response.
"Hell, Tommy," Steve replied as he picked up his drink. "If I pull this off I might even have a run at the Presidency myself one day!" he said, his ego rising to the surface as he tapped Thomas's sake shot with his own.
"Indeed," answered Thomas before he started to brief him on the next parts of the plan over the coming weeks.
He thought, "I might have guessed an Ambassadorship wouldn't cut it for the famous Steve Krivets!" in reference to the question he asked as he presented his idea.
Moments later, with heads turning in their direction from restaurant, scores of celebrity watchers of London, the 'jailbait' looking Daniele and his stunning life's companion walked back to join them.
"Stevie if you're really serious about being President one day you're certainly going have to give up 'pursuits' like that!" said Thomas in his best sage-like voice laced with a little humor.
"Yeah I know, buddy, but just not yet!" he laughed while offering his friend another toast.
Returning to the table, having changed places with Daniele so she could sit next him, Nara took his hand and he instantly responded with a little squeeze of his own, his signal he had finished his business for the evening.
Allowing normal conversation to resume until the meal ended with both Titans having a mock fight as who paid the bill. The honor fell to Steve.
"Keep in touch," he said to Steve as they hugged each other.
"I will, buddy," Steve responded as they left the restaurant together, but not before each man's various protection teams took up their anti-threat positions, to allow their charges to get into their various limos as the blinding wall of light from the awaiting paparazzi lit up the night again.
Awake, having looked at the clock by the side of the bed and seeing that it was seven o'clock, Thomas quickly realized that he had only three hours sleep. Getting up, despite his body telling him not to, as he had a meeting at ten with the Prime Minister, he slid quietly from beneath the linen sheets trying hard not to disturb the sleeping Nara knowing she was not due to fly to Nice until midday.
Glancing over at her face, he took a moment to reflect on the night before. An intense bout of lovemaking had taken place after getting home from the restaurant. Demanding and passionate, it reminded him of their time in Venice when they created Victoria together.
They hadn't wasted any time on their return home, once inside their bedroom, tearing at the dress like a possessed man, wasting the thirty thousand U.S. dollars in the process but not caring as he made love to Nara.
The rest of the night was as just as frenzied and passionate while they attacked each other. On and on, it went with him exploding each time as his beautiful wild love controlled him.
"Yep," he told himself as he shook his head with a broad smile. "I am a blessed man!" He caressed her long hair gently.
Leaving their bed quietly, he slipped through the dressing room straight on through to the bathroom; automatically the lights came on as the sensors picked up on his body movement. Reaching the sink, he grabbed the can of shaving gel, stretched, turned on the tap, lathered up his face, and started to shave. As he did so, he thought about his imminent meeting with the Prime Minister.
Ruminating that it is never the easiest of jobs leading a coalition, Thomas concluded it was because P
M always ended up sounding like he was delivering a sound bite from a PowerPoint presentation and also, in no small part, due to the fact he was a product of a privileged education having gone to Eton and Oxford, that the PM struggled in presenting himself as a man of the people.
Each time he did he just ended up sounding like a British First World War officer ordering his men over the top of the trenches and then onto their deaths.
It was the Mayor who ensured Thomas used the first part of his conclusion to their mutual benefit having told him the KGB had tried to recruit him once when he was nineteen on a visit to the Soviet Union knowing he was from the political elite of England and on his way to Oxford. That attempt ultimately failed because he wasn't a traitor in the traditional sense of the word.
When the Mayor became President, he chose to use his National Champions allies in England to cultivate him this time by using commerce and political self-interest as the tools of choice.
"Almost like Satan in John Milton's Paradise Lost," Thomas suddenly thought chuckling to himself as the razor glided over his chin.
Ambitious, principled, driven, not to mention a family man, the Mayor had told Thomas over a dinner that he actually quite liked him before ordering him to help him through his media interests.
Following his instructions to the letter Thomas proceeded to do just that in subtle ways until the man finally sat in front of him in the China Tang's Private Room located in the famous Dorchester Hotel as the Leader of the Opposition.
Described as the "Leader in Waiting," it hadn't taken much for him to make a deal with him over his media's support for the next four years leading up to the General Election: just the promise that TLH agenda received full access to his ministers and support from him whenever they requested it.
"You have to hand it to the Mayor. He was right, the National Champions are the best recruitment team of the Special Services of Russia!" he sadly concluded looking at himself in the mirror.
His second country's interests were now well and truly established in his first country's institutions of the City and Whitehall, that was something the Soviet Union never achieved in it is eighty years of existence despite the nest of assets they had in the security services and civil service, and reinforced by the fact that for the first time since the Special Relationship had begun Britain hadn't followed the U.S. into a conflict by the way the PM had allowed the MPs of his party to vote against Syria.
"Rumpelstiltskin always gets his due, old chap," Thomas thought chuckling to himself over the comparison of the Mayor to the famous children's fable.
That said, the fact, that "repayment" happened to suit the Federal Republic of Russia's interests and not that of the United States of America, the traditional ally of the United Kingdom, was neither here or there.
Finished shaving he stretched again, feeling his old wounds in the process throb in the process. He turned on the cold tap very briefly to wash away the remains of his shadow mixed with the shaving cream and to wake him up, then turned to the power shower and stepped in.
As the water roared out hitting his body, he reflected again on his life. More and more he was beginning to feel like Achilles. Like many of the Oligarchs who had taken the wealth of Russia's soil, he had become the instrument of the Mayor. He just wondered if his own particular heel would kill him one day.
"If I get this wrong, it will!" he concluded as his mind went over what he needed from the meeting that was due to place in a few hours' time.
The warm water jets were exceptionally relaxing against his skin, though he had little to relax from at this precise moment-he had, after all, apart from the views whirling in his head just had a bout of passionate and stress-relieving sex with his amazing woman followed by a short, deep sleep.
He was so wrapped up by his thoughts he had not noticed the figure of Nara enter the bathroom until she spoke.
"Morning, my Thomas," she said through a giggle, her smile widening as she watched him turn his head slowly back towards her with his own smile.
"Morning beautiful," he said with his own naughty glint in his eye.
"You're up early. Do you have to be somewhere, darling?" she asked innocently, earning a response that he did although not telling her who with.
"Then why didn't you wake me?" she said as a siren to a sailor, wrapping her hand around the large silver handle set into the glass shower door making clear her intention to join him. "I need to shower too, my love," she further added as she stepped in.
Seeing his devilish eyes twinkle with amusement, she laughed as she shut the door behind her.
"It certainly looks like I'm not the only one happy that I've joined you my Thomas," she murmured looking at the stirring taking place below as her hand went about weaving its magic as the water hit them both.
11
Venice 2001
The weekend they conceived Victoria was in many ways one of few moments in their life together when Thomas and Nara actually felt like an everyday couple losing themselves in romance like the rest of tourists that visited Venice over the ages. It was a time when they believed it was for it was just for them, and nobody else.
His exotic creature of Central Asia had been with him two years or as she preferred to tell him, "Allah had sent him to save her," rather dramatically.
