 
**For the Love of God and the Arab Rising**

By Bradley George Bambridge

Published by Bradley George Bambridge at Smashwords

Copyright March 2012 Bradley George Bambridge

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Synopsis: The heroines, Steve and Catriona Mitchell are in love, but become involved with a Masonic courier. They acquire information damaging to a career criminal which means they must fight for their survival from New York to London. Steve Mitchell is recognised for his bravery and selected by the Freemasons to head a pilgrimage to the Promised Land. They must assassinate a President, & negotiate their way through the Arab Rising. The negotiations involve several meetings with tribal, government, and Terrorist leaders. The aim of these meetings is to negotiate peace between the Jewish and Palestinian people. And bring about the formation of a Unity Government whereby the people of the Promised Land may live alongside each other in peace and equality.

Prologue: Quote: They that can give up essential liberty to purchase a little temporary safety deserve neither liberty nor safety. The above quotation lends to popular public belief that Freemasonry is a secretive society not to be trusted and that its members use the network of 'brotherhood' to improve their status and wealth. Hearsay will have people guessing of hierarchal systems; and promotion won by proving knowledge of the societies cultural beliefs. Some anti parties will also label the Freemasons as nothing more than a pyramid system of temptation and reward; the more highly skilled you become in the hierarchy and the more you feed its insatiable appetite for financial gain, the more reward you will receive. It is rumoured that persons will become bankrupt to satisfy this system of reward, and deliberately disperse their personal or business wealth between 'brethren' before embracing bankruptcy. It is well documented that each member is under oath to improve the holdings of the lodge, and its brethren. Propaganda and publications by the Freemasons will inform you of their charitable work and their aim to recruit good men of sound character that may be made 'better men'. Defined campaigns exist to recruit intelligent and ambitious young men straight from established and concentrated points of our society, such as universities. There is no doubt that good charitable work is carried out to the benefit of others, but doubt still lingers as to the true intentions of its members and their oath to champion their own charity.

The earliest text known to have recorded the word Freemason was written in the 1376. John of Northampton was elected Major of London and was determined to break the hold that the merchant oligarchy had on the London government. He did this by introducing tradesmen, notably Freemasons to the London council, which gave less wealthy citizens some influence over the affairs of London. The term Freemason is derived from the 'Free' stone worked by a Mason. 'Free' stone being a sand or lime stone that could be worked or cut in any direction, and hence was an ideal stone by which to produce ornate carvings.

But the rituals practised by Freemasons, which re-enact the tragic death and resurrection of one 'Hiram Abiff' go back to the time of King Solomon of the Israelites who built the 'first temple' on Mount Zion in Jerusalem. 'Hiram Abiff' was a chief stone worker employed at the building of Kings Solomon's temple. He was brutally murdered after he held men in training and did not qualify them for promotion. The story of Hiram Abiff is recorded in the Bible; but nowhere is his tragic death and resurrection recorded except in the archives of Freemasonry.

The link between these ancient times and the modern day Freemason is quite possibly the Knights Templar; Poor soldiers of Christ and King Solomon. The impoverished fighting men of Christ became organised shortly after the first crusade when King Baldwin II gave permission for their head quarters to be set up adjacent to Mount Zion, within Jerusalem itself. Their aim was to protect pilgrims of Christ on their journey to Jerusalem. The order soon gained the support of the church and the Pope himself. A charity was promoted to finance the work of the Knights and one faction quickly grew into many, covering a vast swath of Europe. Each stronghold of the Knights Templar was ruled by a Grand Master, who not only controlled the ever expanding wealth of the order, but also the expenditure required to replace and train more knights as so many where killed during battle. Knights of the order were under oath to hand over all personal wealth, land and possessions, and fight to the death in the name of Christ. A common tactic in battle was to form a tight unit of knights mounted on heavy horses that charged at the enemy line with absolutely no thought of stopping; this tactic coupled with the fierce reputation of fighting to the death created such fear in the enemy lines, that many famous battles were won as the Knights Templar crashed through the enemy lines. These high risk tactics created heavy losses, in horses as well as men, in some cases as high as ninety percent. The famous battle of Montgisard in 1177 was a prime example; six hundred knights and their supporters stood in front of Saladin at Jerusalem on behalf of King Baldwin IV. The Knights Templar force was regarded by Saladin to be so insignificant against his twenty six thousand men, that he allowed his forces to split up and pillage the surrounding land and settlements. This dire tactical move was to prove his downfall and the Knights Templar were able to fight many smaller skirmishes rather than one massive force. Saladin was subsequently defeated.

The 'Knights of the Temple' are also credited for creating the first ever banking system. Kings, Queens and noblemen bequeathed vast amounts of land and gold to the order upon their death. The order became immensely wealthy and required administrative monks as well as fighting knights. Pilgrims of status: traders and noblemen; would leave their wealth and assets in the control of the order and receive a letter of credit that could be drawn upon as they travelled. The Knights Templar were powerful, exempt from any taxation and could travel unhindered across any border with a large body of men. This was a very real threat to any monarch trying to control his lands against would be enemies. But it was the massive loans to the English and French kings that were to prove their downfall in the end. King Phillip IV required a loan to finance a war against the English and was refused. The 'Knights Templar' had become a financial powerhouse of political influence that could be tolerated no more. Interest was not charged, but the loans would be paid back in the form of rent on the land they had signed over to the order. The 'Knights Templar' had become fantastically wealthy and influential, whilst King Phillip IV had raised tax levels to their limits and struggled to survive. The French King asked the Pope to excommunicate the order; he refused and excommunicated the French King instead. From that moment on, members of the order were systematically arrested and tortured to produce confessions with no supporting evidence of any kind. And once the axe had swung, and the Knights Templar were proven to be weak enough, nobleman and monarchs alike persecuted and plundered the order across Europe and England. Hundreds were burnt at the stake.

The modern Freemason movement as we know it derived in the 1700's. Skilled partisans lodged together in areas of the country where Cathedrals, Churches, and other great buildings were to be built. Stone mason's led a nomadic life, following the work around the country and across Europe. And where ever a building project was under way, a lodge would be required to provide welfare to the many tradesmen. As with any modern contract: the top men who controlled the flow of money and had the power to award work to the less privileged, formed a system to maintain that power. The person in control of the medieval building site was the 'Master Mason' and they had charge over all tradesmen. It is widely believed that they educated their members to have upstanding morals and have a positive effect within their local community. Each craftsman had differing degrees of skill, and hence a system of symbols was derived to prove a tradesman's skill by passing on a secret message only known to persons at that level of teaching; or above. This system is still in place today; albeit favoured by the up and coming modern professional from a multitude of trades and industries: engineering, journalism, politicians and the judicial system to name but a few.

The secret image of the society has bred mistrust of the Freemason, for he, or she, is said to have the unbridled loyalty of all other members that will aid their advancement and wealth, or as a Mason will tell you: 'make their good man a better man' ahead of and in favour of a profane. A profane being an outsider to Freemasonry. It should also be noted that women's Freemasonry is becoming more common, albeit not as publicised. A female order of Freemasonry does exist and a few Freemason lodges do allow female members; Grand Lodges do not. Personally I am sure, that similar to all other groups, societies, creeds and hierarchal systems, there are good and not so good examples of good men among them. It seems to me the apprentices or new boys are paying some quite hefty subscriptions, and are also required to pay for several social and charitable functions. And yet the Master Masons receive payments for their work within the lodge and what appears to be favouritism in the way of promotion, pay rises, selection at interview, or as another example: it has been documented more than once that developers often benefit, by being awarded planning permission by their brothers who just happen to be on the council planning committee. These are just a few examples of 'privileges' or influence over others that one can enjoy if you are 'On the Square'. I am sure that apprentices would benefit from this as well to a limited degree; but it's like any hierarchal system, the persons at the top are receiving a substantially higher percentage of the rewards and doing less of the work. And when we get to the top of the tree, as in the United Grand lodge of England, we are talking about substantial amounts of money.

Dundee House was purchased by the Prince of Wales with money from a charitable trust at the height of its value for 20 million; take a look at the front of Dundee house, at the top of the front gable, what do you see? The Masonic symbol of a compass and set square no less. So what does this tell you; we know that the Prince of Wales is a Freemason, does the Grand Lodge own Dundee House or does a brother of the Lodge? Either way it's a shady deal covered up by the premise of saving Dundee House for future generations. The house was sold at the height of its value after the market began to drop away; it was well documented in the press. I do believe, and most people ignore the fact that there is a 'grand elite' of extremely wealthy 'good men' at the top of this global tree. Remember, every other lodge pays license to a grand lodge, and I would surmise that a part, or all of those payments reaches its way to the United Grand Lodge of England, lodge: 01. Or: as it is commonly known among Freemasons, 'The Mother Lodge.' A Freemason in a tight spot, say in a court of law, could be heard to say: 'My Grand Mother would not be very happy'. A clear and coded signal, that the accused was a Freemason.

One of the worse examples to recently hit the headlines in the last few years is of high profile criminals proving to be Freemasons. In the past, Police Detectives have had to infiltrate the criminal gangs to bring out the information that would facilitate successful arrests and hits on say: a large import of drugs. It is now known that the criminals have adopted a new strategy of gaining membership to Masonic lodges and using new contacts that are tied by Masonic Oath, to control and influence police officers, judges and public service staff that will turn a blind eye, and even alter or ignore critical evidence to ensure a 'brother' is acquitted. One high profile Cocaine Importer stated that you need a good million to pay off everyone and clear the way.

This phenomenon has recently culminated in the government becoming so concerned that the 'Home Affairs Committee' called the Freemasons to account for its membership and an official hearing was called. The enquiry called for the representative of the Freemasons to produce a list of their 'brothers' names and occupations. The Freemasons maintained a continual stance throughout intensive questioning, that they should and would comply: with Caveat! They were not a secret society, but a society with secrets and never did produce a list of members and their occupations. Senior judges within the judicial system are chosen via a secret process led by the Lord Chancellor, and for them to be part of a secret society may well raise suspicions of impartiality, which in turn may lead to the general public losing faith in the criminal justice system: that must remain impartial and objective.

Chapter One: Back home at last. Sunday has just passed by with me sat in front of the TV and the evening has turned into a brisk and wet November evening. Outside, the sound of granite stone chips being ground into each other tells me Cat's car has just pulled up onto the drive way and moments later she breezes through the front door of our cottage. She is her normal boundless self, with no obvious limits to her energy. I instantly come to life as my friend, lover and soul mate greets me with a beaming smile which is immediately followed by a generous kiss. Forever friends, forever lovers; we hug tightly, reigniting our bond of love and friendship. It's as if she never left. Her bag is heavy, but I do not even notice. She looks fresh, healthy and relaxed; which is more than I can say about myself. We chat about her trip and how her parents are keeping. They are both in their seventies now and as we all know, the years roll by with little conscience. Cat makes a point of visiting every six months or so, it's important for her to spend time at home, her family home: on the Island of South Uist in the Outer Hebrides. She is one of five children, robust and hardy; this is, I am sure, why she is so forth right. If you are from a large family and don't speak up, you don't get heard. And believe me, if Cat has something to say, she will say it: to your face. She is 5ft 10, with a slim and athletic figure. Her whole essence is confident, strong and sexy. I wouldn't say she was pretty though: her tom boy mentality combined with her strong and vibrant facial features is enough to send most people scuttling into a shell of compliance and respect; her long strawberry blond hair softening the overall effect.

We have been together for 10 yrs now and we live in a quiet suburban village located in North Kent. When it's not raining, the birds sing and the views are an expanse of green grass, bushes and trees. The area is peaceful, tranquil even, and oozes Victorian charm; it's a lovely place to live. Strolling through the village on a summer evening is a joy to behold, you feel safe and confident that any encounter will be polite and friendly. People know us and have the time to stop and chat. Both Cat and I work in the city, so living in the green belt ensures a quick and easy commute. Cat has had a long journey and I have just enjoyed a week of being bone idle to be frank. So whilst Cat chats and natters, I prep some veg, take the meat out of the fridge, and start to cook dinner. The pan sizzles and pops as I throw in the onions and mincemeat. She sinks into the sofa, lets out a big sigh, grabs the remote control and watches TV for a moment. As any long term partner will tell you, they know when something is wrong, and Cat notices that I am remarkably quiet considering she has just arrived home. So a few moments later whilst dicing the veg, my senses tell me she has entered the kitchen; her arms then entwine my waist and she nuzzles into my neck. To savour her warmth and scent is like nothing else in my life, for that moment in time calmness washes over me. 'What's up darling'? She starts to push me for an answer, in that gentle but persistent manner; that even though you resist, you know from the start that you will end up giving out all the information eventually. It's that game we all play: when you want to tell someone something but you know there will be a consequence, so you delay the critical moment. 'Oh. Nothing much' She moves away and I hear the fridge open. The cutlery draw rattles and a cork promptly pops. The sudden promise of alcohol registers with my sixth sense immediately; I can feel my resistance fading fast. I know how Cat pours wine; the bottle is held high, at least 2 to 3 inches from the glass and at exactly 45 degrees. The wine sloshes around the glass as if to prove my point; and then, once calm and serene, appears over my shoulder. 'Here you are darling'. 'Thanks love'. And then her arms reach around my waist once more and she nibbles my ear, which is quickly followed by a gentle kiss on the neck. I do not respond, but slowly place my wine on the side and carry on dicing the veg. 'Come on darling; tell me, what's up'? We have a 2 week holiday to the United States scheduled for the first week in December, and at the moment everything revolves around this trip of a lifetime. 'Are you OK Steve'?

Cat strokes my back to sooth the stress and encourage me to talk. Turning round to face her; she can see the worry on my face. 'Well not really love, you know that business deal I was doing with Ray of East Ham engineering? In that he was awarded the job to install two air conditioning units in the plant room and in return, they paid for our flights and hotel rooms to New York.' 'Yes babe, and?' 'His boss has cancelled the bookings because I gave the 3rd unit to another company'. 'What! Why has he done that?' 'I know why, because he's a bloody idiot that's why. He has completed the work and has invoiced our company £55K. He says the deal was for the flights etc as long as he got the 3rd unit, which is another £25K'. 'But you and I know that was not the agreement'. Cat is now in shock, recoiling to the rear of the kitchen. She has told all and sundry that we are going to America and her street cred has gone right out the window. Don't worry, I tell her. We can still go because of the 10K that I made from the other deal. 'Just don't worry, everything will work out fine'.

Chapter Two: Double Cross. My head feels like it is going to burst, the pain is right in the middle of my skull; I am mad, really mad. It's not easy trying to collect my thoughts and think of a productive way out of this mess, but my natural will to be a winner and not to lose keeps me going, keeps me thinking of ways to turn this back to my advantage. Ray Mead is the problem, that ingratiating sales guy who suckered me. It's Sunday, but who cares; damn him and his bloody cronies. Basic manners and a respect for any man's home life initially tugs at me to wait until Monday morning, but this cannot wait: where's that phone? 'Ray, Hi, how you doing? Sorry to disturb you on a Sunday mate, but can we talk?' 'I'm with my family and friends, can't it wait?' 'Not really Ray, something has happened'. 'I know, Stuart told me on Friday, he was not impressed'. 'Not impressed! What does he think I feel like? What's going on? Why has your high and mighty leader cancelled the flights and hotel bookings'? 'You told me he would get the work for all three cooling units'. 'You know that's not true Ray, the deal agreed between us was strictly to the value of present sales, not to any future sales or any work awarded in the past; your boss did the dirty on me and you know it'. 'Well you need to have these things sorted Steve; Stuart thinks he should have got the work for the 3rd unit'. 'That was not the deal Ray and you bloody well know it. You have left me in the crap and you know so'. 'There's no need to talk to me like that Steve, I will talk to you on Monday. And I don't expect you to phone me at home on a Sunday and give me grief on my day off'. Then 'Click' the phone goes dead and my attempts to call him back fail miserably as he's switched his phone off. 'God damn it'. The surmising and stress continues at home, and only settles down once the flights are booked out of my own money. That night as we lay in bed, Cat is watching TV and moans at me for continually tossing and turning, but it was hopeless, my mind mulled over what that idiot of a man had done to us, if you could call him that, and how aggressive his tactics were. And then, to cap it all, in total comparison to my own anguish, I notice Cat has flaked out and is blissfully out for the count, without a care in the world; breathing gently as her well toned body ticked over with effortless grace, regenerating, healthy and calm. This was not good, I needed to calm down and get on with my life; what was done, was done. I turned the TV off.

It was soon Monday morning and a chat with Andy Townsend was my next move. He is the project Manager from East Ham Engineering, who takes over and manages the project installations once Mr Ray Mead has finalised a sale; we are both amicable guys, we get on and we trust each other. But rue the day Ray Mead and I ever met, he is a double crossing crook who sweet talked me into using his company for client projects. Andy explains that Ray had already called him and they chatted for some length of time, he was not a happy man. He concurs with Ray's summary of what has happened over the past few days and explains that there is nothing he can do; and I should not have screamed abuse at Ray down the phone, let alone at the weekend while he was with his family. This was not a good move and Ray is not a guy to be messed with; he has friends and a reputation. He does admit though, that he would have reacted in the same way, which is no vindication of the position they have put me in. It's approximately an hour later that Ray calls me, but not in the usual friendly manner that beguiles you and demands compliance for his friendship. His voice is calm as normal, but underneath it all, you can sense the menace within him. He insists we meet in the Cafe Costa, the café we usually meet to discuss business; we need to sort things out.

On approaching the café, there's a guy stood by the window. It is immediately obvious it's him outside waiting for me, he is a big guy and you can't miss him; he is dressed as if ready to work in a corporate office with expensive shoes, trousers and a nice shirt; but oddly, he wears one of those heavy smooth leather jackets, the single breasted type. It's the hard man look, and with those shoulders its working on me. The greeting is friendly but abrupt and we go inside. 'What do you want Steve?' 'Skinny Latte and a slice of cake please Ray'. He points to a corner table and instructs me to sit down. While he is paying for the order, he turns and just looks at me, as if judging my worthiness, my status in this world if you like; which will I am sure, gauge how strong his approach may be and to what level of violence, he may subject me too. Ray sits opposite me and even though he is sat down, you can tell he is at least 6ft 6 inches tall and at about 55 years of age, it's a surprise that he holds his size so well, he obviously keeps himself fit. It may have something to do with his part time occupation as a club doorman. Now here sat opposite him, the image of the doorman is blurred by my knowledge that he is actually a clever salesman and a very good one at that, who uses his slow, deliberate and menacing manner to win over people and get what he wants. As his mouth opens to instruct me of his displeasure; he does not rush his words and looks straight at me during this interface of his thoughts, of which I am intently listening too. It is scary to feel that any other response will be met with violence and pain; not now, here in public, but at some other time when I least expect it. Vocal apologies immediately stream from my very soul, as I account for my unsolicited rant at the weekend, when I vented all my frustration at him, my so called friend. I now realise instantly how much of a front his manner is to achieving his own aims and how insignificant I am. He slowly informs me of his displeasure, explaining in slow, methodical detail of his position within the business deal we had made, the one I did not stick to, and that nothing will change. The bloody cheek of it, the one that I did not stick to indeed!

He continues with a quiet, serious tone of voice; the underlying message being that I have disrespected him and I do not understand his position. Once again I explain that enough work was passed onto his boss 'Stuart' to justify the £2k of gifts that I was due to receive, and that it was my prerogative to choose whatever sub-contractor I wanted to in the future. I was in effect, not tied to him and his bosses firm. What I was actually thinking was: I am not in the boys club, I am not a 'brother' and I can do what the hell I want. He accepted my apology, but like any bully, his career skill is to impose himself upon you; whilst you accept his opinion, but all along you subconsciously deny yourself that you are scared witless. Ray's phone rings and he takes the call. 'Yes, yes, all right, I won't be long, I'm just clearing something up, be there in 45 minutes'. He leaves in a hurry, but warns me that we will speak again. Thank goodness for that, he's gone. Genuine relief washes over me; but that feeling: that two burly blokes could be waiting for me at any time, around any corner, still lingers on. But hey, my luck should hold out. It would be some time before I would realise that Ray would not forget my 'lack of respect' and would get his own back in a much more subtle way than I could ever imagine. I am just about to leave myself when I notice he has left a business folder behind, the standard black leather type. The temptation is too much to resist, this is a chance to raise my game and grab an advantage; Leaving the café behind me, folder securely under my arm, I head back to the office. Work beckons; I must get back and do enough to keep the wolves at bay. Outside the London traffic is its normal incessant self and a horn sounds as I dodge the traffic running back to the office.

Chapter Three: Back in the office. No windows and no air conditioning, it's a typical engineering office in the basement of a very large office block. The telephone is ringing; one of the engineers is rushing to a client call and its freezing cold as usual. Sitting at my desk in a suit, I pull on my beany hat to keep my head warm and hit the keyboard, my laptop leaps into life, It's all go as usual. My admin assistant smiles and then promptly reminds me of what requires my attention. As if to say: you were away far too long, now please get on with some work. The folder that Ray left behind is dumped on my desk and I catch a glimpse of it as I get on with my day. There are 50 emails to get through and maintenance instructions to issue to the shift engineers. Barbara, my admin assistant: gleefully informs me that the client is after me for an update on the Fire System upgrade, and the repairs to the sprinkler system, oh joy of joys, what a lucky guy I am. Just when I am about to call the client to arrange a meeting the phone rings. 'Good day, Sustained Engineering Maintenance, how may I help you?' 'Steve, it's me Ray'. My body and mind freeze, what the hell does he want now? I regain my composure and calmly reply. 'What's up Ray, how can I help?' Ray continues. 'I know we have just had a few words, but it's important; did you see a black leather business folder on the chair next to where I was sitting? In fact it's really important'. My upbringing puts me into auto pilot to be honest and helpful, but I resist and lie. 'No Ray, I didn't see a thing, if it was on a chair, possibly hidden by the table, I would not have seen it. Have you been back to the cafe and checked the place out? Have you asked the shop assistants?' 'Yes, and its gone, I am sure I left it there, are you sure Steve?' 'Yes, we fell out, we agreed to move on, we still have issues, but I would not lie to you Ray'. His tone softens and he appears resigned to the situation. This is good; I do not feel under threat and maybe its way of getting my own back. I decide to leave things as they are for now and get on with my day.

Chapter four: Reasons for and against. This contract has kept me gainfully employed for twelve months now and I have the unenviable task of maintaining 230,000 sq ft of a private building leased out to businesses of one sort or another. It's the work load that is getting on my nerves and the continual push to please the client. And when you do perform to an exceptional standard, as per last year when I was actually presented with a maintenance award, there's no bonus, or any performance related pay review for that matter. They say it's to do with the present economic climate and that everyone is cutting back. No one in the industry has received an upwardly mobile wage review for a couple of years. But to get nothing year after year starts to wear thin. It's the fault of the new money men, who bought the company from the 'old boy'. The company was an old school affair and owned by a single trader who had built the company up over his life time. And he would be happy enough to run contracts that maintained a 10% margin of profit. But every working lifetime comes to an end and he accepted an offer from a leading brand name that wanted to enter the ever increasing building maintenance market. The old boy was loyal to his employees though, insisting that ten million of the purchase price was ploughed into the pension fund. But as the company rebranded the front end of the business and the new culture swept through the management team; new managers arrived and many old school managers were literally pushed out. Here now, at the coal face: we experience the aggressive financial push of the new company as they strive for a 17% margin. How do they achieve this? By not giving staff a pay rise, reducing overtime to chargeable jobs only and most of all, squeezing contractors to sign preferred agreements that push the prices up to enable rebates to be paid at the end of the year.

So I decided to get my own reward and started to push contractors to give me a few quid on the promise of being awarded the contract for say, the annual boiler maintenance as an example. I intended to take my own reward and that's how I ended up in this mess, with East Ham Engineering. The other contractors were fine, one payment, no special treatment, just get on with the job. Not East Ham Engineering, oh no, they wanted it all; project work, tool purchases and consumables too, all through their books. It was a hundred thousand quid a year and they were squeezing me to take as little as possible, so their cut increased to its maximum possible level; which was not going down too well with me. Still, if I had half a brain I would not have been so greedy; the situation was rolling along quite nicely until I tried to squeeze a bit more out of each deal, and now I am in a hole, and digging the hole still deeper. The time was right for me to calm things down and build some new bridges that would be of help instead of breaking down every last one I ever had. So it's for these reasons that I find myself accepting invitations to socialise with new boss and his cronies.

Chapter Five: Ingratiating to the end. It was ten years ago my boss Tom Brule and I met whilst managing a contract for a pension house in Reigate; it went so well that when he moved on, he recommended me for my present job at the first opportunity he had to get me on board. And hence, I basically walked in the door, introduced myself, and took over the running of the contract. And believe me, he will not let me forget it, he is always on my case to play golf or meet up for a beer. Tom is a Master Mason of lodge no: 916, located in Bexleyheath, Kent. He leads the recruitment drive, and receives monies for managing its administration. His officers of the lodge are also under oath to assist the Master Mason execute any and all of his duties: which includes recruitment. So here I am, invited by Tom (yet again) for a drink after work and three of his pals, or officers of the lodge, have conveniently joined us. It is a beautiful summer evening and we are patrons of a pub in Victoria Station. Tom is his usual ingratiating self, and it's because of his unjustified self-belief that I sometimes wonder if he is an only child, but I happen to know he has a brother. He's about thirty years of age; so five years younger than me, very short, about five foot six, overweight and topped with a mass of dark hair. He has classic, dark, good looks; but the overall affect is a little comical as he is so short and overweight. To be honest, he is a likeable guy and I do enjoy his company; you just have to be on your toes to ensure he is not getting one over on you. The conversation flows and it is quite obvious that Tom and his companions are a tightly knitted group. The other one hundred or so patrons in the bar would never guess that each member of this group had been proposed for membership, accepted, and guided through ancient rituals that culminate in a lifetime oath of allegiance to ones brethren. They seem to be down to earth working class guys and scruffy to boot, which is in complete contrast to Tom's smart and expensive looking business suit. So today whilst we are in the pub, I am taking it all in and generally enjoying the time out after a long day and the free beer. Its five o'clock in the evening and the place is packed with commuters. I take a good long swallow of ale and scan the bar for a quick look at any female within 10 yards. In between the gulping and gawping, I occasionally try to look interested in the conversation that ensues around me. Tottenham did this, and Chelsea did that, if only that last attempt at goal had gone in, we would be top of the league. What would your average working class guy do without our a game of football? To be honest, Tom's 'mates' seem to be all right guys and I do feel quite comfortable in their company. As for joining the brotherhood, I'm not so sure; if I'm honest I cannot be bothered with it all; the big thing for me is the influence they have over each other, it is oppressive and unhealthy, to me anyway. One of Tom's mates offers to buy me yet another pint, but I decline; having not eaten for hours and after 3 pints of their finest ale, I am feeling a little woozy to say the least. Tom persistently asks me to play golf at the weekend, but I managed to politely dodge the issue by convincing him I am busy with car repairs and a family dinner. It's time for me to say good bye, and I head for the train. Catriona will start to wonder where I am and I do not want to quarrel and fight: I might lose! We are from different ends of the British Isles, but we met shortly after joining the Military Police and became inseparable. Working together when postings did not separate us; jogging, swimming, drinking, and making out whenever the mood took us. The pressures of military life eventually proved too much though and we decided to 'sign off' and set up home as civilians. When Cat was in Scotland; I took the chance to unwind and do a few things that blokes do: fishing, jogging, and of course a few visits to the pub; or sitting in front of the TV. And today my pal and close friend Jeff is coming round for a chat and a few bottles of ale out of the fridge.

Chapter six: Socially Acceptable. I'm not long home when there's a knock at the door; I head for the hallway and immediately recognise the very large shadow on the other side of the front door. After an hour or so talking about work and boring ourselves silly; it was decided that it was about time we had a night out with the lads. A few beers around Trafalgar Square or Soho, and then on to the main event: the new Casino in Leicester Square. I yell through the serving hatch to Cat that we are heading on out as we usually do once a month around payday. She pokes her head through the hatch, demands a kiss and informs me that she's off to her mates anyway. It's all OK. I have a freedom pass off the wife, plenty of beer tokens, and we're outa here.

You may be thinking that Jeff is your stereo typical 'jack the lad' waster, how wrong can you be. Jeff is 22 stone and 5 ft 11 inches tall, but bloody huge compared to me. He is only an inch or so taller than me, but I am only fourteen stone and have an athletic build. Jeff is just a powerful lump and does not read or write but definitely makes up for it with regards common sense and has amassed a reasonable amount of collateral in his life. The house is paid off, and he buys and sells cars as a hobby. He sold his Jag just to get a good price whilst the market was strong, which really caused some friction in the house I can tell you. His missus loved that Jag. So he is in essence, the complete opposite of Steve Mitchell. Jeff has two other brothers just a big as himself, albeit slimmer and fitter, and they know every villain in the area. In fact they were brought up in St Marys Cray, Orpington, Kent; not the most salubrious part of town, and have known all the local villains since their school days. And here they are, the other two: Paul and Kevin. I can hear the car horn outside, blaring its way through the night air. All three are general builders and labourers, and on this particular Friday night all four of us guys head for Leicester square. We load ourselves into Pauls car and get onto the A2 heading for the Blackwall Tunnel and the East End. All looks familiar as we drive through Cheapside, Popular and past the Tower of London. Its nine o'clock at night, it's a dark November night and every light in the city is switched on; don't you just love London at night? The lads ramble on and gossip about anyone they know, who has had any misfortune, especially if it involves violence, money or women and not necessarily in that order. It's a steady drive along the embankment as we pass ornate lamp posts and civil works of art in the form of Bronze Statues and Egyptian cenotaphs, all sited strategically along the banks of the river Thames. And then we turn right and head north into Trafalgar Square. We choose the NCP car park in China Town, Soho, which is just north of the square. Here, in the heart of the west end, it's a short walk to Covent Garden, Piccadilly or Leicester Square; it's a great spot for a night out on the town, so we head for a few west end pubs. But the order of the night is to finally end up in the 'Grand Casino' on Leicester Square: Blackjack and Roulette are the order of the night; coupled with extensive chit chat about any reasonably good looking woman who crosses our path. The fact that all four of us are like gulping fish when it comes to chatting up women is totally forgotten as we pat each other on the back and laugh at our own jokes. The buzz of the Casino is a drug that lights my veins with an invisible energy. The reality of what is happening to my brain is not lost, the stimulus of risk and reward is causing dopamine to be released into my blood stream and I love it. I get off on it, and I don't care if I am straight up and admit it. Enjoying life is my goal and I will not be one of 'those' sensible types all ways at home watching TV. I stroll past a blackjack table advertising a minimum bet of fifteen quid, that'll do nicely. My chest rises as I draw a deep breath, trying to calm my nerves and slow my heart rate. My conscience pricks my ear, nice and slow Steve, nice and slow. Stop if you start to lose. Then there is the little devil in me, sitting on my other shoulder, go for it son! You can't win unless you play. You are only on this earth once, so make the most of it. The place is so busy, people coming and going, politely manoeuvring for a position at the table of choice. Croupiers push and pull at chips of plastic that have more of an effect on some peoples' lives than genuine money. Time flies by as if one is caught in a time warp of illicit pleasure; the cosy, warm feeling that envelopes you will last as long as you are winning or have a handy supply of money. Our night comes to an end as Jeff wanders over to me and announces he is all out of cash, he has lost his dough, which is a real turn up for the books for our savvy Jeff. You win some, you lose some: it's time to go home. Outside the Square buzzes with activity, its 2 am and the place is filled with locals and tourists alike; walking, talking, and shouting with the excitement of it all. Restaurants are filled to bursting, and every seat in the park is taken. And then as we stroll south to the lower side of the square, towards Soho; two cars swing into the square: A brand new Bugatti Veyron, and the latest four door Porsche. The Porsche is fitted with the biggest body kit and wide wheels I have ever seen. A young man in his twenties is driving, his dark Arabic looks only causing me envy as I try to imagine his privileged lifestyle and the string of exotic women he must court. We look, look again, and then head for the car park and Paul's 10 year old Ford Mondeo.

Chapter Seven: Socially Unacceptable. Cat wakes me up with a kiss to my ear and the smell of strong coffee, and leaves me in the bedroom with the TV on, sipping the coffee and nursing my hangover. Some minutes later she reappears with the black folder and asks me where it came from as she doesn't recognise it as mine. 'Not now Cat, my head is thumping, give it half an hour or so. It belongs to that pest Ray Mead. He left it in the café that day and I could not resist taking it'. Cat cannot wait, she prods and pokes me until I sit up and fight back. 'OK, OK, I'm getting up, leave off.' 'Let's take a look and be nosey; after all he did the dirty on us didn't he.' We find the usual stuff: pens and a calculator, and a note pad which has a few scribbles about some project works or other, prices, etc. Some business cards and on a much more interesting note; a memory stick. My laptop is on the chest of drawers, so I grab it and start her up. Once she's up and running I plug the stick into the USB port and start to scan the drive: I see a dozen or so 'Word' files, a couple of spreadsheets and a few sub directories. The word files are only quotations for project work, and the spreadsheets prove to be profit and loss predictions for the year, so nothing exciting there. But I do spot a sub directory named: ULONY. My curiosity pushes me onward to find something interesting and what do I find? More Microsoft word files and a sub directory marked: EMAILS. It's at a time like this that you realise how convenient windows compatible software can be. Opening the first email has me and Cat first looking at each other and then back at the laptop. Bloody Hell, you don't often see communications like this, with no password protection either. It's difficult to take in and we really do not believe what we're reading, actual minutes from a Lodge meeting in New York; the United Lodge Of New York. Cat is asking: Is there actually any interesting facts and information? It's all right being a Masonic Internal communication, but does it tell us anything. Yes I reply. What is going on here; we both wonder? What are you doing with these? The document is headed by a large emblem: made up of some compasses over a set square. We've both seen this symbol before; it's not uncommon, it's the standard logo for Freemasonry. The fact that Ray Mead is a Freemason is quite frankly no surprise. But, the fact that Ray has the minutes of a monthly meeting from a lodge over the water is something else. Ray Mead is listed as the courier to the lodge. He is a bloody Masonic courier no less and we are both genuinely surprised. And becoming more interested by the minute as we slowly discover what Mr Ray Mead gets up to in his spare time. Any organisation will have a communication process or protocol and in this instance, Ray Mead is the man. But what lodge does Ray belong to in the UK? Does he only courier for that lodge? Ray must be extremely concerned about losing this and must be trying to keep the situation quiet; his name will be mud for sure. Opening another file reveals a letter addressed to Ray from the 'Stratford East Masonic Lodge'. It's an agenda to next month's periodic meeting, written with a standard lay out. This is the lodge he belongs too. At the top: addresses, expected attendee's and formal apologies of absence and then a formal introduction to 'our loyal brethren'. Below that, it goes on to list subjects of agenda, items for clarification, further discussion and final closure of minute points. Item 03 stands out immediately; a Trevor McGovern has been listed as an expelled member of the Stratford East Lodge and a formal close to the matter is to be discussed. This name is familiar and I cannot for the life of me place where I have seen this name before.