He had just received his knighthood, something he knew would have pleased his mother if she had lived and though Thomas and Nara's relationship had certainly grown, it wasn't until what she said in the car on the way back from Buckingham Palace to him that he actually realized what she meant to him notwithstanding their many passionate moments together.
Up until that moment he had been convinced she masked her emotions from him, something he thought was a direct consequence of her former profession.
"Your Mama would have proud, my Thomas," she had said, looking at him tears forming in her eyes, her black kohl mascara running.
"Of what?" he had responded teasing her.
"Of seeing her son and the love of my life being made a Knight of the Realm by your great lady, of course!" she had replied her feelings hurt giving him the look of an innocent child.
"So I am your love of life?" he had teased again causing her to look at him with even more shock and horror because he questioned her statement.
"A-l-w-a-y-s, my Thomas" she had responded continuing to show her shock that he would think otherwise.
"My God! She means it!" he had thought, feeling guilty for teasing her.
Putting his arm around her as a way of an apology Thomas kissed her gently on lips before allowing his mind to drift for a few moments.
He knew he loved her. It was just that he was having trouble getting his head around the fact she was so young and he was sixteen years older than her.
"But he had made a vow," Thomas had decided. "Vows are never broken!" he had admonished himself.
"I would like to take you to Venice this weekend just you and me nobody else," he had said suddenly.
"I would like that, my darling," Nara had answered
The person who didn't was Mikhail. He went ballistic when Thomas had told him of his intentions. The two of them argued heavily over it.
"It's not bloody Moscow!" retorted Thomas.
"No, it's worse. It is the land of the Mafia!" replied Mikhail.
In the end he reached a compromise with Mikhail insisting that he would carry his Glock pistol at all times, and the team though not following them, would remain on station in Venice and out of sight.
Having arrived at midday and now on the launch, he took in the face of the young woman he had sworn to protect as she saw Venice for the first time, as through the mist and half sunlight the beautiful city appeared.
To many, the city is at its best when the high water known by the locals as "Acqua alta" takes away the decay floating around the city.
"Thomas, it is so beautiful!" she said excitedly.
"Not as beautiful as you my darling," he said taking her han
d.
Turning towards him, her lovely jet-black hair drifting in the light wind from the Adriatic she pulled him into her. She kissed him forcibly on the lips, her saltiness tasting to him like honey.
"I love you, my Darling!" she said with a smile as their long kiss ended.
That afternoon, no guards, no demands, just Nara and him like two young lovers, he showed her around the Venice of his youth that despite the tourists, never seems to change. When he last visited the floating city just after the First Gulf War to take up a position as a researcher for his former professor at Oxford who was writing a book, , he was a broken and bitter young man by what he felt was a betrayal by the politicians of him and his men when they had left them to die.
"I want to you meet a very special person," he said as they walked hand in hand.
Taking her to an old church of the San Martino, he presented to the man who, with his kindliness and reflective advice had brought him back from the edge and set Thomas on the road to become the man he now was.
A charmingly cluttered parish church, built in the Renaissance Period, was located on a canal in Castello not far from the Arsenale. The church wasn't listed in most guidebooks probably because it doesn't have any famous masterpieces, but Thomas had loved it for its art including some modern twentieth century works mixed in with the old which ranged from the Byzantine to Baroque periods and, he had further explained to her as they walked together, that the church always felt less of a museum more like an active part of the neighborhood.
"Like our Mosques back home," Nara responded trying to show him she understood.
"Yes, Darling," he answered with a smile followed by passionate kiss, their tenth of the day, and again earning a "Bella Bambina" or "Molto benne" in admiration from the male Italian residents of Venice every time he did.
Walking into the Church he immediately spotted Father Umberto Amersini.
He caught sight of Thomas at the same time and quickly walked briskly towards him beaming and shouting out loud, "Thomas! It is so good to see you again my son," he said in Italian to him as they hugged each other.
"So many years! Tell me have you beaten your demon, my son?" He looked at him with a quizzical eye before answering his own question. "I think he lies only dormant, my son!" he concluded almost sage like.
Changing the subject before the old priest had time to question him further, the former researcher cum billionaire introduced Nara to him. The old man smiled as he took her in.
"I can see though you have captured his heart, La Signorina! Such a beautiful woman, Thomas you're a lucky man," he said as he now took and then kissed her hand.
Watching Nara blush as she thanked the priest, he had to agree with his old friend who still had a twinkle in his eye despite his vows.
Thomas, having decided to spend the rest of the afternoon with the priest and with Umberto holding court telling her things about him that even Mikhail didn't know, watched on, falling in love with her once more as she listened, warmly smiled, and laughed over coffee and cake.
On returning to the hotel, Nara made him wait by refusing him the honor of taking her in the shower instead she insisted that he went first, dress for dinner, and wait to take her out. As he entered the bathroom he decided if somewhat reluctantly to follow her orders, she then smacked his bottom.
"Bad Thomas!" she chastised him.
When he came out, he tried to make a move towards her again, but before he could grab her Nara ran past him into the bathroom and locked the door behind her to the sound of her saying, "Niet! Naughty, naughty!"
He laughed loudly.
Foiled! He set about drying himself, put on some cologne from Aqua din Pinna, his favorite from the small perfumery in Florence, his underwear, and then his linen tailored white shirt followed by his sky blue linen trousers. He pulled his holster personally designed to fit discreetly with a Glock pistol in it over his shoulder, around his side, just as Mikhail had insisted. He donned his tailored linen jacket to hide it.
As he made his Bombay Martini with a drop of bitters from the drinks tray, Thomas pondered Umberto's final words of the afternoon.
"Thomas, promise me you will control the Demon for if you don't he will consume your soul one day," he said referring to Thomas's determination to use power as a way to punish the injustice in his life he felt that had been committed to him and those he was charged to lead and protect.
"Remember, my son, rather than providing closure, he does the opposite, keeps the wound open and fresh by taking those things you value most treasured!"
Thomas had replied back with a wry smile as he always did when they debated all those years previously when he had shared his plans to travel to Russia.
"Yes, Father and when presented with a Gordian knot, one slashes it," he replied using the reference of the famous legend that the man who could untie the knot was destined to rule the entire world. When Alexander was presented with it, he had slashed it with his sword and unraveled it and conquered the known world.
Umberto rolled his eyes at Thomas's use of the legend of Alexander as a justification that one shouldn't walk away from a fight of honor whatever the cost.
"Just make sure you find peace one day and give that young lady of yours, a child," Umberto ordered before forcibly kissing him on both cheeks with a firm grip.
A half hour later as he sat lost in his thoughts slipping his chilled Martini listening to the sounds of Venice mixing with the classic music of Bach's Cello suite No.1 being played softly from the musicians on the terrace bar below, Nara entered the room. She took his breath away yet again, just like she had done two years ago in Oleg's club, except this time she wasn't dressed for sin but instead she was a young elegant, classy woman. As his eyes wandered all over her, he was sure she would have matched in looks the lost painting by Aetion of Roxanne, the chief wife of Alexander the Great who was described as the most beautiful woman in all of Asia by historians.