'Trevor. Trevor McGovan'. That name is still ringing in my ears some hours later as we return from a shopping trip. Who is that? I decide to investigate and head upstairs to find my laptop one more. Again: It takes a couple of minutes to start up and log into the internet. Typing in 'Trevor McGovan' and hitting the return key produces a dozen search strings within a fraction of a second. The modern era of mans innovation and the internet never ceases to amaze me. The first couple of search results are: Trevor McGovan: a life of crime. Trevor McGovan: criminal blights the lives of others. BBC News: The life and crimes of Trevor McGovan. Clicking on and activating the download of the first article: a life of crime reveals a listed article from a news website. What I read doesn't shock me, but is definitely proving to be an interesting read. McGovern was born and raised in Inverness, Scotland and attended the local primary and secondary schools. It was here that his unpredictable nature, love of unprovoked violence and manipulation of people living in fear of him, soon created a solid reputation for such a young man. Could it really be the same McGovan? Anyone who crossed his path felt controlled or abused and was often described as vile, with no emotional respect for anyone who came into contact with him. Even at the age of fourteen years, when he really became aware of his strength and influence, he was already 5ft 10, but quickly grew to over six foot with shoulders to match; he was a big aggressive guy, who was to be avoided at all costs by the average man. He soon graduated from playground bullying and stealing dinner money, to stealing bicycles, and then receiving stolen cars, breaking them up and selling on the parts. This was a lucrative time for the young man and McGovan had the taste for quick and easy money; but it was not to last and he was arrested for receiving stolen goods. The Glasgow Sheriffs court convicted McGovan of receiving stolen goods and selling them on for profit on 14th August 1989 at the tender age of 19 years. He received a sentence of seven years to be time served at Prestwick Jail in Ayrshire; but served only three years for good behaviour. After the shock of his life being curtailed within the four walls of a jail house, he then seemed to settle down for a few years after being released. But the monotony of a straight life became too much for his excitable criminal mind, he needed some action with the promise of rich rewards.

McGovan then began to travel throughout South America and Europe, and amassed enough monies to fulfil several property deals. It didn't take long for him to realise that if he invested the tens of thousands he had made through his property dealing, he could possibly make millions dealing drugs. And during this time of realigning his business activities, at only 27 yrs of age, he managed to secure a recruitment interview to facilitate a proposal for membership to the Stratford East Masonic lodge no: 572. A lodge frequented by a high percentage of police officers. The ties of the brotherhood, given under oath were to prove a fantastic boon to the criminal dealings of Trevor McGovan. If truth be known, it is highly likely that he bribed or intimidated his way through the solid oak doors of Influence and power anyway. It seems to me that the link is here. If this is 'the' McGovan; it ties McGovan, a known criminal and Ray Mead to the same lodge.

Chapter Eight: Prince Hall Fakery: Nosa Aggiobossa is a Nigerian immigrant who has settled in New York; 32 yrs of age, 6ft tall, shaven headed and 220 lbs of solid black muscle. Nosa does not like the 'bling'; he is conspicuous enough without advertising the fact. His half brother Banta is 2 inches shorter, slightly lighter in build and skin tone, but definitely the thinker of the two. And he likes the heavy gold jewellery; a thick linked necklace hangs from his neck, diamond ear studs adorn his ears, and heavy gold rings hang from his fingers. Both men are a foreboding sight to your average guy who may cross their path in business or leisure; if you knew them you would avoid them like the plague, and if you just happened to bump into them as your day flowed from morning through to night, you would stop for a moment, take in scene and quickly move on, knowing to avoid them in the future. And if you were someone from the criminal fraternity of New York State who knew them for what they are: criminal gang leaders who control the Cocaine distribution of the entire New York City area. You would know them as good men, who pay on time, demand loyalty and are not to be crossed. They are a strong, intelligent team that will casually cross the line to violence to make a point or settle a score. This combination makes them very dangerous men indeed. They have, at the last count: two hundred and ten loyal gang members; which they control and manage by way of copying the Masonic structure of the Freemason Brotherhood. In affect they have created a fake lodge based on Nosa's interpretation of the rituals and oaths used by the Freemasons. This 'Masonic Lodge' is the so called legitimate front to their criminal activities.

Interjection: In America a black persons lodge known as the 'Prince Hall Fraternity' was formed by a free black man called 'Prince Hall' who lived between 1735 and 1807), a former slave, he was an early American abolitionist and a successful writer. He is also considered to be the founder of "Black Freemasonry" in the United States, known today as Prince Hall Freemasonry. Prince Hall was one of the first black military men of his time; On March 6, 1775, Prince Hall and fourteen other free black men were initiated, passed and raised into Military Lodge No. 441, an integrated Lodge attached to the British Army and at that time stationed in Boston. When the British Army left Boston in 1776, the black men of the lodge were granted a dispensation for limited operations as African Lodge No. 1. They were entitled to meet as a Lodge, to take part in the Masonic procession on St. John's Day, and to bury their dead with Masonic rites, but not to confer degrees or perform other Masonic functions. In comparison to Prince Hall; Nosa and Banta did not receive commendations and standing in society for services rendered to their country. But they most certainly scammed, fought and killed their way to the top of their game, both in their home country and now here in New York. The Mafia were weak, their latest God Father John Gotti had been jailed for life and the entire Mafia operation was in turmoil; 'in fighting' and continual pressure from the New York Police Department and the Federal Bureau of Investigation had ensured their downfall. The Nigerian Brothers quickly overpowered any street level resistance and filled the void of power required to control a multi million pound Industry such as this; strength and extreme violence were the method of control, which came easily to the brothers. The cover for this illegal dealing of drugs was quickly developed into a brotherhood with its very own Masonic Lodge, an ideal tool to control the people enlisted to work for them.

Nosa revels in his power as the 'Grand Master' and his brother 'Banta' as the Senior Lodge Officer; they had by now enlisted more than 40 Lodge officers and dozens of apprentices that had sworn allegiance to the Lodge. The Officers carried out the orders of the brothers and maintained control of the street apprentices, who were dealing in Coke, crack and Heroin. Everyone was under oath and under no illusion as to what would happen if they betrayed that oath: death was always just around the corner for any brother who betrayed the lodge or a fellow brother. It was in effect, a tightly controlled and loyal gang of young impressionable black men with no other prospects; that were now making money, earning respect and enjoying the protection of the brotherhood. Fake and illegal, it did not matter, control was everything, power, respect and money: they loved the brotherhood.

Chapter Nine: New York here we come. Catriona and I finally arrived at JFK airport at 1700hrs on Thursday 11th December; after a year of scrimping and saving the excitement was palpable, we were relaxed, but excited to be on holiday. Catriona pushed and shoved as politely as is physically possible without causing offence and headed for the exit door of the plane. Her eyes were ablaze with excitement as she searched for her first glimpse of the great United States of America. We worked our way towards passport control. 'Hello and good day madam' the guard greeted Catriona. 'Hello' she replied and handed over our passports. 'What are the reasons for your visit and where are you staying?' 'We are on holiday for two weeks in New York and we are staying at the Stanford Hotel in the Korean sector, just off Times Square'. 'Thank you Madam, thank you Sir; enjoy your stay'. Unknown to us an administrator has been tipped to look for our arrival and interrogate the database to find out where we are staying. We were all ready being 'reeled in' to face the consequences of my previous fallout with Mr Ray Mead. Onwards to the baggage carousel: it should not take more than thirty minutes to receive our bags, but we are the last to get our bags and Catriona is her usual volatile self. Frustration is really starting to set in when the bags finally appear through the thick plastic slats of the baggage area. Thank Christ for small mercies; at least the bags were not lost. Although: I do wonder why and how our bags just happened to be the ones to come out last. We set off through customs and duty free; nothing to declare and nothing wanted. It's quick and easy and we are on our way to the exit of the airport, and then onwards to down town New York.

It's not until we reach the outside taxi rank that we realise how bloody cold it is. The weather is freezing, it must be minus two degrees out here, snow has settled, and it is still falling. Thankfully the wind is only a breeze and we are saved from another 5 degree drop due to any wind chill. Taxi! I shout, and tease Catriona who is ecstatic that we are cueing for her first ride in a yellow taxi. 'Hotel Stanford, Korean District,' 'No problem sir'. Our driver has a classic soft drawl to his accent and seems to be a perfectly decent chap. The traffic is something else though, it must be rush hour and the roads are packed. A piercing, deep growling noise rips its way through the din of the traffic, it's a New York Fire engine and everyone pulls over. Cat is soaking it all up and grinning like a 16 year old girl: 'Oh it's a Fire Engine!' she cries, laughing loudly, she leans over and kisses my cheek, hers eyes beaming with happiness. We arrive at the hotel and a five dollar tip keeps the driver happy; he thanks me profusely. The humidity in my breath forms clouds of vapour before me as I talk and walk my way towards the entrance, struggling to climb over the snow covered curbs. Catriona and I stroll into the Stanford, a world of room service, polished brass and the sweet smell of good quality coffee. And of course multi channel TV.

We gleefully 'check in' and the holiday spirit is in full flow. After being shown to our room by the concierge; it's on the 12th floor: we dump our bags in a heap and give another tip of five dollars to the concierge. He smiles, turns quickly on his heels and strides away. Now then we declare: it's time to go and see the bright lights of New York City. We exit the hotel and stand for a moment to take in the smell of Korean cooking hanging over and mingling with the cold December air. The streets are covered in ice and patches of brown salt; the snow is still falling and the New York City road sweepers push the ice and snow to the kerb. We turn right and walk past the numerous Korean restaurants and eateries. And also the many tourist shops selling tea shirts, sweat shirts, cups and pens, in fact anything that the words 'New York' can be stuck to, or ironed on to. Then right again along 6th Avenue towards 'Times Square', past Bloomingdales and a dozen more souvenir shops selling everything from a New York baseball cap to china 'Betty Boop'. Nothing can beat the experience of walking through Times Square and Central Park on a winter's night; buildings and trees are illuminated with brilliant, flashing, and animated displays that fill the mind and eye with wonder. Cloak this with sub zero temperatures and heavy snow snowfall and you have an effect that is truly psychotropic. We have a wonderful first evening walking around; our necks get a little sore looking at all the lights and the tops of the very tall buildings. Manhattan is a sight to behold for sure; we already know we will return and our holiday isn't even finished yet.

The alarm clock echo's its electronic beep around the room. I jump out of bed as quickly as any 35 year old is entitled to do so and head for the coffee machine, switch it on and just for a moment watch it gurgle into life. I look out of the window and New York stares me in the face, the snow, the hustle and bustle, the incessant noise of a manic but civilised city, all ready in full swing even at this early hour. Catriona starts to stir and before I know it the TV is on, CNN: it's good to see the news from a different point of view, the accents, the police cars, and all that goes with it. A hot shower is next on the list and I am still dripping wet when I race out of the bathroom and jump on Catriona who is still relaxing in bed. 'Get off you idiot!' She tries to push me off but to be honest I am as horny as hell and I hold her tightly. She has a great body from years of training, smells gorgeous and I cannot resist trying to push my luck. 'Come on Cat, give me a kiss my darling' She looks at me, considers my worthiness and replies by stroking my arm and kissing me fully on the lips, her sweet smell captures me and I respond eagerly to her warm, soft, wet, mouth. Her legs slowly drift apart and her hips push forwards, towards mine as my leg slowly but firmly pushes between her thighs, pushing gently and firmly into her warming woman hood. Catriona grips my back and thigh, her nails nipping at my nerve ends, pulling me to her. She softens, her body temperature and heart rate increasing with every moment, kissing and pulling me even harder, urging me on. My manhood becomes harder, my instincts insisting to take the next step. Our two bodies align and I ease myself into position, and then I nudge her soft, hot womanhood. The connection is gentle, a little at first, careful to take my time and not hurt her. And then when I am fully locked in with the woman I love, I push harder, and then harder again. Catriona gasps and pulls me to her. My free hand urgently takes hold of her firm muscular thighs and caresses her curvaceous waistline. I kiss her gently at first, finding the required angle of comfort and soft sensation; and then harder, pulling her head into mine, the crushing softness nearly drawing blood. I slow down to savour the moment, my rhythm continuing as I take hold of her breast, her hard nipple pushing into my palm. Catriona is now nearing her climax and starts to push back, taking from this moment what she wants, and making love to me in return. The pressure in our erogenous nerve endings build to a crescendo of painful pleasure that takes us together in relief and ecstasy. And then we rest, sated. Nothing on earth can compare to lying beside your lover, hot, spent and content with your lot in life, nothing at all. Catriona showers and I jump in for a second time, both of us giggling and playing.

After dressing and checking our paperwork and money are in order, we head down to the cafe; it's the standard continental breakfast: pastries, toast, coffee, orange juice and jams. We tuck in and both study the map. 'Well, what do you fancy doing; the Natural History Museum, 5th Avenue, Times Square, Ground Zero, or Central Park?' All of it declares Catriona, every little bit of it.

We exit the hotel, stroll up 5th Avenue and take a look at what shows are viewing this year. Work, London and my troubles seem a million miles away; it was worth the pain of saving for the past eleven months. We take a nice walk, there is plenty to see and do: such as street entertainers; and street vendors selling hotdogs and honey covered roasted nuts. The smell is just lovely. New York City Police cars and Fire Engines seem to push their way through the traffic every thirty minutes or so and provide no end of entertainment for Catriona. We stare in amazement at the Illuminated signs which are literally as tall as buildings. Every building around Times Square is covered with them. It truly is a sight to behold; the 'Big Apple' in all its glory. They do not seem to have as many historical and cultural buildings as London; but what they do have is the American Museum of Natural History, an Impressive and crowning glory located on the Upper East Side of Manhattan. One of the founders being Theodore Roosevelt 'senior'; the father of the 26th US President: many of his most famous quotes are displayed on the walls of its cavernous entrance lobby. The throng of constant tourism and local people going about their business continues to fascinate me; every section of the museum is packed with people excitedly talking and pointing at bones and illustrative descriptions of times gone by. And as no visit to the museum would be complete without taking time to attend the 'Planetarium'; we duly buy our tickets and enjoy a ride through the 'big bang'

The day passes without any drama and we return to our room to freshen up, it's about 5pm and we fully intend to return to the 'Big Apple' night life as soon as we can. Except that all hell breaks loose, the room is ransacked and our clothes are everywhere. It is a complete mess and Cat is devastated. She is just in shock, crying and screaming for the police. I call reception. 'Please, please call the police, our room has been broken into, we have been robbed'. The hotel manager appears in minutes. 'Do not worry sir the police are on their way'. 'Do not worry? Look at my bloody clothes!' Catriona cannot help but take it out on the poor manager. I start to tidy up, but the manager reminds me not disturb the scene of the crime, the police will want to check things: finger prints etc. 'Yes, you're right, well done'. He's right and to be fair, I should bloody well know better, I am an ex military policeman after all. But, the manager seems all to calm to me, either he has seen it all before or he knows something. He appears to be white European, slim, forty or so and looks tired, not so unusual for a shift worker; except for the fact that everyone else around here is Korean. 'Catriona listen to me. It's not that bad, I had all the documents and money on me and we have no jewellery; it's a mess, but that's it'. 'I know your right Steve, but I'm not staying here and that's final'. The manager is ever present and alert; I get his name from his chest badge. 'Juan, I hope I have pronounced your name correctly. But can we have a new room please and leave this one for the police'. 'Yes sir, at once sir, we have a few rooms left, I am sure we can upgrade you'. 'How's that Cat?' 'That's fine. And can we get something to eat please'. 'Yes, I suppose so'.

The manager receives a radio call that the police are on their way up in the lift. By the time that we have given our statements and packed our bags and moved rooms, another 2 hours has passed. It's nearly 730pm. We are allowed to move our essential clothing and toiletries to our new room. And on closing the door, decide to leave our troubles behind us and head out into the night once more. We walk along 6th Avenue again, but quickly turn right and take a look around the Empire State Building. Once inside: we admire the expanse of dark brown marble, surrounded by the eclectic and artistic 'art deco' design. But we must eat, and we decide on something a little unusual tonight. A Jewish restaurant just of the Square; big cutlery, big steaks and a bottle of Red Wine later, combined with walking all day has settled us down and I am not too worried. I just can't shake of this nagging feeling though: could it be possible that Ray and his brethren are giving me grief, but surely not, I'm in New York, bloody miles away. With full bellies and heads clouded with good wine, we head outside once more. It remains bitterly cold, but the snow has abated. Snowploughs clear the side streets; a JCB is literally scooping up tonnes of snow into a city truck. It really feels like Christmas, I hug Cat and we stroll along the crowded pavements; back towards the hotel and the corner of 6th and 5th Avenue. 'Let's go into Macys' Catriona declares with a squeal of delight. 'Have they got a computer department?' I ask. 'Oh don't be silly for god's sake Steve! Leave it until we get home'. We dodge the crowds and wonder at the mechanical puppet displays in the windows of America's largest department store. We enter through a set of massive steel and glass doors into a huge triple height space filled with glitter and illuminated displays of wonder and temptation. I can't help myself though; I keep looking into mirrors and out of the corner of my eye to see if anyone is following us. It's my army training: always be observant, stay alert, and stay alive. It was only a little paperwork, it cannot have been that important, surely. Catriona kisses me on the cheek and grips my waist beneath my skiing jacket. 'It's wonderful darling, a shopper's delight. Let's go on up to the next floor.' We jump on the escalator, an old rickety wooden affair, a bloody museum piece if you ask me.

Chapter Ten: Trouble and then some. My alarm goes off at 0700hrs, it's the second day in New York, and it's 13th December. My body aches all over, so I try some serious stretching in front of the TV. 'Turn it down!' 'Yes dear'. I desperately need some exercise; so outcome the jogging shorts. 'Cat, are you coming?' 'Not today darling, I'm on holiday'. I give her a peck on the cheek and tell her I love her, she responds with a soft feminine groan and rolls over, determined to sleep some more. I pull on my track suit and tie up my trainers. I leave the room and stroll down the velvety corridor of the 12th floor, push the call button of the lift and wait. One or two people pass me by and I think nothing of it, I am starting to relax. The lift arrives with a rattle and an electronic 'Bing Bong'. I get in and hit the button for the ground floor; the lift stops at least 3 times on the way down and different characters come and go, but still nothing to worry me. I walk through the lobby, wave at the receptionist and pull on my skull cap and gloves. It is minus 5 degrees outside after all. The shock and bite of the cold air hits my face and I take short breaths, clouds of frozen breath hangs in the air before me. I start to jog away from the hotel, east along Madison. Not knowing where I am, the usual holiday thing is to jog for 20 minutes in one direction and then follow the same route back to my starting point. Dodging pedestrians, dogs and cars; it's difficult to settle into a rhythm, but I plod on.

The snow crunches beneath my trainers and it's only 10 minutes into my run when a black Cadillac screeches to a halt in front of me and two enormous black guys order me into the car. I momentarily freeze and then run, dodging the first guy as he makes a grab for me. I can hear swearing behind me as I sprint away, my heart pounding, my body pumped with adrenaline. The footsteps behind me are staying with me. 'Out the way; just get out of the way. Please.' My feet are slipping, ice crunching beneath my feet, every step is met with the insecure feeling that the traction between trainers and the pavement could fail at any moment. I knock a woman in her twenties flying and ignore the profanities being hurled at me from behind. I dodge left, then right, sprinting in the small gaps between pedestrians. Then it happens, from the side: all forward motion stops as I am rugby tackled from the side by a guy twice my weight; my head literally bounces of the pavement and a shockwave rattles around my head. Only my skull cap saving me from a serious injury. In a split second I am immobile and listening intently to a menacing whisper in my right ear. 'Stand up quietly and get into the car. That is a knife jabbing your ribs and we know where to find your wife'. I comply, simply too shocked to do otherwise, I am fit and strong, but this is in another league.

Shoved and bundled into the rear of the car, the comfort of the seats and smell of the new leather creates a distinct contrast to the uneasy situation of my confinement. The weight of my body sinks into the seat as the car accelerates away from the curb, tyres screeching. There's a guy either side if me, each bigger than myself, also one in the passenger seat and a driver. The front passenger turns around to face me. 'Hello Mr Mitchell, how are you today?' I cannot respond, I have a crushing pain in my right temple and I can feel the warmth of fresh blood down the side of my face. 'Give him something to clean up with' the guy in the front barks. 'Yes boss'. The guy on my right passes me a wad of tissues and I wipe my face, gently dabbing the swollen lump on my head; I start to take in my surroundings; we are all ready heading over Brooklyn Bridge. 'Mr Mitchell, listen to me. You have something that a dear friend of mine wants back'. 'What? What is it?' 'A black leather folder and in particular, a flash drive or memory stick as you British call them. There are many details of my friends business contained within, where is it?' His African accent is drawn out even more by his attempts at sounding American, bloody ridiculous. 'I don't know what you are on about'. 'Yes you do Mr Mitchell, our mutual friend Mr Ray Mead has already asked you politely for its return'. 'Who? What'? I stammer. 'Ray from the UK'. 'Yes Mr Mitchell, I am glad you are keeping up, where is it?' 'I have told him it must still be in the cafe'. 'Do not take me for a fool Mr Mitchell, you were seen leaving with it'. The last statement was timed with a hard slap to the face; my head violently jolted back and then cushioned by the luxurious leather head rest. My cheek throbs: my mind is now conditioned to the stress and pain of each blow; it is no longer a shock to me as it once was. We are now entering a residential area of New York; I cannot even guess what it is called. I only know we have been travelling in roughly the same direction for 10 or 15 minutes. I have been concentrating intently on staying alive, let alone reading street signs. Then I hear the click of something I have not heard since my army days, the hammer of a small fire arm being cocked. I lift my head and end up staring down the barrel of a pistol, possibly a small Glock. 'OK, OK, it's in my car at the airport'. 'What airport'. 'Heathrow, it's at Heathrow, I have the car park ticket in my room'. 'Just the registration will do'. 'Y216 PYW, it's a BMW 320'. 'Now we have settled our business Mr Mitchell, I will give you some advice. You should take care who you cross in the future; you never know who their friends are'.

The car then stops abruptly; the guy on my right opens the door, squeezes his huge frame out of the car and then drags me out. I get a back hander to my face, the motion of his arm finishing above shoulder height. I am staggering to my left when he then clenches his fist and brings it crashing down on my right cheek. Someone is shouting. 'Sir, sir, are you ok, can you hear me'. It takes me a while to collect my faculties and realise that I was out cold and it's the cold pavement I can feel against my face. I sit up and lean back against the wall, taking deep, but slow breaths as my body tries to realign its conscious place in this world. Then the pain sets in, my right cheek feels solid and acutely painful, my lip is double its normal size. 'Where am I?' 'Thanks I'm ok, thank you, really, it's ok '. My saviours now become a hindrance as I try to stand and they attempt to keep me on the floor to await an ambulance. 'What is your name sir?' I do not reply and continue to get to my feet. I stagger a little but continue anyway, I soon regain my balance and continue to the main street. I was taken over the Brooklyn Bridge, so I cannot be too far from the bridge. 'TAXI!' A frantic wave and a good shout in the right direction convinces the driver I am a paying customer, he pulls over and I climb in the rear seat. 'Hotel Stanford'. 'No problem sir, you OK? You look pretty rough to me sir'. 'Not my best day, but let's get a move on eh, I need to clean up'. He guns the throttle and the taxi lurches into the stream of traffic. He leaves me alone, but continues to glance into the rear view mirror in fascination of my condition. I must look a mess, cuts, lumps and dried blood. Catriona is going to have a fit; it's going to be interesting when I get back to the hotel. The driver drops me off and I shuffle through reception; Juan raises an eyebrow and scolds the other member of staff for staring and being indiscreet. I have pushed the call button for the lift, but the wait seems eternal, the lift finally arrives and I gratefully enter the cloaked security of its interior. Juan flies into the lift just as the doors are about to close. 'Sir may I help in anyway, Shall I call the police?' 'Your wife has been looking for you'. The lift starts to rise as I reply to his eager questions. 'No its fine Juan, I've had just about enough of this, I am going to have to check out and go home'. Its infernally busy and the lift stops on the 2nd floor, two women, chatting and smiling enter the lift; our conversation ends until I reach the 12th floor. 'Juan, I know you are trying to help but my wife is going to be pretty upset, so please leave us alone unless I call for something'.

The key card slides through the magnetic slot with ease; within a second of the door opening, Catriona has switched off the TV and is staring blankly at my damaged face. 'Steve, where have you been? What has happened? First the room and now this; what is going on'. 'It's Ray. Its bloody Ray, can you believe it'. 'That folder I took, it's way more important than I could have imagined'. 'Are you ok?' 'Yes, don't worry, it's all over now'. 'So what happened?' 'Well I was out jogging when I was rugby tackled to the ground and bundled into a car. They wanted the folder back that I took off Ray. I got a warning to be careful in the future and a good kicking so I don't forget. Two bloody great black guys and some other fella driving'. Catriona leads me to the bathroom and helps me clean up. 'Run a bath and I will order something to eat'. I ease my bruised body into the bath and sink into its comforting warmth.

Chapter Eleven: The Stake Out. 'Steve, let me look at that folder, have you got it with you?' In between each painful wince as I wash and soak away my painful cuts and bruises; I inform her that the originals are in the car at Heathrow. But: there's a copy of the memory stick and the letters on our cloud computing site. Just log in and you'll find it, it's all there. 'Get a laptop from reception and let's take a look'. Thirty minutes later and Catriona is in full flow, speed reading line after line. 'Nothing leaps out at me, what could be so important?' 'Look at item: 03 on the letter to Ray. It mentions a guy called McGovan; do you know who that is?' 'Not at all except that I read he is a well-known villain, a bloody menace to your average citizen.' 'It lists McGovan as an expelled brother of the Stratford East Masonic Lodge. How an earth he ever managed to be accepted in the first place is any ones guess.' 'It can only be money Steve, we all know money opens doors, call it bribery or charitable donations, but that's the short of it'. 'Ray is definitely some sort of courier and if McGovan is involved it can only be illegal and to do with money, and lots of it'. 'There's a letter addressed to Ray from the Stratford East Lodge, so we can assume Ray and McGovan did belong to the same lodge before McGovan was expelled; and then there's some minutes from a New York Lodge meeting, that's it. I can't for the life of me guess why someone would track us down in New York, strip our room and give me a kicking to boot, in the search of this paperwork; can it be that important?' 'We are missing something Steve, keep thinking, and let's keep this on the go. Even when they get the paperwork, you probably know too much all ready and you know what that means. It means continual trouble, now and in the future; this will not go away unless we sort this out'. 'Cat; the only clues we have are that Ray is a Masonic courier and that he has several communications from a New York Masonic Lodge. And McGovan knows Ray as they were both brothers of the Stratford East Lodge. Also: Two New York hoods, or more, must know them as they chased me through half of Manhattan after this paperwork'. I have told them the paperwork is in my car, which it is and they will have it shortly, this should buy us some time. They know we are in this hotel, so we need to move, and not go home as our house has been or will be a target'. But what they don't know is that we have a copy of this paperwork, available to us here and now, via cloud computing.

'Let's 'stake' the place out then, the New York Lodge Address is on the letter; and the heat will be off for a while if they have the paperwork'. The first thing to do is move accommodation; there are hundreds of motels on the edge of town. We pack our bags double time, double check the room before we leave and thank our hotel manager: Juan, profusely. We catch a cab to the car hire depot and are on our way in a Honda 4X4 within 35 minutes. Catriona drives while I watch for a tail. A short drive out of Manhattan and we come across a small Motel, it will do as a base, and hopefully a secure one at that. It's now 10pm and it's getting late, but we leave for something to eat, and then head out to the address shown on the minutes from the New York Lodge. As we approach the general area we slow down. We are in Bridge Water Township, a middle class residential area approximately 75 km west of New York, on interstate 78. We drive towards the main commercial road that cuts through Bridge Water. Catriona is studying the map and we slow even more as we look for our destination; two more blocks and then we head down a side street called Sunset Ridge. Then take a second turn and we are there: Buxton road. The atmosphere gets a little quieter and now feels far more sinister. The street lights are there, but further apart, it's just not as well lit. We find a parking slot and exit the car; coats zipped to the top and hats pulled down hard, its freezing. A thug of a man suddenly appears out of the gloom and is looking directly at us, we keep moving but my insides are frozen solid with the sudden visual impact of this guy. He walks past us and the tension subsides. 'Keep going Cat, its further down and it's on the left.

What we are faced with is a quiet street, white with snow, but dark as the street lights are non-existent. Thankfully the moonlight reflects of the snow and gives some visibility. I have to brush the wind driven snow off the road sign to double check it's the right street. Nearly an hour passes before anything happens and my feet are going numb with cold, I literally cannot feel my feet so we go for a walk around the block. Blood starts to flow through my veins once more, but my extremities fail to come back to life, I cannot feel my toes and half of my feet. We stand at the far end of the street and wait, tapping our feet and patting our hands to keep them warm. Then, at last, a car turns the far corner and I am instantly alert to what may happen next. As it draws closer I nudge Catriona, it appears to be the same black car that I was bundled into, which was a black Cadillac. I do not know the registration number but it looks exactly the same. They pull into the front car park of what looks like an old and small postal building, the tyres crunching their way through the snow without effort. The place is in reasonable order and about 100 years old. Built from plain brick; the red, soft looking type, with ornate concrete pillars and decorative lintels supporting the windows and doors. The tall roof is covered with patches of snow, but lack of insulation allows us to see patches of dark red biscuit tiles and the gables are designed with tall acute angles. Ornate concrete is again used on the gable ends to tie everything together and the glass is frosted, so no one can see into the place.

Cat, Its them, the two big guys who sat in the back with me and gave me a kicking, and the driver, smaller, but just as bloody nasty as the other two. They shuffle their way through the fresh snow and enter the building through a side entrance. 'Steve, what shall we do?' 'Let's wait a little longer and see if they settle in to something or leave'. Only five minutes pass by, when two more cars turn up in convoy, a ford galaxy utility vehicle and a Range Rover, the ford is black and the Range Rover is coloured a dark metallic orange. They are moving at speed, but easily make the turn into the street and park with an abrupt but short skid. Two men get out of the ford, both in suits, and both weighing at least 270 Ibs. Just one guy gets out of the Range Rover, again wearing a suit; the same build but taller. This is a big guy; now I'm not racist, this is a modern world, but they are all black, noticeably so. They greet each other in the car park and appear to be having a good time talking about a recent event. The big guy out of the Range Rover is patting the other guys on the back as if to congratulate them. 'That's six guys now Catriona'. 'I can count Steve!' 'Shall we get closer?' 'No. Not yet. We have no gear, no cameras; or anything to defend ourselves with'. It must be a good hour before anyone exits the building, it's the threesome again: the driver and the two goons that mugged me the other day; shortly followed by the other two and the big guy who is obviously the boss.

Cat and I realise there are three cars to follow and so we will need to decide which vehicle to follow. This could be a difficult choice, so we head back to the car and decide we'll pick one of them up on the main road out of Bridge Water. 'Hang back Cat, stay 3 cars behind the Cadillac; it's those bastards who gave me a kicking'. The choice is made; so we tail them out of the Bridge Water Township and on to the main turnpike, taking the 78 Interstate back into New York City. It's a steady drive at the speed limit with no drama; Catriona's driving, so I take down the plates as we swap lanes and get a good view of each vehicle. The Range Rover scoots off at junction 15. We follow the Cadillac and the Ford Galaxy into New York City. It's dark, bloody cold and the entire place is lit up: like only New York would be at Christmas, or any other time of the year come to that. After a slow drive through the traffic of Manhattan, we work our way through the financial district and over Brooklyn Bridge once more, it must be their home patch. They cruise down the main drag, suddenly swerving to the right and pulling in; the Ford Galaxy is always a few yards behind, but the minders never exit the vehicle. The two goons exit the Cadillac and approach a young lad leaning against a wall outside a pool hall. It's a friendly greeting of trusted comrades, even if the lad does look a little edgy. They enter the building, but soon exit about twenty minutes later with two small bags; it has to be drugs money. Then there back into the car, the doors slamming firmly shut. The car immediately accelerates away, joining the traffic with perfect precision. 'Go Cat; keep three cars behind, no closer'. 'What are they doing, is it drugs, protection money, or both'? It's another four blocks before they pull over again, and they approach three guys hanging around in a parking lot. We are on the edge of Brooklyn now, some way away from the big city lights and there is not so much traffic around; I ask Catriona to pass them by and pull over at least 100 metres down the road. 'What are they up to Steve?' 'There talking. There! The young one in pumps and a bomber jacket has just passed what looks like a wad of cash to the big guys; and is openly dealing with another guy. 'Steve, let's not waste any more time, we are gonna get caught and we are unprepared'. We have the Lodge address, and two sites of business. We need some protection, possibly a couple of small pistols and some surveillance kit, a camera etc'. 'Yeah your right, let's not push it, I can call Jeff as well to check the house and retrieve the car. We can go and get cleaned up, and get something to eat'. 'My only question is: if these guys are dealing drugs, and they know Ray and McGovan, what is going on between them? It can only be illegal and bad for your health. It can only be a drugs deal; can you believe it!' 'Shall we go to the police?' 'No, we need more evidence; we'll regroup and start again tomorrow'.

Chapter Twelve: The gun shop. It's now Friday morning and we head off to do some shopping; some serious techie type shopping. First call is a good old fashioned gun shop; here we go: Bud's Gun Shop in down town Bridge Water Township, family owed since 1952: bloody wonderful. The old time dingle of a mechanical door bell alerts the counter staff of our entrance and we browse our way past waist high display cabinets of an exotic array of armoured decadence. Long guns, short guns, shot guns, fully automatic, semi automatic, spray and pray; you name it and it's here; on display and on sale. 'Good day sir, how may we help you?' 'My wife and I are looking to purchase two hand guns as gifts for our relatives here in Bridge Water Township, is this possible?' The shop manager, or possibly the owner gives a clear and concise narration on what is, and is not possible.

'The feds say illegal aliens, that's immigrants, non residents and visitors to you sir, may not purchase fire arms; but: An alien legally in the U.S. may acquire firearms if he has a State of residence. An alien has a State of residence only if he is residing in that State and has resided in that State continuously for at least 90 days prior to the purchase. An alien acquiring firearms from a licensee is required to prove both his identity by presenting a government issued photo identification and his residency with substantiating documentation showing that he has resided in the State continuously for the 90-day period prior to the purchase. Examples of qualifying documentation to prove residency include: utility bills, lease agreements, credit card statements, and pay stubs from the purchaser's place of employment, which must confirm residential addresses. Are you able to do this sir, in any manner? I want to sell you a gun sir'. 'No can do, we are on vacation; we thought we could purchase a couple of small gats and leave them with our relatives' is there any way we can do it, it would be great fun'. 'The only way I can do it is if you were to be taking part in a registered and competitive event'. 'Well that's just fine then. Would you be able to register us for such an event? I kind of opened my wallet and let him see a hundred dollar bill, it appears to be working. 'That will be fine sir, let me show you some of my finest pieces; you can come back in an hour and my man will have completed the paperwork. Over here sir, in this cabinet you will see an extensive selection of finely engineered hand guns from the foremost companies in the world.