With her light naturally olive complexion, long flowing jet-black hair brushed into a ponytail, so it sat down the front of her left breast, she wore no lipstick, just eye shadow in doing so emphasizing her dark brown eyes. She completed the spell by wearing a long flowing dress with a single Chanel top, with a Gucci charm bracelet on her wrist.
Standing up he smiled looked into her eyes and was mesmerized.
"How do I look, my Thomas?" she asked.
He replied in Italian that she was breathtakingly beautiful as he held open his hand for her to take, earning a smile from her even though she had no idea what he said until he translated it in Turkmen for her.
He took her to a small restaurant in the shady lanes behind Ponte delle Tette (Tit's Bridge) and sat in a corner so he could have sight of the exits, old habits dying hard, not to mention Mikhail's orders ringing in his ears. They ordered antipasti to start, for the entree Nara ordered filetto di San Pietro while he ordered Risotto al nero sepia accompanied with a beautiful bottle of Brunello di Montalcino for them to share.
They chattered about everything and nothing while they waited for main courses to arrive. Looking into her smoldering eyes, he slipped his hand behind her neck and drew her closer where he kissed on her mouth. It was a slow kiss and gentle.
"My beautiful darling," he whispered into her ear as he attempted to feel her breasts.
"Naughty! Naughty!" she said playfully spanking hand in admonishment.
The rest of dinner was interrupted with lots of looks of love, plans for the new yacht, and fingers intertwining as they had their coffee and shared a Gelato before he paid the bill and they left the restaurant.
As they walked back to the hotel along the streets, a massive downpour arrived just as they reached Piazza di San Marco.
Standing under the arches with her under his arms watching the rain come down Thomas murmured, "I better ring the hotel and ask them to bring the Wellington Boots darling the flood is coming!"
About ten minutes later, instead of a hotel porter turning up Mikh
ail and one of his men rolled up with the boots and a couple of umbrellas.
"I thought you said I would be alone Mikhail?" Thomas said towards him slightly displeased that his bit of escapism was over.
"I lied!" Mikhail replied smiling, not a touch of remorse in sight.
"Well, I hope you brought Hanna with you to Venice!" Thomas said, not letting him off the hook.
"Yes, I hope you did as well Mikhail," Nara said in support of him. Though Hanna and Nara were from different worlds, they had become good friends.
"Yes! Yes! Of course I did, it was the only way she would let me come!" he replied in mock shock.
As they looked at Mikhail with him shaking his head, the string quartet started playing for the patrons of the tourist restaurants around the Piazza.
"I'm glad to be spending this moment with you, my love," Nara said before turning to look up at him.
"Me too, my darling girl," he whispered as he leaned down and kissed her ear.
Taking over the party Nara invited Mikhail, Hanna, and Yossi, his man, for a nightcap at the hotel as they waited for the rain to cease.
Once it had lightened enough, the pair of them with Mikhail and Ari his new member of their protection team trailing behind them walked to a pier near the Palazzo Ducale , at that moment, a streak of lightning flew across the sky. Thomas wondered if it were his lightning bolt!
On reaching the Danieli on the Grand Canal, they had their nightcap with Hanna, Mikhail, and Yossi with lots of joyful laughter ringing around the small bar and then bid them goodnight they retired to their suite. Once in the lift Thomas had pressed her up against the wall and let his hands roam freely as he had kissed her.
"I love you, Nara!" he said passionately.
"My love," she whispered back, her eyes stoned with love.
Upon entering the suite, they quickly shed their clothes. Thomas went slowly to kiss her.
"My Thomas, please!" Nara screamed at the top of her voice not wanting the slow build up.
Holding her gaze staring into her eyes with one long push into her, Thomas did as Nara demanded.
"I love you, my beautiful Nara," he said as he felt her contract around him, an action that enabled him to feel the shudders that were rampaging through her body. She whispered his name as over and over using it as a whip to make him drive into her, so when they came together which they did quickly and with the spontaneity of their love, created their beloved Victoria.
12
London -Present Day
Arriving approximately thirty minutes before the meeting with the Prime Minister, Thomas and his security entourage walked down Parliament Street until they reached and entered a little coffee shop known as Caf? Churchill.
Unlike its high street competitors, the coffee shop was old-fashioned, had no internet, and yet to this day was the place where most of the world's movers and shakers always met before a pre-meeting at Downing Street, just as Thomas and his entourage were about do.
As they entered the cafe, a tall man in his sixties stood up and greeted them.
Brigadier Angus Mackintosh, standing poker straight and well over six-feet tall, was certainly a person who met the description of former British Army Officer. He was dressed in his grey pinstriped tailored suit, highly polished black leather shoes, and his Guard's tie, providing him the blessed appearance of a leader of men.
Thomas, as a young officer during his tour with the regiment had always respected him for his cool leadership style. Certainly one not to play politics, as he was the man who recommended him for his Military Cross and fought for and tried to force his political masters to recognize his men's bravery right up until he retired.
He had joined the board of TLH after a stint in the Royal Omani Brigade of Guards to provide a necessary respected 'back-door' between the British Government and Thomas.
"Hello, Dear Boy," Angus said warmly crushing Thomas's hand in the process.
"Late night, Tommy?" he immediately enquired, spotting Thomas's eyes and earning a cheeky smile from his charge in return. Almost as if was the old days.
"Always, Brig," Thomas replied for he never called him Angus out of respect.
While Mikhail got an espresso for the both of them, his other bodyguards took up their positions either side of them.
"So are you sure the PM is going to go for this, old chap?" Angus asked.
"Well, Brig, it not just me that needs this so does Britain. The potential oil reserves under little Adwalland should ensure Britain's requirements are met for the next fifty years," Thomas began. "I do recognize though that it's a tough pill to swallow having old Ivan acting as the security guarantee!" he continued as Mikhail arrived with the strong black, rich Italian coffees the caf? was famous for.
"Mmmm," the old solider replied. He wasn't completely convinced of his former prot?g?'s synopsis, yet he kept wise counsel while they finished their coffee and enquired about each other's family.
Coffees finished, the five of them left the small caf? and walked down the busy Parliament Street for about a minute before crossing the road to Downing Street. Mikhail and the security team, armed with Tasers and batons, had to wait outside.
Once the reception officer had confirmed their identification, the former Special Forces officers walked through the security gates and down the road to Number 10.
Arriving outside in a matter of moments and as if by magic the door opened before they could knock. Met a female aide she proceeded to take them to the garden room at the back of the building that overlooked a small courtyard.
As they made themselves comfortable, both men refused the offer of tea or coffee from the lady while they waited for the PM to see them. They didn't have to wait long.
Minutes later, the door opened allowing the PM, followed by his Personal Private Secretary, the Foreign Secretary, and to ensure the public demands for greater transparency, the official minute taker to walk in.