'Firstly: a 'C2 SP01 Phantom 9mm at $451.00, a beautiful piece, but maybe a little heavy'. 'Then: a Kimber Pro SP in slate grey $999.00, top of the range sir'. 'Thirdly: a Glock 37 4GAP in green at $379.00, not for you I think sir'. 'The New Ruger LCP .38 auto the ultimate pocket monster sir, a snip at $290.00'. 'A Smith & Wesson SW40E as used by the NY Police department, $269.00'. 'Then: a Heckler & Koch USP40 at $540.00'.

'That's it, no more, that's enough. The small one, how many rounds does it hold?' 'Good choice madam. The 'Ruger LCP .38 auto' Designed with both male and female shooters in mind; the LCP is as affordable as it is reliable. At just 9.40 ounces with an empty magazine, the LCP is lightweight and ideal for an all day carry. And to answer your question madam, it carries six in the magazine and one in the pipe. 'That's it Steve'. 'Two please kind sir, see you in an hour'. 'Would you like to try one in our range madam?' 'No, that's fine thanks'. ''That will be 580 dollars, plus 460 dollars for the licenses and gaming permits.' 'How are you going to pay sir?' 'Is VISA ok' 'That will be fine Madam, see you in an hour'. 'Catriona' 'Yes Steve' 'I always said you were a gun nut, you loved every second of that'. 'I just can't help it, it turns me on.

That first day on the Army Range during basic training was a revelation to Catriona, to finally be out of that bloody pink bedroom and be empowered by this beautiful piece of engineering that just slipped into her hand. She was the first to achieve the crossed rifles in her platoon, a 'marksmen' at nineteen years of age. The combined feeling of power and control over her target and environment was total; Catriona never looked back. 'Now what'? 'Well, last night. Whilst you were asleep; I asked the Motel manager for some help on where they sell electronics gear, radio's etc. Its surveillance kit we need, but I didn't want to sound really weird or suspicious so I played it down and acted like a real geek. Apparently there's a place a couple of blocks away, so if we move quickly, we may get what we need today. Come on, we need to get a move on'. Some 40 minutes later and we finally hit the centre of town; ask a few people for directions, turn a few corners and then, there it is: a whole street of electronic gadget shops selling mainly televisions, laptops and camera's. About half way down, we find what we want and have a good peer in the window before entering: night sights, microphones, binoculars, knives and guns; it's all here. We are greeted by the normal friendly staff you would expect and I'm beginning to feel good about this one, it should be a lot easier. We just need a couple of things: a well designed night scope, and a good quality camera, which must have an optical zoom. So we purchase a total darkness infra red scope with 5x magnification, good for surveillance up to 150 metres. Then, on the top shelf, I see it: the piece de la resistance! A 9 volt bionic Ear with a sound amplifier that allows you to 'zoom in' on sounds and whispers. The unit comes complete with headphones, a 12 inch parabolic dish, a booster and an Omni-directional microphone to amplify signal reception; providing clarity & directionality while eliminating background noise. Spot on! This is my scene to a 'T': surveillance and counter terrorism. It's a 10 inch disk, but we should get away with it. I'm a little worried as we head back to the gun store; our little agreement with the store manager seems all too easy. But we are greeted with a reassuring smile and no one pops out from behind the counter to arrest us, so we pay up and run for it. We stuff the gear in the back of the car and race back to the motel.

Now in the room; we unpack and test the gear. The night scope is compact, so much so, that it does not have a charger circuit and runs on batteries. It's a fantastic device, you can see clear as day in the dark, albeit in a light green hue; the cross hairs simulating what a sniper would see as he scopes a target. The bionic ear is a little clumsy, but I have no intention of getting too close to our 'brothers'. I fit the batteries and open the hotel window; it's time to give this $1,200.00 baby a test run. We are not on a main road, but the traffic and ambient noise is such that it must be impossible to hear what someone is saying at street level, even with this device. I put on the head phones and switch it on, the obligatory red LED can just be seen in the present daylight. 'Try that delivery driver Pete'. I aim the dish at Catriona. 'What are you doing Pete?' 'I need to calibrate the dish for speech, it's essential we do this otherwise I will never be able to pinpoint a target. So keep talking for a minute'. I slowly adjust the frequency and gain pots; it only takes a couple of minutes at this range. Good, I swing round; the delivery guys are just raising the tail gate of their truck. They are chatting away; I struggle to align the dish for a few seconds, but then: 'Did you see that chick josh?' It's a little faint; so I adjust the gain and frequency. 'Yeh, not bad eh, I would rather have a tip than an eyeful though'. 'You're not wrong there mate; come on let's get out of here'. 'There you go Catriona; how good is that! Sight and sound sorted, now what about those 'gats'. Catriona was in her zone, she was all ways good at this, it excited her so much; you could see it in her face. 'There pretty damn gorgeous don't you think, the whole thing is less than the size of your hand, brilliant for a pocket sized self defence piece. The only downside I can see is the sights, they are a bit small and do not have the white dots to assist you in low light. But to be fair, I can see why the sights are not a top priority, it's a point and fire piece'. 'You're not wrong Cat, have you got the ammo?' 'Yes my love. Winchester Silvertips; they have a more rounded tip and hence there is less chance of a jam. Remember to put one in the pipe'.

Chapter Thirteen: The second night of surveillance. It was 6pm on the 15th and we were both enjoying a quick meal in the restaurant across the road from the Motel. Trucks and cars rumbled past, it was a busy road, but we felt safe. I raised my hand to call for the check. A second later my mobile rang; it was Jeff, my best mate from back home. 'Hi Jeff, what's doing?' 'Not much in my back yard, but your car has taken a hit. The nearside passenger window is shot, there's glass all over the inside of the car. And someone has taken a kick or two at the same door. It's driveable though' 'Bloody Hell! I upset some guy at work and he knows a few people I can tell you; and the house?' 'Same, back door kicked in, draws and cupboards emptied. They were looking for something'. 'Do us a favour Jeff, call the AA for me and get the car home. And call the cops to the house. Then get ready to meet Catriona and me at Gatwick airport'. 'Catriona, what time is our flight due in at Gatwick? Have we got a flight number?' 'Hang on a minute, it's in my bag. Here you go, departure 430am on the 16th, arrival 10am, flight number yz203a'.

I repeat the information to Jeff and he is glad to help. He will sort out a few things at home, especially the house and our pickup from the airport. Now back at the room we place all the kit in a holdall and throw in a few energy bars, and a couple of bottled drinks. We're both dressed in dark clothes and trainers. We looked each other up and down, assessing each other's abilities and attractiveness; attractiveness you ask? Yes it's what all couples do, isn't it? Breathing deeply, giving each other courage, we kiss, lock the door and walk with purpose towards the hired car. If we could just get through one night of evidence gathering, everything may just work out in our favour. 'Right Steve, where shall we start?' The lodge in: 'Bridge Water Township' 'Why?' 'Because: if we can take a few pictures of people coming and going, it will prove association. The New York Police Department and maybe even the Feds will love it'. Catriona and I were getting in deep and knew it; our military training was helping us make the right decisions with regards the mission. But I was not even sure of this anymore. We were trapped within a sequence of events that could only end in violence. The police would regard our evidence as circumstantial and if we did not see this through, the situation would hang heavily on our shoulders. Until, one day, just around the corner, confrontation, violence, intimidation, possibly even death awaited us. We had to proceed.

The time was now approaching 6pm and it was all ready dark. The temperature was still minus 1, maybe even minus 3 degrees, it was not snowing, but snow covered everything that was not manually cleared or driven to slush. I was driving and approached the lodge road slowly, rounding the final corner with caution and parking at the start of the road. As I turned the headlights off the car became cloaked by the darkness of the street. Catriona was already checking her firearm was loaded and the safety was on; I did the same. She then leaned into the back of the car and dragged the holdall to her lap. She passed the parabolic dish to me and kept hold of the night sight. Red and green LED's shone brightly in the darkness of the car as we switched on the surveillance kit; Cat threw the holdall onto the back seat. It was at least 150 metres to the lodge, but we had a clear line of site diagonally across the road, and into the car park area at the front of the building. The big man's orange Range Rover was parked out front and light could be seen coming from inside the building. 'Shall we take a closer look?' 'No not yet, let's wait and see if the goons or anyone else turns up'. Now the engine was off, the car was getting cold and I started to feel it. Firstly in my feet, then my legs, this was not good. Sitting static, in a car, in minus temperatures was lunacy and our breath started to steam the windows. Then a car turned the far end of the street, so I wiped the windscreen. It was the black Cadillac, it parked behind the Range Rover; skidding in the snow and gently rocking on its soft suspension as the brakes locked and finally rested. Just a few minutes later it was followed by a blue Chevrolet with two as yet unidentified persons in the front seats. Our respective devices were trained on the car park targets, to see and hear what was going on. The car park was not well lit, but Catriona could still see the two goons and their driver exit the Cadillac with her night sight; and remain waiting for the other car. I had the window open and was all ready tweaking the parameter pots on the Parabolic Dish, trying to tune the dish to its best effect; smiling with satisfaction as I heard the first sounds of conversation start to break through the cold night air. The narrative was feint, but after few more tweaks it became clearer and I hit the record button.

'This should be more fun than your normal meeting. Nosa and Banta will be kicking ass for sure, business is slow'. 'Don't I know it, and that bloody job with those English idiots is not looking good; shush: here they come'. The Chevrolet parked behind the Cadillac. My mouth must have visibly dropped opened in disbelief. 'It's Ray, its bloody Ray and that McGovan geezer, what are they doing here and together to boot? Quick, get the camera, the camera!' Catriona quickly dropped the night sight and grabbed the camera, eagerly twisting the zoom lens in an attempt to get a clear picture of the group talking. 'I can't see anything'. 'Open the window, quickly! Get some pictures'. 'What are they saying Steve'. 'Not much at the moment it's all hi how you doing stuff'. 'Ray looks a little worried, but McGovan just looks hard and scary. They are being asked to go inside, must be for a meeting of some sort'. Cat and I were mesmerized by the sight of Ray meeting with these New York Cocaine dealers that appear to be using a Masons Lodge as cover to supply and distribute Cocaine. Unbelievable, what next? We both agreed in a glance that there must be more to the paperwork that I had took from Ray and we must get closer to the lodge to find out what was going on. It was now 10pm and extremely dark, dark enough to approach the lodge for sure. Catriona and I placed the night sight and sound equipment on the back seat, the folding handle helping to flatten out the 10 inch dish. We both patted our coat pockets to check the Ruger LCP's were ready and available. It was now or never; we got out of the car, gently closed the car doors and slowly walked the 100 metres to the lodge; with 20 meters to go I could clearly see the dark red sign on the front gable of the building. Underneath a sprinkling of snow, in a gold font, the sign read: 'The United Lodge of New York' beneath the writing was the classic Masonic symbol of a set square and compasses, but no letter 'G' as in the UK Masonic symbols; which stands for: 'By God and Geometry'.

A pedestrian passed us by on the opposite pavement, glanced over and immediately looked to the ground. Cat was getting used to the snow and casually kicked her way forward instead of stepping over the snow as before. Now only 5 metres in front of the car park, both our heart rates were up from a steady sixty to a racy eighty five beats per minute and still climbing. Cat touched her right pocket yet again to check her 'Ruger' was still there, searching for some reassurance of well being. Clouds of warm air hit the cold night with every breath, but neither of us could feel the cold anymore. Light was coming from a window on the left and so we headed for a narrow path down that side of the building; both of us were now stepping so slowly that the snow crunching beneath our feet made us wince with every step. As we approached the window, we could hear a low level conversation and every now and again a slightly raised voice could be heard. This voice was obviously one of the big African guys, a heavy African accent lilted with a New York twang was unmistakeable. Neither of us could be sure which guy it was, but it had to be one of the two boss men; Nosa or Banta. As for Ray and McGovan, you could not miss their vocals; Ray had the harsh, even metallic sound of East London, while McGovan's voice reverberated with that classic Glaswegian rubble from the back of his muscular throat. Now only a few inches from the window, the conversation was clear as long as they did not move further into the building; this side window was a clear glass but our view was obscured by a small curtain. Only a couple of 3 inch gaps allowed us to look into the room. I dare not risk a look into the room just yet, but continued to listen. The conversation was quite formal and polite when coming from Ray and McGovan, a sure sign that a high level of respect was unashamedly being presented; but when Nosa spoke it was with a defined and menacing presence that left fear in the hearts of all those who received his message. Only 3 voices could be heard so the other players were either listening in silence or were in another room. 'Nosa, please know we understand your frustration in our request to involve you with the Mitchells, it was an extremely unfortunate incident in London that left us with no choice'. 'No choice! All I can see is a honky white idiot of a man: Stupid and unreliable'! 'Please, it's not that bad Nosa'. 'Not that bad! You lose the details of our drop off to a 'nobody' from London and come back to me to help you get them back!' 'Did you hear that Cat? Hang on McGovan has stepped in'. 'Nosa, I am in charge of the UK operation and I shall make changes to reinstall some confidence. I will put a different courier in place instead of Ray. Ray can help me in other area's'. 'I do not think so McGovan'. In an instant of this sentence finishing, the building absorbed the shock wave of a high frequency explosion; an explosion so loud and instant that it could mean only one thing. I looked through the glass and saw a snarling Nosa standing over Ray with a pistol; McGovan was in shock, wide eyed and swearing continuously. Nosa had shot Ray through the chest at point blank range. Ray was on his back, his legs and arms convulsing as his brain tried to establish control over its now extraneous limbs. He was gasping for breath, but none came; his throat gurgled as his chest heaved on blood filled lungs. Nosa took one more step forward and calmly stood on his throat; Ray's eyes bulged with terror, blood spattered onto Nosa's shoes from Ray's mouth as blood was forced up his constricted windpipe. His confused brain was shutting down as it ran out of oxygen and he drowned in his own blood, his chest heaved once, twice and then stopped moving. Ray was dead. 'Do you get the message McGovan, sort it out. We have little time to get this sorted; it's only four more days until the drop off'. 'No problem, I have a team in London ready to go. We will pick up as planned'. 'I am sending Banta over with you, he is my brother, I trust him, and he will watch your operation'. 'Our plane will leave from the East coast in four days time, to the agreed location and complete the drop, you will, as agreed, retrieve the drop and our business will be done. Do you have the money?' 'Here it is; get your boys to count it if you want, but it's all there: £4.5 million'. 'We are done, good bye'.

Chapter fourteen: The Chase. 'They have finished. Let's get out of here!' Performing a crouching shuffle down the side alley; we then run across the car park and head for the car, slipping on the ice and snow. Its over 150 metres to the car, Cat is as quick as me, fit and strong; our doors slam in unison. McGovan rounds the corner just as I start the car, which makes him look up, and directly at us too. Cat panics and shouts at me to get a move on; this triggers an instant reaction from McGovan who starts to walk towards us and then breaks into a run. This is not good. I engage the clutch, ram it into gear, and gun the engine; but the car just twists and jerks in the slush and snow. Cat screams at me to take it easy on the throttle, even a 4x4 will struggle in these conditions. She opens the window, pulls out the LCP and lets off two rounds. McGovan falls heavily as he attempts to dodge the shots; a car window explodes just behind him. I whip the wheel to the left and push the throttle as hard as I dare, resisting the urge to floor it. The car jerks forwards as it finds grip and smashes into the rear light cluster of the vehicle in front, glass bounces across the bonnet of the Honda. I jab the throttle again and the car breaks free, heading directly for McGovan who has regained his balance; his hand dives into the left side of his jacket, he unholsters his hand gun, aims, and fires two, no, three quick, successive shots. 'Down, get down!' The Honda snakes and jerks. Two shots smash into the wind shield and exit the car via the rear window. Cat screams; glass splinters and cracks. Ducking below the dash and steering the Honda is not easy in any ones book and the car smashes into yet another car. The scrambling tyres find what grip is available, which is eventually communicated through the tyres, the 4x4 transmission, and the mechanics finally hurtle the car towards McGovan. He turns on his heels and heads for his car; he reversing wildly out of the lodge car park, the vehicle bouncing wildly upon the extent of its suspension and crashes into the car parked opposite, stopping him mounting the kerb. The two wheel drive Chevy struggles for grip and refuses to move forward whilst taking so much abuse, tyres spinning uselessly. Nosa's two goons run out to see what all the commotion is about, hand guns at the ready, expensive suit tails flying in the wind. Looking in the mirror, and just as we pull out of the street; I can see McGovan abandon the Chevy and jump into the Range Rover with the two goons. It must be a good half a mile down the main drag before we see the unmistakable front end of the Orange Range Rover behind us, swerving past one car and then the next. The advantages of the 4x4 Honda lost against the Range Rover, it's a struggle to maintain the distance between us. McGovans mobile rings and he struggles to release his phone from his trouser pocket. 'McGovan, what's going on?' 'Those bloody idiots that had Ray's paperwork were outside the lodge; god knows what they were up to or what they know'. 'We're on our way'. 'No! Its fine; I'm with your two blokes anyway. The Mitchells are nothing. I'll calm it down, take them out and report back; leave it with me'. McGovan did not want to involve the New York boss in this; he had to show he could contain any trouble and manage any UK issues. He would sort it, his life depended on it. 'Is he following us?' 'I'm not sure, there are too many lights; head for the motel'. 'No way, I have all our money and cards in my thigh pocket, it's all we need. I suggest we get out of here; we need a flight, and fast'. 'Our flight isn't until 430am in the morning, its only 1030pm now'.