"Sir Thomas, so very good to see you," the Prime Minister said in his crisp Etonian tones offering his hand to introduce himself.
Aware that, with the minute taker in the room, no reference should be made to their previous meeting in the Dorchester when he was in Opposition and understanding that the PM's diary with commercial interests was now "matter of public record," and having been briefed by Angus not to mention their previous meeting, Thomas took his hand firmly in return and politely greeted him.
At the start, the meeting went pretty much as expected with bland questions being asked by the PM and his aides and equally non-committal answers from both Angus and Thomas being received. This was created purely for any nosey reporters looking for tidbits in the official minutes.
Then after ten minutes with a single nod towards the minute taker, the men watched as the young man left the room only to be replaced by an attractive woman in her early forties.
"Thomas Litchfield," Thomas said offering his hand, beating the Prime Minister to the punch.
"Sir Thomas," the woman said taking it while turning towards the Foreign Secretary to lead the way to introduce her.
"Elizabeth, good of you join us," the Foreign Secretary said taking his cue as he gestured for her to sit down, where upon they all quickly followed suit as well.
Taking in her appearance, Thomas thought she was extremely attractive indeed. She had piercing green eyes and long auburn colored hair. The standard high street dark blue business suit concealed her long slender body gave her a height of ,he guessed, at five-foot-nine-inches and since she hadn't introduced herself, he quickly surmised that it meant she was from the Intelligence Services so he waited for the PPS to confirm it.
"Elizabeth is from our Security Services, gentleman," he said before continuing. "As this part of the meeting is privy to the Official Secrets Act, and a DA notice to reflect Elizabeth's presence I will be taking the minutes," he added. The DA notice meant anything discussed could never be reported on and could be removed from the public eye.
Nodding their agre
ement in return, the PM gave his permission to Elizabeth to start. As she did, it suddenly dawned on Thomas he had met her before.
"Sir Thomas, it has been made aware to us that your reasons for this investment may be linked less to your commercial interests, and more to the requirements of men of your position on the other passport you hold are required to deliver?" she said as both a statement and a question in an oblique reference to his citizenship of, and the National Champions policy of Russia, getting straight to the point.
"Yes Elizabeth, that scenario could be easily presented," Thomas replied without hesitation having expected it.
"We would like you to explain why you think it is vital that the British Government should support your proposed investment plan and not to mention provide its formal recognition of the Russian Government's intention to build a Naval base less than hundred and twenty miles away from the Americans in Djibouti?" she continued.
He crossed his legs and relaxed and did just that for the next forty-five minutes during a question and answer discussion as Elizabeth, the PM, and the Foreign Secretary probed him hard on the benefits versus the negatives of the erosion of United States and British security relationship that would most likely outcome from such an action and how it would help the long-term interests of Britain. It was a tough sell; Thomas could see everybody was less than convinced but knowing his hour was almost up, nonetheless he decided to go for broke.
"If Britain is going to maintain its Energy Security position then its needs to do it by allowing Joint Ventures of this nature, for if it vocally opposed to them then our country's major Nature Resource companies can kiss goodbye the prospect of cheap power from Russian related interests." He paused to take a drink of water. "Britain just cannot afford the cost of taking a neutral position, Prime Minister," he continued.
"How do you know this Thomas?" the Foreign Secretary queried.
"The President of Russia, unfortunately, made it abundantly clear to me in our last meeting," Thomas said delivering the Mayor's back channel message somewhat more diplomatically than when the man had actually said it.
The room was silent for a moment whilst it grimly absorbed his statement.
The UK, whether it liked it or not, was the slave of the natural resources of Russia and Asia and as such it had to always tread a tightrope in how it engaged above the line with them whilst not appearing as allowing them to walk all over them in front of the Americans who fuelled the Private Equity of the British Economy. The problems of Ukraine remained fresh in both politician's minds. The prices of Natural Gas had spiked by ten percent in the months following the crisis, as Russia punished Europe for the sanctions they had placed on them.
The threat, masked as intelligence, that Thomas had just delivered them was a bitter pill to swallow, as it meant they would be facing additional Energy costs rises as they approached the general election.
Thinking on his feet, the PM closed the meeting with a request in very simple straightforward terms so he could take advantage of the DA notice.
"If Her Majesty Government agrees to support Russia's security proposal to safeguard joint investment interests in this part of East Africa," he paused before continuing, "I assume your media interests will be fully briefed?" He was referring to what he needed from TLH with respect to positive media for his Party in the next general election in return for his government's support of his interests.
"Of course, Prime Minister," Thomas replied without hesitation as he stared into the eyes of Elizabeth, having noticed she was somewhat uncomfortable over the misuse of the meeting for political capital instead of Her Majesty's nation's security. As he did so, he remembered where they had met.
Born of Algerian Jewish extraction whose grandparents moved to London in the twenties, Rebecca Leiris was forty-four years old, a graduate of Bristol in International Relations where she had achieved a First, and was recruited as a spy after applying for a position in the Foreign Office, only to be offered the opportunity to work in SIS half way through her interview. Never looking back, she truly loved her work and her country.
She had never married due to the nature of work or had any long term trusting relationships much to her parents' despair and who to this day still didn't know she worked in SIS as they thought she worked in the Foreign Office as an undersecretary.
Only her brother knew, as her next of kin, what she really did, and they had never told their parents, knowing they would worry nonstop if they did. A specialist in Russian affairs she had first come across Thomas Litchfield, as he was then, in the early nineties when she had been placed at the Embassy as part of the British Council and the British Ambassador had introduced them at a party under her real name. This had happened because her work at that time was merely analytical, and as such a Non Official Cover (NOC) identity wasn't needed.
Intrigued by his flawless Russian, not to mention his rakish looks she checked him out only to find out that he was a decorated former ex-Special Forces British Army officer with some very interesting links to certain people emerging and making their fortunes in Yeltsin-led Russia.
They had never met again despite him ringing her to ask for a date, which she had turned down due to his rather exotic business interests. Instead, she had placed him on SIS watch list.
Over the years, Rebecca had watched him grow into an immensely powerful man with his tentacles reaching way beyond anything she imagined.
To her, Thomas, with a Russian child, Turkmen mistress, and most importantly the fact that Putin had granted him Russian Citizenship considering him an instrument of his new Russia to the extent that he had used him to deliver the threat, appeared to represent everything she most feared.
"Above the law, able to move within the corridors of power at will and a person who even had the PM of the realm she was sworn to protect appearing to ask him for favors!"
As the meeting broke up, Thomas followed his instincts that for some unbeknownst reason was convinced that Elizabeth held the key to his endeavor, not the Foreign Secretary.
"Elizabeth, you are most welcome to have a cup of tea anytime you want with me if you feel it would help" he offered.
"Thank you, Sir Thomas. On behalf of service I fully appreciate the offer," the Foreign Secretary answered for her before she had a chance to.
"Excellent, that's settled then I am sure we can leave the both of you to work out the proper place for the meeting," said the PM laughing because he was actually quite pleased with himself over the fact that he just gotten an important endorsement from one of the country's most famous media barons for his run-up to the next General Election.