Cat kept checking the distance between us and the Range Rover, the Honda screaming for mercy as we pushed the small engine to its limits. Its suspension rolling to extreme angles, as I jerked the steering wheel left, and then right to take advantage of any small gap. The larger engine of the Range Rover was not playing to McGovans advantage in the heavy traffic. If McGovans history was anything like my researched material suggested, there was no way he would let this go and risk his operation. McGovan had us in his sights and was just tailing at a discreet distance, he could not afford further trouble in a congested area, be arrested or become injured. He must make it back to the UK, keep Nosa happy and keep the operation on track. Four tonnes of Cocaine were to be delivered by plane to the UK; McGovan would control the distribution throughout London and the South East, the most lucrative market geographically for Cocaine anywhere in Europe. 'He's there, about four cars back, but he's not chasing as such, just hanging back'. 'Maybe he's got more brains than we give him credit for, but if he corners us and the coast is clear, you can bet your last dollar that its curtains for us'. What to do? How are we going to get away from McGovan? The hotel was all ready discounted as it was too easy to be cornered. The flight to the UK was not scheduled to leave until 430 am. 'Turn around'. 'What?' 'We are all ready on the main Interstate highway 78; do a U-turn at the next turnpike, drive for a 100 km, then head back into town. We've only just hired the car, we've a full tank of juice; let's hope McGovan hasn't'. The main turn pike was a couple of miles away and I could see traffic lights in the distance. 'If they're not green, jump the lights. If we get pulled over at least we'll have the NYPD at our side.' 'Take the slip road'. We approached the lights, slowing to 45kph, making it at least feasible to negotiate the impossible. Cars were slowing down for the amber light. It was going to turn red just as we got there, we would have to dodge pedestrians as well as cars. My hands sweated on the wheel, my mind racing to predict the movement of pedestrians and vehicles alike. The shattered screen was a dire hindrance and compounded the problem of fractured light emitting from dozens of street signs and road illuminations. If it rained or snowed we wouldn't stand a chance and would have to stop. The junction lights were at amber and there was only fifty metres to go, cars in front were all ready slowing down to a near halt, a few accelerated to beat the red. 'Look left! Cat screamed, up the kerb'. I jerked the steering to the left, the Honda's 4x4 system electronics leaping into life, taking power away from the left wheels and pulsing power to the right wheels 100 times a second as the traction control kicked in. The Honda hit the kerb at 60kph; a nearby pedestrian just froze with shock as the Honda firstly hit, and then bounced over the high kerb. Now steering wildly to the right and just as the Honda stopped bouncing across the pavement, the front left wheel nearly deforming under the strain, the Honda cut across the traffic just before the pedestrian lights turned green. Horns sounding as drivers reacted with shock and anger. McGovan followed, but the Range Rover was fitted with ultra low profiles only good for one thing, posing. The granite kerb knifed its way through the 35mm tyres and dug into the soft alloy rims of the chromed 20 inch wheels with such force that the front nearside burst instantly, the weight of the car forcing it to continue in the direction it was travelling when the tyre burst. The front left wheel rim digging into the pavement, sending sparks in to the air. The behemoth of a car crossed the paved corner of the street, and finally jolting to a halt in the middle of the side road; oncoming cars breaking wildly to avoid a smash, tyres screeching.

'YES! He's crashed and burned; we are home free, for now'. McGovan stepped down from the Range Rover, his face red with anger; he slammed the door, swearing profusely as he cursed his luck. The two goons from Nosa's team released themselves from the stricken vehicle and just looked at McGovan. One pulled his mobile out and pushed a speed dial; Nosa's phone rang immediately. McGovan was sure he could hear Nosa shouting from where he stood; he had only three days to sort this out; this was not good. A concerned passer by ran up to McGovan with genuine concern, asking him if he was ok. McGovan told him to 'go away and die' and calmly walked off. He would go for a coffee, call Nosa and arrange to meet Banta for the flight to the UK. Then instruct his guys in the UK to use their contacts to find out what flight the Mitchells were on; he would fly back within 24 hours and expect some results. This would calm things down, Banta would be on the team and the UK team would be waiting for the Mitchells flight at Gatwick.

Chapter Fifteen: The run for home. Cat discussed the latest info gained from casing out the lodge. Nosa shouting about there being only four days to the drop off, it was now the 15th December; so the drop was scheduled for the 19th. It was an air drop, and 4.5 million dollars meant the drop was for at least 4 tonnes of Cocaine. McGovan and his mob will have a welcoming committee at Gatwick airport for sure. It really wasn't much to go on, but they did have a copy of the paperwork that was swiped from Ray Mead; there must be more clues hidden within the notes. They would find time to examine it during the flight, but that was not until the morning. They must get to the airport now and try for an early flight before McGovan reached the airport himself. His contacts would do their work and he would soon know about any flight booking under their name. Cat called the airport while I did the driving. It was approaching 1120pm now and the roads were still busy, it would take at least an hour to drive to the airport and McGovan would only be thirty minutes behind them. His transport was disabled, but he would just call a taxi. It was a good ten minutes before Cat had managed to struggled through the call managing system and reached an operator of British Airways. 'They have two seats available for the 0030hrs to London Heathrow, so get a move on and we'll make it'. 'A change of airport is good; How much?' 'Does it matter? Another $700, if you must ask'.

I accelerate to the outside lane and push on through the sludge as fast as I dare, using full beam to push slow moving traffic aside. The feeling that McGovan was only just behind us continually filling me with dread, I shiver with the thought of that mad man getting anywhere near us. 'Take junction 5a, it will take us down highway 54, and from there you will see a sign for the airport'. 'We need to dump these 'Rugers' before we reach the airport, give me your piece'. Cat took each piece in turn and removed the magazine, ejecting the loaded shell in the process. She then dismantled the firing mechanism and threw a small part of each hand gun out of the window every few miles, eliminating the chance of anyone putting the pieces back together. 'There, take Junction: 5a'. 'OK, nothing to it': swing the car to the right, join the slip road, ease off the throttle and as the approach tightens into a right hand switch back, the Honda rolling on its chassis, the 4x4 reaching the limits of its traction control and the grip of its tyres; we round the last corner. The corner finally straightens out to a new stretch of highway with promise of the required destination. Another 10km passed by and it was now 1130pm. I pushed the Honda still further, onwards through a dark wet sea of traffic; until we finally reached the turn for the airport. The Honda swung right and took the final turn, as if, as if it could sense the end of the road was near. We approached the filter lanes to the car parks, and the departures 'drop off zone' was just ahead. Fully intending to dump the Honda, we headed for the nearest car park across from the terminal. The tyres squealed as I jammed on the anchors, stopping a few millimetres from the gate. Push the button, take the ticket, and up goes the bar. The tyres squealed once more as I stamp on the throttle, momentarily lifting off as I threw the Honda up the first ramp, then the second and finally to the third level, before selecting a spot to leave the Honda to its fate. The surveillance kit was left in the holdall and thrown in the boot. The wrecked Honda was just abandoned and we headed for the terminal, walking across the linking bridge, down one floor and then into the 'check in' area. It was 1155 and we were dishevelled; panic was beginning to creep in and take over. Our army training, which remained in a sub conscious minds, kicked in without any effort and slowed the surrounding issues to a series of manageable pulses of thought, where each problem was catalogued to require a solution. Each catalogued problem was not released until a solution had been found.

The British Airways desk was in a prime location and immediately caught our eye as we entered the main concourse. We pushed our way through the crowds. Cat reached the desk first, leaning on the raised surface, breathing hard, trying to gather her composure to ensure a speedy communication of her plight. They must move quickly to stay ahead of McGovan, but she took a moment, catalogued her problems and engaged the 'check in' staff in a standard and calm manner. 'Good evening, my name is Catriona Mitchell, I called an hour ago to change my flight, my request was accepted over the telephone for the 0030hrs flight to Heathrow; can you please confirm this and point us in the right direction'. 'Certainly Madam, do you have your booking reference and passports?' I urgently searched my thigh pockets for the original tickets, and passports. 'Here, here they are' 'Thank you sir'. The young lady was polite and efficient, but oblivious to our plight as she input the required details to confirm the process. 'You have a provisional booking for the 0030hrs flight that is now boarding, would you like to proceed with the previously confirmed credit card details under the name of Catriona Mitchell?' 'Yes. Please'. 'The additional charge is $700'. 'Yes, that's fine; will we still make the flight?' 'It will be fine madam, have you any luggage?' 'No'. 'Thank you. I will call the boarding desk and ask them to await your arrival. Here are your tickets and boarding pass. Please proceed to the departure lounge and gate 24'.

Looking up and twisting round, we searched for a sign that would provide the required information to lead us to the departure lounge. There it was, across a sea of bustling humanity, illuminated from above. We ran, bumping and jostling the surrounding and innocuous crowd to reach our destination; but with so many people on the concourse we slowed to a hurried shuffle, past one person and then the next, dodging suitcases and trolleys. Finally approaching the entrance to the departures lounge, a temporary feeling of safety swept over us as we left sight of the main concourse; cocooned by the inner heart of the airport. Cat and I began to relax, as we queued to be searched, removing belts and boots in time to box up them up for examination by the X-ray machine. I looked at Cat, she had a clear look of relief on her face and I felt the same. She touched my arm, and I took her hand; squeezing it in a strong but affectionate manner, that let her know I was still there for her and loved her deeply. She held on and gave me a lingering kiss on my cheek, looking into my eyes with love and relief. After collecting our affects and now out of the crowd: I decided to give Jeff a call. 'Hello mate, is that you?' 'Hi Steve; are you all right?' 'Not really Jeff, I'm scared witless if you must know. You know that bloke I mentioned, Ray mead?' 'Yeh' 'well his bloody dead mate, shot through the chest at point blank range and we witnessed it. That psycho McGovern chased us through New York; we managed to lose him but his goons will be waiting for us, and he will be on the next flight'. 'All right, what can I do?' 'We are literally boarding a flight now, meet me at Heathrow airport in 4 hours; that's 530am: UK time'. 'Will do mate'. 'We will need a quick getaway, so drive around the drop off circuit until we come out. In fact: as soon as we land I will call you, and you can park in the drop off zone. We have no luggage, so no worries there'. 'Ok Mate, see you soon, bye, bye, for now'.

There it was: gate 24; 'boarding passes please'. The boarding tunnel was cold, long and hard edged. But, the standard flight greeting was warm and polite, if not over the top as usual. A painted lady with an extremely wide smile gave the customary verbal greeting and a guiding hand to the correct isle. After settling into our seats; I could feel the confidence that McGovan could not have made this flight; Cat and I felt safe for the first time in four days. Catriona began to relax, her heart rate slowing to below 55 beats per minute, her breathing slowing to no more than 15 cycles per minute; I sank into my chair and closed my eyes. A steward was already giving the safety presentation when Cat reached out and touched my hand on the shared arm rest between our seats; we continued to hold hands for at least 30 minutes, eyes closed, just enjoying the security provided by knowing your partner, friend, and soul mate was sitting next to you. I could hear the whine of the jets as the captain taxied to the start of the runway, his precise and educated narration instilling confidence in everyone who confided in his flight briefing. The lights dimmed and we sank further into our seats as the jets roared, and the plane accelerated down the runway. And then skyward with power and confidence, the sort of confident power that only the modern jet engine can provide.

Catriona was awakened by the stewardess distributing a late meal. She then woke me; I was in a deep sleep and was genuinely shocked to be pushed back into this mortal world, but Cat was right, we had not eaten for at least 7 hours, we must eat. I was groggy, bordering on angry but accepted the situation and gladly received the meal and a hot drink. The beguiling and calm atmosphere of the plane interior was a wonderful tonic in comparison to the recent life and death events of the previous 24 hrs. We ate their meals, sank into their seats one more time, and drifted off to sleep. It was another 3 hours before I woke to find Catriona poring over Ray's paperwork, looking for clues to where the drop off could be. 'Any ideas' 'Not yet love, I'm looking, but if it's here, it's hidden in the text. Rays East Ham Lodge letter mentions McGovan, but the New York lodge minutes are something else. Why would Ray carry these back to the UK'? 'Let's both start at the beginning; two sets of eyes will spot it. We've got the emblem, nothing new there. A set square and compasses, nothing new there. We could check the lodge name and number, The United Lodge of New York No: 1275. Still means nothing to me'. 'I know Cat. Nosa said the drop off was in 4 days. If we take his statement literally; it will mean the drop off is scheduled for 19th December. But we still need a time and location'. 'What are those numbers beneath the logo: 51.02.00.00' 'Is that a reference number, a date, or a time. What could it be'? 'It could be a time if the five was not there. Reading it backwards would give zero hours, zero minutes, two seconds and fifty one of something else, which is nonsense'. 'There's not enough variance for it to be alphabetical'. 'I agree'. The rest of the document was attendee names, business proposals and some minor finance issues to do with the lodge. None of the names and text lends me to think that there is any link with a UK location. Item 6 refers to a new member being proposed from the New York District: Cambridge. A Peter Dale; are there any dales in Cambridge? And if so, where; and we still needed a time, and even a method to smuggle the goods into the country. 'They said it was by plane'. 'Steve, leave it, there's nothing there.' 'Yes dear'! 'You do realise we will need some help to pin this down, don't you. Even if we manage to sort this out, which I agree must be done to secure our sanity and future safety; we will never be able to do anything about it. Ray's dead, and is probably wearing concrete boots by now. And that psycho: McGovan has tried to kill us; and will continue in his vendetta until he succeeds, a man like him does not like to lose. His crew will be waiting for us at the airport, we won't make it home'. 'Take it easy Cat; we will think of something. I will think of something'. Our hands were clamped together tightly, so I hung on and gave it another reassuring squeeze, she reciprocated. Then we leant inwards to each other and kissed and as our skin brushed gently together, I could smell her sweet scent that so coalesced with my own. Cat turned toward me and spoke of her fears: 'I'm ok Steve, but that McGovan is an out and out killer and I desperately want to defeat him. To get him locked up. But he must have dozens of people ready to do his bidding. We are really in deep here. Shall we go to the police at Heathrow?' 'We don't have a lot on him at the moment; he didn't kill Ray or even injure us. We could inform the police on what has happened at the lodge, but our evidence of them dealing drugs is purely circumstantial; it would be enough for them to start a surveillance operation in New York, but not on McGovern, we need more evidence. Let me look at those numbers'.

You can only stare at a set of data for so long. Firstly the numbers, then the rest of the letters, and then the numbers once again; nothing came to us, no ideas, and no triumph of logic. I was slowly losing the will to succeed. I sank back into my seat and hit the 'ON' button for the TV screen that was embedded in the front seat. A white welcome screen flashed into life and a message in italic text scrolled across the centre of the display: Welcome to you, our most valued customer. Please enjoy using the information and entertainment media system'. A blue background then slid in from the right and held a map of the Eastern seaboard, the Atlantic, the UK and Northern Europe. A small graphic interpretation of the Boeing 747 was shown following a flight path that just overlapped Greenland and headed on to the UK; the flight was mid way between Greenland and the UK. Adjacent to the 747 graphic was the numerical display of latitude and longitude. It was then that I had my triumph of logic, could it be? Could the numbers in the letter be latitude and longitude? The illuminated display stamped its graphical impression on my mind; I was sure this was it. 'Cat' 'Yes love' 'Pass me that letter please'. The numbers listed below the logo were definitely in the right sequence, was it possible? The plane had WIFI so I took out my mobile and fired up the web browser, searched for a lat long website and after a couple of tries settled for a website that allowed me to search a lat long location. I typed in the lat long numerical and a small flag appeared on a map. So far, so good; I nudged Catriona. 'Look Cat, the flag is on a land mass over the UK! This must be the drop location'. 'Oh Steve well done, this is it, it must be'. It was not what I had expected at all, I had assumed the drop off would be over water and a planned pick up would be completed by divers at a later date. Cat had clearly heard the drop was by a small plane; so there was no reason why the drop off could not be over land. The area certainly looked remote enough to receive a drop and if a group were ready they could easily retrieve the drop and be on their way within 30 minutes. This must be the location, it's all we had and I was feeling quite pleased with myself. All we needed now was a time for the drop.

Cat continued to push me for a decision on who we should inform about the information we had gathered; it was imperative that we go to the police. Having survived so far, it would not be long before McGovan caught up with us and we would end up in a world of pain; and or more to the point, be killed. After days of running around, the soft, comfortable seats sucked us both back into their warm folding arms. Our hands touched once more on the central arm rest and I am sure Cat was on an identical wave length to me; as I pondered at what I should do; and who I should tell. It was 3 am and the flight was only 3 or 4 hrs away from Heathrow. We fell into a deep sleep. The seat belt alarm nudged us awake. It took some minutes to untangle my legs and stretch out as far as I could. Catriona cursed me for taking up all the space before she could stretch out also. The flight was approaching Heathrow and the flight staff hurriedly cleared up and stowed away service equipment. The realisation that we may have a welcoming committee was hitting home; Cat looked at me and each of us knew exactly what the other was thinking. We could easily be picked up entering the main concourse and would probably be tailed when Jeff picked us up. The only other choice was to avoid customs and head for the fence, but the chances of getting past the CCTV and the guards was remote. We had no choice. Airport security would easily pick us up if we left the passenger route from the plane or took an exit before customs; the chances of getting away from the main building and out via a fence or a gate was minimal. The best option would be to keep calm and meet Jeff, he had a good motor and our chances of escape were far greater. I did not want to involve Jeff but he's a big lad; he will help us get away from the airport and McGovern does not know his identity.

There was no luggage, so to walk straight through baggage collection was a bonus and we headed straight for customs: 'Nothing to Declare', past 'Duty Free' and down the corridor to 'Arrivals'. The double doors to the main concourse flew open as we charged through and kept walking; bobbing heads with zealous smiles peered over cardboard messages, looking for relatives, friends and business contacts. No immediate threat could be perceived through the chaos and we kept walking at pace, but calm and focused to reach the main exit. The exit to the 'pick up' point was some 400 yards away at least and Catriona was terrified. My peripheral vision alerted me to a movement from our extreme left, my subconscious mind was on some sort of primal overdrive, my adrenaline was that high; but on looking left for a second time I could still not confirm any immediate threat. Cat paced past me at some pace and headed for the first sign giving directions to the exit and pick up area. I followed and again was drawn toward a movement on our left flank; I looked again for a third time and could see a blond man staring straight at me. The human reaction is to look straight back, you cannot help it. So I looked back at the blond man and our line of sight locked together, the blond man's expression suddenly raised to one of surprise and the game was on. He immediately tried to push his way through the crowd towards us. A brunette woman followed the blond man closely. I raced past Catriona and yelled at her that we were being followed, we both ran, pushing people out of the way, breathing heavily as panic set in. The door's to the 'pick up' zone and the taxi ranks was in sight; Jeff would be waiting. We ran straight at the automatic doors, but they were desperately slow and I crashed straight into them, my fingers rammed their way through the rubber safety strip and forced the doors open. Catriona twisted her body sideways and squeezed through. We both stopped abruptly, all we could see were taxi's, taxi's everywhere, where was Jeff? 'Steve. Over here'. At least another hundred yards to our right, down the pavement was Jeff's lumbering hulk, waving and shouting. We ran, we ran as fast as we could, shouting at Jeff to start the car. People in Hawaiian shirts and flip flops, others in their best to impress, looked on with amazement. Jeff started to walk towards us? What is he doing? Cat and I kept running for the car, we were now level with Jeff. Unbeknown to us, the blond man had gained considerable ground and had nearly caught up with Cat. I was now at the car and opening the door. Cat was a few metres from the car and had now passed Jeff also. The blond man was now coming up to and was going to run past Jeff as he was unaware of his identity. Jeff is 5' 11'' and 22 stone, a solid lump of a man. In one short sharp motion, Jeff raise his thick set arm, lent into the action and 'clothes lined' the blond man. The blond man's head and neck stopped abruptly, his legs and torso kept moving forward until the neck and head stopped this forward motion, whipping the blond man's legs into the air. The blond man was, for a second, completely airborne; he then crashed to the ground, cracking his skull on the concrete pavement. He lay there, groaning in pain. Jeff calmly kneeled down and punched the man squarely in the face; the blond man's head shook with the weight of the punch and then did not move. 'Come on Jeff, let's go'. Cat and I are all ready in the car. Jeff slid his twenty stone bulk into the driver's seat and started the Jag with a dainty push on the start button with his pudgy finger. He then gunned the throttle; 3 litres of fuel injected and twin turbo assisted V8 propelled the Jag out of the parking lane and into the traffic flow; the weight of the car and its passengers loading the rear axle and suspension as it accelerated away from the kerb. Looking back, we can see the brunette woman kneeling over the blond guy and looking up as we pass by; a scathing look of hate so evident on her pretty face. 'Where too' 'Well not ours, that is for sure, yours will do just fine' We could do no more for a while except sit there in the Jag's sumptuous seats, once more cocooned from any danger; for now. We were soon on the M25 and passing junction 8 at a steady 90 mph heading for the Dartford Bridge. Jeff eased back on the throttle and adjusting the cruise control to a steady seventy five mph.

Chapter Sixteen: The Next Move. Catriona opened the conversation once more. 'What the hell are we going to do? We can't go off gallivanting across some field chasing bad guys. We need the police'. 'I agree, we have survived this far, but its time to give in and get help'. 'The nearest police station then.' Said Jeff. 'Yes mate'. Catriona cuts in: 'No, I don't think so. You'll end up talking to some idiot who calls someone else for authority to proceed, etc, etc'. 'Well who then?' 'I don't know, I don't know'. 'What about that pest at your work' 'My boss, Tom Brule' 'Yes, Tom Brule. I guarantee he will know senior police staff, and will help us'. Catriona was not so sure; she never did like the man. He was self perpetuating and untrustworthy. I on the other hand felt the same as Catriona, but was prepared to use his contacts and put up with his annoying nuances. It was time to give him a call, the work number was ringing, and then Tom answered the call. 'Steve? You're on holiday, why are you calling me?' 'Oh nothing much, some ones ransacked my house, wrecked my car, beaten me to a pulp in New York, shot at me, and chased me for my life to and from the airport, nothing much'. 'Are you OK?' 'Cat and I are in one piece but that's about it. Can we meet today, maybe this afternoon? I need your help with this one. I need to see someone with authority in any police department. The MET, Scotland Yard, anyone Tom'. 'Steve. What makes you think I can do that?' 'Tom, please don't take me for a mug. I know you and your family are all Freemasons and that you know more people in this world than anyone has a right to'. 'Steve, let's leave the wider issues for another day. I may be able to help. Shall we meet at your place?' 'No way; up town somewhere. Do you know the Costa Coffee, just down from the City Group Tower at Canary Wharf?' 'Yes. When and what time?' 'Later today, say 4pm'. 'That's fine Steve, see you later' 'Tom, thank you very much; we need help and we both appreciate this'. 'No worries Steve; see you there.' I closed the call down and looked at the other two. It was now about 630 am; we needed a good clean up and a rest. So we headed for Jeff's house and each took a long bath. The bath was immediately followed by a good English breakfast: Sausages, eggs, mushrooms, beans, bacon, toast and several mugs of tea to wash it all down. During the ravenous consumption of breakfast, we both thanked Jeff for coming through as a true friend and rescuing us from the airport thugs. The clothes line swipe to the blond mans throat was a power move that only a big guy like Jeff could execute. I leant over the table and patted Jeff on the shoulder and Catriona stood up, walked around the table, and gave Jeff a huge wet kiss on the cheek. He went visibly pink in the cheeks and brushed it off like any pal would. Cat and I soon headed for the spare room whilst Jeff slouched onto the sofa and switched on his 'big ass' TV.

Chapter Seventeen: Back in New York. McGovan had called Nosa and agreed to meet Banta at JFK airport the following day. McGowan was sitting in the business class lounge drinking coffee when Banta arrived. McGovan looked up, acknowledged Banta with a nod and waved over the waitress; who dutifully poured another coffee and asked Banta if he would like anything else. Banta looked directly at her with a glint in his big brown eyes, his brilliantly white teeth flashing in contrast to his black skin as he grinned at her. 'Not just now thank you my lovely'. His voice was deep in tone, nearly growling with the Congolese accent, and yet had a rolling finish affected by his time in New York. The young girl quickly turned tail and scurried away. Banta laughed loudly and was clearly disturbing the other users of the lounge. McGovan did not flinch, but gestured that Banta may want to sit down to discuss recent event a little further. Banta reminded McGovan that he would require evidence to the efficiency of his UK operation, and the man power he had in place to handle the drop. They talked little throughout the trip to London and headed for McGovans 6 bedroom house in Upminster, Essex. McGovan's wife and associates were waiting for them. A good meal was served and then onto the drawing room to discuss business and confirm every last detail of the drop. McGovan had told Nosa that his men had dealt with the Mitchells on their exit from Heathrow airport; a completely fabricated lie. McGovan was on the edge and could not afford to let the brothers know his grip was slipping; if they found out, he was a dead man for sure. Nosa had called McGovan at 7am for confirmation on the previous night's conversation. At the time of this call, McGovan did not have confirmation that the interception had been a success. He had lied because Nosa was in a particularly foul mood, had cornered him and McGovan could not continue sounding so amateur by admitting he did not know what had happened at Heathrow airport. He was now in the really bad position of playing Banta along, planning the drop and managing a small team to find the Mitchells. He had to find the Mitchells or he would end up the same way as Ray: as in dead. McGovan went through the plan with his team and confirmed every detail with Banta. Who would later call his brother and confirm that McGovan had things in order, that everything was well planned and the operation was looking good; so they should proceed with the drop.

The actual route taken by the drug mules starts at the Mexican border. It's here that the local gangs take on all the risk to smuggle the drugs across the border and into America. And as there is no shortage of volunteers queuing for a free ride into America; Nosa does not have to purchase the goods until they are on US soil. The drugs that do make it through the border are then driven from the west to east coast. This would take at least eight days, but was easily the safest way to transport the goods. A steadily driven saloon car was invisible to the state police forces. Only a traffic accident or speeding ticket would put the trip at risk. Once the goods arrived in New York, they were stored at the lodge. It was the next part of the operation that was the cleverest of all and it had taken two years to setup. Baggage handlers at JFK had been 'persuaded' to join the brotherhood and were loyal to Nosa. They were rewarded handsomely, received protection and could not resist the circle of risk and reward. Trips would only be planned when his team of handlers were on shift. Bags clearly marked with a coded symbol are diverted for inspection and not X-Rayed. The tightly wrapped packages of white powder are removed from the bags and passed to the runway staff on the team. They have access passes to load international flights with baggage and freight; this includes privately chartered aircraft. The packages are easily fitted into other freight for concealment during the loading process. Baggage and freight staff, continue to be a common problem for any security operation at an airport, but the combination of long hours and low hourly pay provided a beautiful opportunity for the likes of Nosa and his brother. Once staff were befriended and enlisted into the brotherhood, they were trapped by oath. This was fine for the few that leant towards criminality anyway and enjoyed a cloak of protection that to them, far outweighed the risk of getting caught; but a life of servitude to others who were controlled with threats of violence and even death.

Chapter Eighteen: The Meeting. Catriona woke first at about 2pm, and promptly woke me with a nudge to the ribs. After a good stretch, yawn, and a quick chat about the basics of what we wanted to achieve today; we dressed and headed for the living room. Jeff was still on the sofa, but awake and making rapid progress through a barrel of biscuits. I walked straight into the kitchen and put the kettle on. 'Do you want tea and toast Cat?' 'Yes please'. We sat at the table and discussed our next move. We had to corner McGovan or we would never be safe. Catriona was concerned about my move to involve Tom Brule; I agreed that it was a risk, but Tom new a lot of people and he would be able to introduce us to the right contacts, senior police officers who could to put a serious amount of human resource on the ground. If it all went well, McGovan and his cronies would be in custody within the week. Catriona looked worried, and to be honest I was too, Jeff was his usual nonchalant self. We knew roughly where and when the drop was, all we needed to do was convince the cops that our information was good and get them to mobilise an operation designed to trap McGovan and all the bad guys. It sounded easy but we all know these things never are; we left to meet Tom Brule. He was sat in the far corner of the Costa Coffee as per our agreement. His short and tubby appearance always bordering on the comical; but to his credit his smart and expensive suits had always saved the day and gave the impression of money and style. He had a pretty boy face, well cut dark hair and always looked smart; even good looking. Again: an opposite when compared to me: tall, fit, hard even, with a thinning but shaven scalp. I was always smiling to alleviate the worry I could see in everyone's face as I entered a room. 'Hi Tom; how you're doing?' 'Not bad Steve; yourself?' 'Well, I've had better holidays than this last one that's for sure! And how are things at work?' 'Just as bad if you must know'. 'Sit down Steve, relax, and you Catriona; how are you?' 'I'm fine thanks Tom'. Cat was her usual curt self with Tom; she just didn't trust him, plain and simple. 'And this is a friend, I presume?' 'Yes Tom. This is Jeff, my best mate'. Jeff just sat down and did not say a word; his usual 'say nothing' style and sheer size, enabling him to control his environment with little worry of eloquence or a need to impress. 'Ok, what's the issue here? Why the sudden drama of a must have meeting at short notice?' A waitress attended our table: 'Coffee anyone?' 'Yes please, skinny Latte's all round'.

Now I did not necessarily trust Tom, but I had no choice really. He listened intently and sometimes with utter astonishment at my tales and information, accounted from, and investigated in: New York. Tom seemed to listen with a renewed level of interest when I went on to describe how I came to have possession of Ray Meads business folder and what I found contained within, and as our coffee arrived: how the same folder implicated association with the known criminal 'McGovan' and that they were both Freemasons. Albeit, McGovan was expelled, but he was a Mason and he was in association with Ray Mead. The final and damning link: being the sighting of both men together at the lodge in New York. And the two of us witnessing his murder; then McGovan hindering our escape and chasing us through the Bridge Water Township, and Manhattan: Guns blazing. We have been busy haven't we? And where an earth do I fit into all this? And have you been to the Police?' 'We have not been to the Police, here or in the States, because we have been busy trying to stay alive. We want to approach the UK Police now, but have not got a clue on how or where to start, so that we may be taken seriously. We reckon there is only two days to the drop and we cannot afford to be giving statements for two or three days while they get the gear and disappear. This is where you come in'. 'I do?' 'Yes Tom; You and I damn well know you have more than one contact within the City of London Police, maybe even the commissioner himself. Setup a meeting within twenty four hours and we will spill the beans; and then hopefully the cops can set up an operation to nail these bastards'. 'Well Steve, it seems like you do have a point and I may be able to help you. This seems serious enough not to be a waste of my time. I'll do it'. 'Great. Where do we start?' 'Go home and'. 'I don't think so'. Catriona interrupts. We were all thinking the same thing; but Cat was in to him like a shot from an LCP! 'Ok, OK, Catriona. Go where ever you feel safe. Call me in twenty four hours and I will have your contact ready'. 'Not quick enough Tom; make it twelve hours instead, we do not have enough time'. 'Ok, it's agreed then; call me in twelve hours. That's at 5 am tomorrow morning'.

This was good news. I think. We all stood up, shook hands and departed the Cafe. The expected doubts and criticisms from Catriona came forth as soon as we hit the open air; she was still going when we got in the car. 'You can't trust him, he's a slimy toad, he will only make himself look good and dump us in the mire'. Well, as much as I love her and to be honest still lust over her tight little bum, this was getting boring and hence I started getting a little stressed myself. 'We need him Cat! He will get us straight to a senior detective. We can explain our story and share our information; and then nail these bastards with the help of the law'. 'I just hope your right Steve, for all our sakes'. Jeff headed down the A13 and out of the east End, the street lights now blazing brightly as the evening turned to a cold and black night sky. But it was not overcast so the stars shone brightly. I stared up through the top of the windscreen at the night sky and thought to myself what a bloody beautiful evening for a jog, blood lovely. We soon passed the last speed camera and Jeff pushed the Jag up to a steady 80mph. It wasn't long before we hit the junction for the M25 turnoff and then quickly onwards to the Queen Elizabeth bridge at Dartford. 'Where are we going then?' 'Jeff's' Demanded Catriona. 'It's Ok with me Steve, if that's what you want, none of these mugs know where I live, should be safe'. 'Let's do it. Food would be good too; Chinese?' 'Suit's me'.

Jeff's mechanical alarm clock was ringing my ears off and Catriona was punching me in the back to turn it off. The playful but thudding punches were soon replaced with Catriona's feminine warmth soaking into my back; I rolled over and embraced her deeply, taking in her sweet aroma. The same sweet aroma that captured my very being some 17 years ago released by the prime evil link that bonded us together without our consent. We kissed and hugged, my groin pushed into her womanhood, I became hard, but held back. It was at least a week since we had made love and I was missing the intense pleasure that only mutual copulation can provide. But how can anyone chill out and make love when you know McGovan could knock on your door at any time. 'Cat' 'Yes dear'. 'Let's get breakfast and call that slime ball Tom'. 'OK'. Jeff strolled into the kitchen just as Cat was cooking the bacon; the smell wafting around the bungalow was a delight, quickly followed by the smell of strong coffee. 'Lovely Cat, got some for me?' 'Anything for the man of the house: first service in two minutes'. Jeff joined me at the table and Cat shortly after, we all laid into the bacon, eggs, beans and toast. 'So, today's the day then. Who is going to call him?' 'It's got to be Toms buddy Steve' Sniped Cat. 'All right give it a rest Cat. I'll finish my grub and give him a call'. 'Not from here; on the landline or on a mobile. They could trace either call with software or triangulation. Drive at least 5 miles down the road and call him from there'. 'Fair play Cat, that's good thinking'.

The call to Tom was friendly, brief and thorough. He had great pleasure informing me that he had sorted things out and that I should meet him and his contact at 2pm, at New Scotland Yard, Victoria Street, London. This sounded good to me and on my return to the house, I gleefully informed Catriona that he must be on the level as we were to meet this detective at New Scotland Yard. As nervous as I was, it all sounded credible to me. We talked about it, and talked some more, but nothing changed, we still had to go or we would never be free. Jeff offered to bring his brothers and some of the local hoods in to watch over us. I seriously considered this, but thought we would stick to the plan and use the legal route. We had a police contact that was sure to listen and then devise a plan to trap these drug smuggling thugs. Jeff repeated his offer. 'Are you sure Steve? These boys can handle it'. 'No thanks Jeff, it will be fine, I don't want to drag your family and friends into this, it's not right'. I touched Catriona's hand once more and asked her if she was ready. 'We need to wash and change, then get ourselves up town; let's get a move on. Its 9am now, and we need to leave at 11am on the dot. And we need to take the car, not the train'. 'Yes dear!' I could definitely sense a lighter mood developing. Maybe the idea of meeting our detective police officer was creating a false sense of security. Personally, I am still very aware of the predicament we are in; one slip on our part or shear bad luck that McGovan or his mugs catch up with us and we are in trouble. The life threatening kind of trouble, let's not kid ourselves.