Once on the road having left the building, Thomas turned towards his Executive Chairman.
"Brig, can you get everything on Rebecca Leiris please?" he asked
"Who the devil is that dear boy?" Angus asked
"The attractive lady you just met," Thomas replied nonplussed to the shocked former Brigadier.
"I am not going ask!" Angus replied with a chuckle as they walked back up Downing Street to join Mikhail and the team outside the British Empire's gates of power.
Whilst waiting in the lounge at the TAG Aviation's private airport at Farnborough Airport to travel to Nice on one of the TLH's G-4's so she could organize The Libertine for the weekend, Nara's mind began to wander as she looked at the guest list and the requirements.
When Thomas had first told her of the new role as the Executive Manager, all those years ago he said it was merely so he could bring her to England but when she found what "The Libertine" was, she had seen it as another sign.
"Allah was truly merciful," and that he was her guardian.
The yacht "The Libertine" was her favorite place in the world when the passengers were only Thomas, Victoria, and herself.
Earlier Victoria had made Nara happy when she told her that she was starting to like the school in Somerset that Thomas had insisted that their baby went to, despite Nara's forcible objections otherwise.
She missed her baby terribly and couldn't wait to see her again.
Although she was protected 24/7 by one of Mikhail's teams she always worried that someone would take her most precious gift from God, and having seen the effort by the childlike Jelep of Stevie only the night before as she attempted to flirt with Thomas her mind begun to wrestle with the realization that as she was getting older, her sell-by date was fast approaching.
"No," she decided that wasn't going to happen.
She was determined to protect her and Victoria's place in his life.
"I will not let Victoria's position come under threat from the day he would give in to his natural desires with the inevitable result being the introduction of a son from the liaison with a younger woman," she resolved as the Captain arrived in the waiting room to advise that they could now take off.
So as the plane taxied down the runway she first prayed to Allah that he would bless her again with a son for "Her Thomas," then refocused her mind on the weekend, and the African Minister they were to have as a guest.
As Thomas walked into his office and greeted Louise, his secretary, he took in her short cream skirt and matching blouse with her hair up in the process. He smiled at her and then commented that he thought she looked lovely which instantly earned him a blushing thank you from her in return.
Before Nara entered his life, he had been very much the typical description of a rake in the traditional sense of the word with a reputation as a lothario that would have put Don Juan to shame. But that was then and this was now. That didn't mean though he didn't like to flirt and look from time to time,
Telling Louise he didn't wish to be disturbed until one o'clock, Thomas sat down at his desk and gathered his thoughts from the morning.
Feeling his phone buzzing he pulled it out and seeing it was a text from his daughter he opened it.
"Love you daddy enjoy the L this weekend!" it said.
"I see she spoke to her mother this morning!" he replied out loud with a shake of his head.
Looking at his watch, he realized that his daughter had sent this note in a lesson covertly.
"I will call you after prep lessons young lady!" he ordered.
He received an immediate reply of, "Sorry D xxx."
When he had told Nara he felt the time was right for her to go boarding school they had fought tooth and nail over the decision.
"N-o, m-y T-h-o-m-a-s?PLEASE NIET?do not send my baby away?I B-E-G YOU!" she had pleaded in broken English and Russian like she always did when under stress with tears flowing from her eyes.
She had delivered her wails with such distress Thomas almost backed down and gave in to her before sticking to his guns because he was absolutely convinced that their daughter would have a more rounded education with some level normality.
The point was he had never even considered becoming a father until his little girl was delivered into his arms and now the little girl and her mother were the center of everything he did in his life and would always remain so.
Even his father, the infamous head of one London's oldest and biggest private Merchant Banks, had sent him a note of congratulations, despite the fact they hadn't spoken since he left Oxford. Stating only, "Well done! Your mother would be proud! Always, Rufus." And although he had kept the note all these years it he had never responded back to the old bastard.
His thoughts moved back to Nara, it wasn't lost on him that she had recently started to become more and more insecure despite him telling her there would never be anybody else. Of course, the direct benefit of this for him was their recent love making-it was almost as if she were using sex to make sure his eye didn't wander.
"Maybe I should ask her if she would like have another child," he mused sensing her insecurities were possibly a direct link to her own troubled relationship with her father and of more terrifyingly the life she was forced to lead before he entered her life.
As he waited for the laptop to come to life he confessed to himself that over the last year or so he had begun to worry about Victoria's future.
He expected his 'Plum,' as he thought of her, and who was fast becoming a younger version of mother with every passing day, to run the TLH Group, a company currently worth sixty billion U.S. dollars by herself one day.
"It just isn't fair," he reflected as he made a decision that he hoped would rectify it.
He just hoped Nara felt the same as he returned to his paperwork in readiness of a meeting with the technical team of his Oil and Gas division.
The walk back to her office on 18 Old Queen Street took Rebecca just under eight minutes. As she was technically an officer working under "NOC," meaning Non-Official Cover, she wasn't located in the imposing building overlooking the Thames. Instead, her office, located in Westminster, was surrounded with small legal firms and lobbyists who had no idea that their neighbors, were the Near East Desk's operations desk of MI6
As she walked, she mused over the problem she potentially faced with Litchfield. He knew her real identity. A conclusion she had reached by the way Thomas had looked at her. If she reported it up the line she would have been immediately removed from the scene and having spent the last six years watching him and suspecting that he was a traitor, she certainly wasn't going to allow that to happen.
"I need to meet him!" she silently told herself.
On entering the office, she sat down at her desk, started her desktop computer, entered her password, and then pulled up his extensive file. As she did so, her boss Michael Barnes walked in.
He was a tall black man of second generation West Indian descent, fifty-two years old, wearing the sort of clothing you would expect to find in any Next or M&S of a simple dark blue blazer, white shirt, with a red tie and trousers with a black pair of black shoes. He was married with two teenage children, a house in Maidenhead, and a product of the State school system having gone to school in Reading, before going on to Guildford where he studied Business Studies.
After gaining a First, he then applied on a whim to the Civil Service only to be like Rebecca diverted into SIS. Together over the years they had served all over the world.
"I hear the meeting with the PM turned into a bit of love-in," he said.
"Oh yes, I thought he was going to beg at one stage!" Rebecca replied uncharitably with a smile making reference to the PM taking advantage of the notice to ask for a media endorsement.
"Just be careful; the DG wants this handled with kid gloves" he said, ever the politician. "If he is an agent rather than a messenger of Ivan we will need to advise the FS. If he isn't and we get this wrong then the fallout would be disastrous for us!"
Rebecca looked at him one more time, but didn't say anything as he got up and walked out of her office. She knew the stakes more than anyone.
The African investment although important from a trade perspective and of course to the United States whose interests in the area were dead set against the growth of Russian influence in the Horn of Africa was secondary as far as the SIS were concerned. The real threat they were concerned about was whether the major contributor to the different political parties of the United Kingdom represented a clear and present danger to the 'Defense of the Realm' with his ability to mold and form policy. If he was an SVR asset then his reach and influence could have serious implications. The fact he had a Russian passport should have been enough for them all at the SIS in usual circumstances. Still, the game had changed dramatically over the last twenty years; ideology trumped by financial power throughout the fabric of society every time and when aligned alongside his outstanding military record from when he had served in the British Army meant that nobody wanted to risk sending it up the chain that he was suspect.
Being the service experts on the Oligarchs, Rebecca's department had been tasked to rubber stamp him one way or another. The more political animals of the service considered it a poisoned chalice, so stayed away relieved it was not on their desk.
Get it wrong and it would
be career suicide with a posting to the Congo, Michael had warned when giving her the task.
As she stared back at his rakish features on the desktop, Rebecca took the decision to use the high ground.
"Strike while the iron is hot!" she told herself with determination.
The phone buzzing on the desk interrupted Thomas's thoughts. On pushing the button he was greeted by his assistant's crisp voice.
"Sir Thomas, sorry to bother you I have a Mrs. Elizabeth Field from the Home Office on the line."
"Put her through please," he replied without hesitation.
Greeting her politely and choosing not to reveal that he knew her real name as he knew the call would be recorded her end and was almost certainly being monitored by SVR, he arranged to meet her for a coffee at Connaught around the corner from his office at three just before heading off to Nice.
As he put the phone down he reflected, "That was quick!"
In the back of his mind, Thomas had suspected that the charade of this morning's meeting was actually about two things.
For the PM, it was getting his covert support for him as the election approached. That was positive because it showed him that the British government would at worst take a neutral position with respect to the Adwalland deal. Something he would "pass" up the line to Moscow at a suitable moment.
For the SIS, he initially assumed it was to report back to the Americans under the terms of their shared intelligence platform, but it wasn't until Rebecca brought up his discreet Russian passport granted by the Mayor all those years ago to test his reaction did he realize what they really concerned about: that he was an enemy agent of the Special Services of Russia.
He pondered on that thought for a moment. He had considered the passport of limited importance. A mere piece of theatre created by the Mayor all those years ago to justify his expectation of his continued loyalty and ensure that he knew his place within the political fabric he had created within Russia.
Most of the time the bloody thing sat in the safe at Holland Park except of course whenever he traveled into Russia and the former Republics of the Soviet Union.
To the SIS, he summarized it appeared it was much more important, something he had gauged by the approach of her questions.
The appearance of Rebecca in the sitting room at Downing Street had been a pleasant surprise.
The years had treated her well as far Thomas was concerned, she was now even more elegant and beautiful than when he last saw her all those years ago in Moscow, of course only then he didn't know she was in fact, a young officer of the SIS. As he remembered about that moment he smiled,?it pleased him his photographic memory never failed him.
His wandering mind's attention moved back to his inbox. Seeing an email from Angus in reference to her, he opened it. Reading it, he noted that she had never married, had a private life, which couldn't be at best described as a threat to national security as none of her recent lovers actually knew what she did. He also noted with a chuckle that she was considered the expert in the service on the Oligarchs.
"That explains a lot!" he thought out loud before continuing with his reading.
A rotation in Iraq as a support member in the 'Green Zone,' keeping an eye on the contractors then a placement in Nairobi monitoring the area in the early 2006 showed him that she was highly thought of in the service.
His mind returned to the fact she had never married and then to a collection of newspapers reports that were attached as files.
It appeared that one of her lovers, the man she planned to marry, was a member of the Red Cross and had been tragically killed in Somalia when his Land Rover had driven over a landmine.
The death of her fianc?e he guessed had to be linked to her career, an assumption he reached by its lack of reference of him in Angus's notes.
"Nice to see some secrets are still kept!" he concluded.
Experience told him that Rebecca had to enjoy the power of knowledge. In her work it was a function that was an essential prerequisite, for him he considered it a weakness.
It was then he decided that he would use to his advantage as he tested her this afternoon over afternoon tea. Bored, he skimmed the rest of the notes that were pretty standard on her background in terms of family and friends.
Truth be known he was actually quite disappointed that Angus could get that much information within an hour from former colleagues on a dedicated officer who had served faithfully her country in spite of the lack of background on the death of the one person that she appeared to be close to.
Closing the file down he reflected about the stepped up interested in him again by the SIS. The simple fact was though he wasn't a fully paid up agent of the SVR he was certainly and had been whether he liked it or not an asset of the Mayor and as such, was his instrument just as Achilles was of King Agamemnon in the Trojan War.
He didn't believe, like the beautiful Rebecca, in the concept of blind loyalty to one's country rather like Dostoevsky.
"The line between good and evil is drawn, not between nations or parties, but through every human heart."
To him the said heart was those he was sworn to protect, gave him their loyalty, and those of his blood no matter the cost, with Nara and Victoria at its epicenter.
The deal he had brokered in East Africa had originally been driven by the huge profits, the fact it had to include the interests of Russia was merely a by-product that he had no escape from.
He stroked his chin. "So let see where the game takes us Rebecca?" he mused in a final reflection as he leaned back in his chair.
At ten to three on leaving his townhouse office, Thomas with his ever-present guards led by Mikhail walked around the corner to Mount Street, up and into the famous Connaught Five-Star Hotel.? On entering, Espelette, the General Manager warmly greeted him by informing him that his guest Mrs. Field was waiting for him by the window. Signaling Mikhail and his men to stay in the lobby of the hotel, he walked towards the beautiful woman.
"Thank you for seeing me on short notice, Sir Thomas," she said offering her hand as he sat down in front of her continuing with her cover.
Taking a moment to look at her as he had done earlier in Downing Street, this time Thomas replied as he took her hand firmly. "Rebecca, you don't need to call me Sir Thomas," he said with a twinkle in his eye, thereby acknowledging and proving her initial conclusion that he had recognized her in an instant although Thomas didn't know that.
"Gosh!" Rebecca exclaimed, playing along. "How on earth can you remember that it was almost twenty years ago!" she said, regaining her composure.
"One always remembers the ones that got away!" Thomas answered with a chuckle releasing her hand.
"Well I can see your charm hasn't mellowed over the years, Thomas," she fenced back at him dropping the 'Sir' in front of his name. "In any case, thank you for not embarrassing me this morning," she answered sincerely.
Acknowledging her thanks with a simple nod to put her at ease as the waiter turned up, Thomas offered a glass of champagne. She politely declined before they both settled on a cup of tea each.
Knowing he had to leave so he could make his slot time at Farnborough in the late afternoon, Thomas immediately got down to business with her.
Rebecca, as he was offering her the champagne, was sizing up her person of interest and wondering what was his angle. She didn't need to wait very long.
"So SIS is concerned that I am an asset of Foreign Power?" he said matter of factually.
"The sledgehammer approach, Thomas?" Rebecca replied with a slight smirk that earned in return one back from him as the waiter arrived then theatrically poured their tea through the strainers into the signature bone china cups and then placed the silver teapot on the table and left.
Their conversation resumed.
"Why don't I put you at ease as it appears an African Oil deal and the building of a Russian Naval base stopped being of interest to the Great British Empire in 1990s," he answered in reference t
o the fact that Britain's interests were no longer Cold War focused.
Using her skills to spot micro-expressions that linked to deceptions during interrogations during the next twenty minutes, Rebecca concluded that though Thomas had admitted he was close to the President of Russia, the relationship was best explained by Thomas's way of a cricketing analogy.
"That whether I like or not, I have no choice but play each ball as it comes."
"Much like the messenger from the Iliad?" She fenced with him.
A look of surprise appeared on Thomas's face. She knew all about his background, including his love of the classics and the teachings of Homer and by using the response in the manner she had just done told him that.
After a moment Rebecca noted his initial shock had dissipated well enough to laugh.
"Indeed," he acknowledged. "But I certainly don't want to end up like the poor messenger from Troy!" In Homer's poem, King Agamemnon messenger had been stoned to death upon the delivery of his message because they did not like its contents.
"More like Bellerophontes," Rebecca replied with a piercing stare preferring to use the part of the epic poem when Argos sent the hero with message saying, "Kill this messenger" to the ruler of Lycia but instead ended up becoming Greece's greatest hero for killing the Chimera, the monster that Homer depicted with a lion's head, a goat's body, and a serpent's tail.
This time he didn't say anything for a few moments. Instead he smiled and kept her stare before breaking it by looking at his watch.
"You're most welcome to liaise with Angus for your report, I promise I have nothing to hide from you," he offered.
"I do apologize, but I am running late," he said with sincerity. "When I get back to London let's get together again," he further offered. "That's if you have any more questions?" he quickly added with warmth.
"Absolutely," Rebecca answered back.
"Of course, it's only so I can recruit you for Ivan!" he joked attempting to gain the upper hand to which Rebecca smiled in return but chose not to comment.
As she watched him walk away, Rebecca felt something she hadn't felt since Christopher lost his life, but being a professional she quickly banished so to focus on her work at hand something now made more complicated by the fact Thomas knew almost certainly everything about her, if he was connected as she expected him to be.
13
Cote d'Azur
Fitz Ernst had captained The Libertine since it had been launched. It had been built at the famous Lurssen yard in Bremen at the start of the millennium. The yacht was 330 feet in length, had three decks, a helicopter pad plus four zero-speed stabilizers with modifications, and was driven by two 5,500 horse powered engines with a maximum speed of nineteen knots. It was considered one of the most luxurious pleasure crafts in the world. Costing over three hundred million U.S. dollars,?to many she represented the ultimate statement of total self-indulgence, but to Fitz she was the goddess of the Ocean.
A throat cleared respectfully behind him.
"Captain?" a voice asked.
Fitz turned and found his Second Officer, Daniel Hartmann, standing at attention before him.
"Ja?" the captain asked quietly in German.
"Weather report is good, sir," Daniel replied also in German but with a Swiss accent.
"Clear skies all the way. Sir Thomas will be arriving around eight tonight, and his guest will be on board at five."
"Very good, Daniel, I will inform Miss Gunara."
Leaving the deck, the experienced Captain made his way at a measured pace to the ready room at the back of the yacht, which had its own deck. Entering the room he found his employer, Nara, going through the menus for the weekend with the Chef.
When Mikhail initially introduced her to him she had taken his breath away. A sultry lightly tanned youthful creature just out of her teens, oozing femininity and sensuality from her every pore. He wasn't surprised Sir Thomas had fallen for her. She was beautiful, and she knew it, and she acted as if she knew it!
"Fitz!" the lady stated warmly as she saw him approaching. He smiled back for her smile, had always dazzled and tormented him at the same time. Today was no different.
Over the years, he had seen her turn from an exotic sexy child-woman into one of the world's most beautiful women and although he would never admit it to anybody else, especially his wife, he was half in love with Nara.
Yet for all of her charms she was not without her faults and could be a real bitch, often making everything all the more difficult if the yacht were not just so, never more so when Sir Thomas had business associates on board.
It was only when her family or Victoria was on board she was more relaxed as if changing persona in the process that he found her to be more approachable as she was now.
"Your Lady," Fitz said inclining his head pleasantly knowing she always enjoyed the title even though technically she wasn't.
"Isn't it a beautiful day, Fitz?" Nara breathed as she rose up giving him sight of her exquisite breasts and her long jet-black hair draped over one of them as she did so. They had moved so seductively that he worried they would fall out of her top.
"It is my Lady," Fitz replied as his eyes took in the sight of her.
"The weather report has just arrived," he reported. "Clear skies and smooth waters ahead," he stated before continuing with the arrival times of the guests and Thomas.
"Do you have information on who is accompanying the Minister yet?" she asked, referring to Wasir Osman Hassan.
"Yes, My Lady" he confirmed nervously.
"He will be traveling with the President's Economic Advisor, his own protection team of four, plus two officers of the French Police and his companions," he said pausing on the last word of his statement.
For all of his private lustful thoughts with regard to Nara, the Captain certainly didn't like his yacht being used as?a?whorehouse.
"Thank you, Fitz," Nara answered, ignoring his pause on companions but privately agreeing with him.
14
Langley, Virginia
The United States Department of Defense defines a Covert Operation as "an operation that is so planned and executed as to conceal the identity of or permit plausible denial by the sponsor" while a Clandestine Operation as "an operation where the emphasis is placed on concealment of identity of the sponsor rather than on concealment of the operation."
So when the Director received the authorization from the President a week ago to enter into a new phase in relations with Russia; Deputy Director Ali Mansoor wasn't surprised, for Young had made it his personal crusade ever since the focus of the agency shifted to the catching of terrorists under the Bush Administration. It wasn't a secret, the whole of Langley knew about it.
Ali, an American Pakistani whose family had moved to New York in the seventies, had joined the Agency in the mid-eighties after graduating from Georgetown University, via the U.S. Marine Corps.
Blessed with his unique experience he had gathered from serving with the Recon division he had quickly progressed through the ranks at the Agency due to his special abilities and middle-eastern looks in the fight against Islamic terrorists initially, as a Non Cover Officer in Beirut, then Baghdad, Kabul and finally Lahore. A devout Muslim, Ali absolutely hated the Mullahs who turned the hearts and souls of the less educated into the killers who perpetrated the 9/11 incident. He had made the manhunt of Bin Laden his own personal "Jihad" for the shame he had brought upon his faith. In the preceding years, he had won an "Intelligence Star" and a "Distinguished Intelligence Cross" for his actions in Afghanistan, when against great personal risk he stopped an attack on Kazai, the President at the time. The actions were deemed classified and to this day nobody outside the Agency including his family knew about them for they remained locked up in the Langley vaults, for Officers are never allowed to confirm that they are even a recipient of them.
Age now having now caught up with him and because he had missed his young children growing up, Ali requested a posti
ng to Langley whereby the former director by way of a thank you and his service record had quickly promoted him to head up the elite Special Activities Division known as SAD or in the accounts and personnel files as a Political Affairs Office.
Over the last week, Ali's team had built up an impressive brief on Thomas Litchfield and the main players in Adwalland to enable them to formulate a recommendation to place Russia on the back foot by the creation of forward operating base in Lughaya. He just needed an asset in the country to be his tool to do it.
As was customary in the SAD, all briefings took place within their Cube, a quiet room that could not be spied on, within SAD's own restricted entry office within Langley.
Taking his seat the director nodded for Ali and his team to start.
"As you're aware, Litchfield isn't the usual Oligarch," Ali said as his picture appeared on screen.
"We asked our friends at Vauxhall Bridge for some background on him, and they advised us that he is a former Special Forces Officer, fluent in seven languages and has the ability to cross both the worlds of crime and politics," he started.
When Ali had first read Litchfield overview he had thought immediately thought it had to be too much of a coincidence.
"Special Forces? It can't be!" he thought as his memory banks went back to that mission all those years in the First Gulf War.
When he looked at his picture, the eyes of Litchfield told him it was. He had heard that only one man had made back from that mission. It appeared that man was Litchfield.
Ali mentally took his hat off to him.
"Do I include it in the briefing?" he had asked himself the night before. He decided it against it for two reasons; firstly that it would mean giving everybody involved in the planning of this operation security clearance. Something despite the electronic age would have meant Ali was going to have fill in at least twenty forms because it involved a mission that the Director was part of it. Something he hated! Secondly, because Young had never met him during that mission it made no difference.
"Better to let sleeping dogs lie!" he had concluded, opting for the second option, instead as Ali continued with his briefing he skipped over it.
"Has a net worth of approximately sixty-billion U.S. dollars with investments and controlling interests in everything from Oil to Media," Ali continued while the next slide appeared which was Mikhail's photograph.
"He also maintains a highly trained close protection team all drawn from the Israeli Shabak. When we checked with our counterparts at the Office for any possible weaknesses that we could exploit they told us there weren't any," he said using the term of the headquarters of Mossad.
"What, none!" Young answered in disbelief as Ali took a sip of his coffee.
"Yes, none!" Ali said.
"All Yural Diskin said was that Pschenichikov was one of their best!" said Ali, referring to the previous Head of the Shabak.
"Diskin said that?" the Director questioned, equally surprised that ex-head of Shabak had personally vouched for the bodyguard because he didn't usual bother to make calls of that nature. That told him the man on the screen must have been an exceptional operative before he joined Litchfield's organization.
"All of his inner circle and their families are treated as part of his family. All well paid and rewarded," Ali said continuing with his briefing.
"This has enabled him to develop a 'Clan' feeling amongst them to such an extent that their loyalty is without question," the psychologist offered in support of his immediate superior, and was about to continue by providing the Director with further support to his hypothesis with an overview on his Homeric beliefs.
Young quickly interrupted him. "Okay, the opportunity to get an asset inside is limited let's move on," said the Director, not in the mood for a behavioral science love fest.
Ignoring the disrespect towards his team, Ali pressed on.
"If a sanction is authorized we recommend undertaking the operation in the UK or by drone if overseas, as the chances of assault in a location where his security team would be armed, success would be limited due to their highly skilled individual abilities."
He paused. "The risk of fatalities to our assault team would be well over the thirty percent threshold," he stated making reference to a watermark figure a mathematician of Langley had once calculated where the death of service personnel was too vast to maintain the covert nature of the mission.
"Not to mention the point that the target is so high profile it wouldn't remain covert in any case," added Young, dismissing a drone strike as an option. "And we will piss off the Brits in the process!" he quickly added, ignoring the use of the threshold as irrelevant and the fact that trying to get a sanction approved by the oversight committee for an operation in the UK would be virtually impossible.
"Indeed sir," answered Ali already knowing what answer the Director would give.
"Okay, let's move on, we let State decide," Young answered, parking it. He recognized a hot potato when he saw one.
"We do though, have a plan that we believe has a good chance of success of disabling the deal on all fronts within the desired timeframe and at this time doesn't require additional authorization," offered Ali as the next slide came up on the screen.
Once the briefing was completed three quarters of an hour later, Young got up and gave a singular nod to Ali, satisfied with what had been presented to him.
"Authorized," was all he said as he left the room.
Ten minutes later Ali made his way back to his desk in his office.
He sat down. He switched on his desktop computer and, then once it was up and running, entered the secured assets area of the central server and typed in a name. Once in the asset's secure communication packet, he then typed a single predefined message.
If any observer or foreign intelligence agency reviewed it they would think the email was a request for a meeting, to the agent it was a signal that his Controller needed to speak to him.
Finished he picked up the phone and then made a call to one of his most trusted officers who was currently on leave to meet for breakfast.
For many in Dubai, the city-state of the United Arab Emirates has been seen as a playground with every conceivable high-end consumer product in the world available in the Malls to cater for the whims of the socialites together with a duty free zone to repackage and distribute the same commercial goods to the rest of the Middle East, but to others it was a hell hole built on nothing but credit, ecocide, suppression, and slavery. Irrespective of these diverse views to the money-laundering brethren of the world with Dubai's limited regulation it was one of their places of choice in which to deposit their money.
To twenty-nine-year-old Reza Namazi, an American-Iranian with a degree from Columbia who had been recruited by the CIA at an employment fair while he was still at college, it was home.
Due to his unique experience in finance, his controller at the Agency decided to put him in plain sight, a term used to describe the most stressful form of assignment for many as it meant agents have to operate under their true identities.
Placed as an associate in a top bank in New York to build his creditability, Reza had waited for two years for his chance to enter the field once he had completed his training. That opportunity came when his controller asked him to apply for a job in Dubai at a small boutique private bank.
To many of his friends and colleagues, they just couldn't understand why Reza would want to give up an incredible job with one of the best banks in the world to join one with a questionable reputation in the "fool's paradise" of Dubai.
Neither did the recruiting agent who was over the moon when Reza had applied, bearing in mind his other candidates and as such, it was no surprise when the local bank immediately offered him the job.
To maintain his production and to keep his questionable bosses happy and thereby override any suspicions as to his real motives, Langley provided him with one hundred million U.S. dollars in 'Ops' accoun
ts that he handled on their behalf as part of his day job for funding agents, sources and clandestine operations as when needed around the world.
Although his role mostly consisted of harvesting information on accounts of questionable persons or organizations around the region and Africa it was a role he was immensely proud of.
Sitting in the Regal Palace nightclub in downtown Dubai with a couple of Russian whores and one of his questionable clients from Uzbekistan, he felt his Blackberry hum and buzz.
Pulling it out of his pocket seeing the message was from Ali Mansoor, he responded with a confirmation that he could meet with him in two days' time when, in fact, he was saying he would call him on his CODEX phone in the morning as part of their pre-arranged routine before picking up his drink and toasting his Uzbek client's health.
The Devil's Handshake Page 1