It's a cold and dry day when we drive into London, nothing special happens. The traffic is normal, busy and congested, but the Jags auto box is a pleasure for Jeff to manage the traffic, and also creates a delightfully smooth ride for the passengers. All this belies the weight of worry that puts creases of stress across my forehead; and causes Catriona to tense her eyes into small slits, as if fending off a series of bright lights. But it's not bright and sunny outside; in fact it's definitely over cast with a thin layer of winter cloud. We are soon passing Victoria train station and heading up Victoria Street towards New Scotland Yard. Take the left and park a little way down by the tube station, there are some parking meters on the left. Don't bother calling for an e-ticket, we may not be long. It's only 1330 hrs, let's just wait here a few minutes. A good ten minutes pass by and the car is unnervingly quiet; but the silence is broken by a sudden tap on the rear passenger window, jolting us all to the bone. All three of us turn to see who our assailant may be; then sigh with relief as we recognise Tom's grinning face through the glass, his breath misting the window, his pudgy finger wiping the misted glass. I immediately jump out of the car followed by Catriona; Jeff is still in the driver's seat. 'Bloody Hell Tom, you know we're on edge at the moment'. 'Sorry old boy; couldn't help myself'. Catriona just stares at him with contempt. I can see the daggers in Tom's back as we speak. 'Well are we going in? Will Jeff get access to the underground car park?' 'No'. Catriona immediately jumps in and accuses Tom of a double cross, and is already opening the car door to leave. I grab her arm and Tom is trying not to smile at Catriona when he repeats himself. 'NO, to the car parking: senior personnel only. You will have to park down the road and then access the building via the front door like any normal visitor. It's also a Saturday, so don't worry there will be plenty of spaces and we have a 24/7 security guard at reception.' I gave Catriona a reassuring look and thanked Tom. It's bloody freezing and the cold was getting to me. I rubbed my hands together and pulled my skull cap over my ears. 'Can we get a move on, I'm freezing'. Tom nods at me and instructs me to ask Jeff to park down the street and meet us in reception. I actually start to feel quite excited as we walk across the street towards the entrance of New Scotland Yard. I have quite often felt regret at not joining the force on my release from the Military Police. Now was my chance to enter a new world of intrigue, power and dangerous military style planning to catch world class villains; this was impressive stuff and we would surely reach an agreement to devise a plan of action, to ambush McGovan red handed with the drugs. The automatic doors opened to our approach and we immediately felt the comforting warmth of the above sited air curtain, the hot airflow washing over us. The three of us entered the building and found ourselves in the public enquiries lobby; we sat down and waited for Jeff. During this time I took the opportunity to ask Tom who we were meeting and if he felt they could help us. Tom was in his element: he was needed and could show off. His eyes sparkled with enthusiasm as he told us of his plan. The meeting was not easy to setup, he had to call several 'brethren' in his search for a contact, but finally hit the right note with a good friend of his from an adjacent lodge. His colleague had to get agreement from his contact that the Inspector was available. Once the essential background information was passed on and its importance understood, he agreed to the meeting. His name was Detective Inspector Peter Bramley and he had been with the force for fifteen years. He was experienced, respected and would listen to what we had to say.

Jeff ambled up the approach path to the entrance; baggy jeans hanging onto who knows what for support, and incredibly only wearing a T shirt on his upper half. Even though he is my friend, I can only guess that he has enough insulating fat not to feel the cold: The Fat Bastard. It was now that Tom headed for the lift and pushed the call button; Catriona and Jeff spooked him. Something was not quite right with Tom, I had always thought that anyway, but put it down to his complete lack of emotional rapport with anyone or anything. He was like it with his wife, friends, work colleagues and anyone I had seen him interact with; I was quite used to it and took no notice. We were here in New Scotland Yard, so I was sure I had made the right moves and that we would get this situation sorted. Cat and I would then get our lives back in order. Jeff squeezed into the lift, pushing us to the back of the car. Tom pushed the button for the 6th floor. The car gently powered its way up, slowed down and gently locked into position to enable the doors to open. Jeff walked out and we followed, Tom was at the back of the group and pushed his way through to lead the way. We were in a small reception lobby and a young lady of approx 20 yrs of age jumped up from behind her computer screen and smiled. As no obvious police personnel were present, her smile quickly turned to a stern look of concern. 'Good day how may I help'. Tom declared he had a scheduled meeting with DI Bramley. 'Oh I see' she replied in a short, curt manner. 'Please take a seat'. It took 10 minutes; but then a smart apparition of the classic Victorian brit breezed his way in, briefly smiled at the receptionist and headed straight for Tom and offered his hand. The hand shake was soft and deliberate, and a bit odd. Fingers to the back of the hand were paired and straight. 'How are you Tom?' 'I'm fine Peter it's good to see you once more'. 'Are these your friends with an interesting story to tell?'

Cat and I stood up to accept an introduction, but were sorely disappointed as Tom and peter just strolled off; Tom just wagging his finger to instruct us to follow. On following him through the intersecting door I was surprised to see that we were not in an open office clattering with activity, but in a corridor with at least a dozen side office doors. The corridor was painted an off white and had one of those thick, but hard wearing carpets similar to the type you find in a good hotel. Not what I was expecting at all, but it was well lit, nearly glaring to the eyes. Twelve or so paces along the corridor and we filed through the 3rd door on the left. The room was so busy with furniture and personal anecdotes from his personal life and professional achievements that you felt obliged to work through his life history before beginning any business. The guy was your typical high achiever and obviously enjoying living the dream. I was pleasantly surprised to see the office was of some size and had a large window, allowing plenty of light to enter the room and for its occupants to admire the view. Jeff was his usual self and just sat down in the most comfortable chair without being asked, but I must say with Tom and Peter being so 'buddy buddy' it was the only course of action to make any sense. Catriona and I just stood to attention in front of his desk as he calmly made himself comfortable; then finally he gestured to us that he was about to speak and we should pay attention. He looked over, smiled and said: 'How can I be of assistance?' 'Where do I start?' 'At the beginning: Mr Mitchell, at the beginning'. I could not help but get a little animated, Tom and Peter Bramley just let me carry on. Then Catriona waded in and then we explained about my fallout with Ray, but did not explain any further details as to why we fell out. And then some details about our trip to New York; that was meant to be a holiday, but turned into a mission to survive and how I was beaten to a pulp and left on the sidewalk. We had to move hotels; and how we searched for evidence by watching the hoods that gave me a beating, and whilst we kept the lodge under surveillance; we spotted Ray mead turn up with McGovan. 'And how did you know where this so called lodge was?' 'We had Ray Mead's paperwork, which he had left behind at the cafe Costa in London. But to be honest I only starting reading it in some depth after our room was ransacked and I had received a beating. Cat and I wanted to find out what was going on. And what did we find? Ray Mead was a Freemason and was in cahoots with a known UK criminal called McGovan, who had been expelled from his Freemason Lodge and was meeting New York drug dealers in a US Masonic Lodge. Come on! And while we were watching them, they spoke about a UK drop off. They were arguing about Ray Mead and his mistakes and then this big black guy just shot him at point blank range. 'How do you know they are drug dealers?' 'Well it was pretty bloody obvious! We followed the hoods to the lodge and also whilst they collected cash from the street dealers. When we were outside listening in, they were talking about a drop off to the UK team'. 'Did they mention drugs or any other illegal substance during this argument?' 'Well actually, No'. 'Mr and Mrs Mitchell, It appears you have had a rough time and got yourself into a bit of a mess'. Catriona was infuriated and was all ready shouting at Bramley before I could stop her. 'A bit of a mess; do you realise we have had our home and hotel room ransacked, our car vandalised and Steve was nearly kicked to death. In addition to that: we have witnessed drug dealers in action and a man shot at point blank range. I was nearly killed as we tried to escape the lodge; that psychopath McGovan tried to chase us down as we headed for the airport. What are you going to do? And they were waiting for us at Heathrow airport; they are organised criminals who will stop at nothing to kill us'. Detective Inspector Bramley calmly replied that he would take our information and discuss a plan of action with his team of detectives. He would update us early on the day of the drop about his plans to set up a sting. If this did pay off, it would be a pat on the back for him and we would be free to live our lives. Tom just sat there and listened to the story throughout the meeting; only know did he sit up and in quite an aloof manner declare. 'Ok then Steve? Peter will sort the team out, check your facts and mobilise the operation. It'll be fine'.

I smiled, thanked them both, and offered my hand. Catriona and Jeff stood up and left. I was on my own and feeling awkward; so I backed out of the office with more of a grimace than a smile on my face. Cat and Jeff were already in the lift lobby, nothing was said, even when we were in the lift. It wasn't until we were in the car that Catriona broke the Ice. It was all too cosy, and no Police protocol was followed at anytime during the meeting. No formal interview, no statements and no official paperwork. I don't trust them, we need a plan B. 'And what do you propose'. 'We use Jeff, his brothers, and their mates'. 'To do what' 'Look. If we let Jeff inform his brothers of what is going on, Jeff can track us, keep an eye on us and let rip if need be'. Jeff looked me in the eye and nodded. 'Ok by me'. 'I don't think we should wait for Tom's boy Peter Bramley either. We have the Latitude and Longitude coordinates; and we know the drop off could be at any time tomorrow. If we go tonight and stay in a local hotel, we can setup a hide first thing in the morning. The drop will not be until that evening anyway. And we get away from Jeff's also; by relocating we reduce the risk of McGovan catching up with us. 'We will need sleeping bags, binoculars, green plastic sheeting and something to eat and drink'. 'What about something to defend ourselves with; we managed in New York, but here in London?' 'Jeff, can you help? What about one of the Cray boys?' 'With only eight hours until we travel up north? I can't promise anything and what condition it will be in, is any ones guess.' 'Try Jeff, please'. 'Look Steve, we are nearly back at the house, I'll give the lads a call then'. 'No Jeff, we need an outdoors shop and fast, you can give them a call while we are in the shop. Ok.'

Chapter Nineteen: Back at the house. We start to unpack our bags, lay the gear out on the floor and have a good check of our basic survival setup. The temperatures are freezing at this time of year and the weather forecast is bleak. Any idiot can sit on wet ground, shiver and suffer. Sod that. Jeff's mobile rings and he appears to be in deep conversation with someone. 'Who was it Jeff'. Our luck appears to be on the up, his brother is coming round in two hours. We have two hours to shop for some outdoors gear: coats, gloves, ground sheets, binoculars and a bivvy for shelter from the rain and elements. We have not long returned when there is a knock on the door and in walks Kevin, all 15 stone of 6ft Cray Boy. He has an old worn out Puma holdall he is holding at arm's length. His size and strength belies the effort taken to carry the bag; but the bag gives the game away, as the handle is clearly stretching. Pleasantries are exchanged. He places the bag on the dining room table and reaches into the bag. He removes 2 objects and places them on the table; each object is wrapped in dirty rags and connects the table with a metal on wood 'clonk'. The first is unwrapped and reveals some sort of revolver that is in a reasonable condition. The next object reveals itself to be a sawn off shot gun, it looks a little older, scratched and mistreated. Cat and I reach over and take hold of a piece each, spinning and splitting to test the operation of each unit. 'Bloody Hell Jeff, is this it'. 'This isn't a bloody gun shop in New York you know'. 'There'll do Kevin; any ammo?' 'Yep' Another reach into the holdall produces a plastic bag of shells for the shotgun and a box of rounds for the revolver. Cat jumps in: 'What's the price for these works of art'? 'That's funny Cat, very funny. To you, a good friend of the family: seven hundred and fifty quid.' 'I don't think so. Four fifty.' 'Six fifty.' 'Five hundred pounds sterling.' 'Done; money by tomorrow.' 'Possibly' 'You're the wife of Jeff's best mate, no problem. I know you are good for it.' Kevin leaves the guns and the bags; he shakes Catriona's hand, and then Jeff's hand, in that order. And then he gives Jeff a longer, hard look of communication, as if they have a differing agenda and are far ahead of the present situation than the other present parties could possibly know about. I noticed it, but could not put my finger on it; so you leave it, what else can you do.

We settle down over coffee and toast to discuss our plan. Catriona and I agree to travel to Surrey and book into a hotel. From there we will monitor the drop zone throughout the suspected day of the drop, literally from 0000hrs through to 2400hrs. At some point the Detective Peter Bramley will contact us and arrange to meet up for a briefing on whatever sting they have put into place. At this point we can inform them of our location and negotiate the way forward. Jeff's brother interjects and wants to know more detail. Jeff holds him back, but I know this lot can be trusted and so we proceed to give them a little more. Look here Kevin; I have an ordinance survey map, the latitude and longitude coordinates point to an area of ground just outside Furner's Green, which is on the A275 Lewes to Crawley road. It's about 70 miles from here. Jeff, has someone got a car we can borrow? Other than the Jag, which people have seen already? 'Take my work van, it'll be ideal'. 'Cheers mate'. It's now approaching 5pm on Thursday and I would guess that the drop could be at anytime in the next thirty one hours. As we do not know the time of the drop, we will cover the drop area from midnight tonight, as dictated by the information we gleaned during the stake out in New York. The moral issues of letting 4 tonnes of Cocaine and god knows what else into the country worries myself and Cat; but I can honestly say at this time, I am more concerned with getting McGovans crew locked up so I can live my life with some degree of sanity. It's time to get a move on, the Jag is outside, so I drive away from the house again to ensure my mobile is not triangulated. It is not until I am 5 miles away that I switch on and wait for the call from Tom.

Chapter Twenty: The race to Furness Green. At 1715 hrs the phone promptly rings, its Tom as expected. Tom informs me that DI Bramley has raised a sting team and will be heading up to Furness Green tonight in preparation for tomorrow. He is onboard and as keen as us to nail this one. It will be a high profile sting that is not only politically inspiring, but career lifting. The media will love it. He suggests that I must stay away until the police have done their work and the trap is sprung; I will only get in the way and be a great danger to myself and his team. An agreement is reached and this keeps him happy, but I have known Tom for some years now and he is only happy when he is getting his own way; it's pointless trying to explain our plans to him.

On catching a little movement in the rear view mirror of the Jag, I immediately say good bye to Tom, put the phone down and look into the rear view mirror once more. I can see a few cars behind me, but nothing grabs my attention. Then as I pull away from the kerb and proceed back to Jeff's, I have to queue before turning right at the traffic lights and then I spot something; a Silver Ford Mondeo with 3 guys and a woman inside. Two of them, I immediately recognise are from the airport: the big blond guy is driving and the brunette woman is in the passenger seat; two hoods are in the rear seats. As I look into the mirror once more, the lights turn green and the brunette woman catches my eye, she realises they have been spotted and I can see the animated urgency of the occupants as they try to kick arse and get to me. The Jag doesn't let me down; the torque is so strong and it accelerates with ease. I feint a turn, but instead of turning right, I head straight on to the main road and the M25. They are at least four cars behind and driving as urgently as I. Now they have been spotted, they have only one option left, to stop me, subdue me, and use me to get to Catriona and the others. I grab my mobile and hit the speed dial for Catriona. 'Hello. Catriona Mitchell speaking.' 'Cat, it's me Steve, and I've been spotted, I'm heading for the M25'. 'I told you Steve, it's that damned Tom Bramley, he cannot be trusted'. 'Maybe Cat, Maybe. I will drive the 'Swanley to Orpington' ring road. Meet me with the van at the Orpington high rise car park. We'll do a quick swap on the top floor and dump the Jag; ask Jeff to pick it up later'. 'OK'. 'Do not bring Jeff and the lads along, it will be mayhem'. They were about 4 cars behind me and the traffic was a little busy. You could overtake occasionally and that was the game we played. Any opportunity missed was an opportunity for the other to gain. Pull out accelerate and pull back in before hitting oncoming traffic or having a permanent relationship with a bloody traffic island. I hit the slip road for the M25 London circular at about 90mph and was doing 110mph before the end of the slip road; and gunned it to 120 mph as I crossed 3 lanes in one manoeuvre. My adrenaline was on overdrive, my senses alive with the will to live. The silver Mondeo was leaving the slip road as I pushed the Jag down the outside lane: My advantage? Yes. This was my manor and I knew exactly where I was going. I had to cover approximately 5 miles and take the second turn off at junction 3. Then the main road to Orpington from the M25 junction was another 5 miles of fast 'A' road. I passed junction 2 and stabbed the throttle once more; hitting 130mph as I eased the Jag into the middle lane in preparation for a dive into the third junction and the run for Orpington.

I'm heading for junction 3 when the bloody phone rings, so I jab my finger at the in car system and its Jeff. 'Steve, are you OK. Do need some help?' 'No; not really Jeff. I'm running scared but I'm in front. If I take these guys back to your place or you even meet me anywhere it will be shooting gallery for sure'. 'What then? You want us to stay here?' 'Yep, pick up your Jag from the Orpington high rise, and let Cat take the works van. I'll do a swap on the top floor; there'll never notice us coming out as they go in'. It takes me a good 10 minutes to do the 5 miles to Orpington town centre and I can see the silver Mondeo in my rear view mirror all the way. I drive round the back of the high street and straight into the multi storey car park. On reaching the top floor and I can see Jeff's white van parked neatly and ready to go. Cat is waving frantically at me to get a move on. I screech to a halt and lock the Jag as Jeff will take his spare keys. Catriona is pulling away before I even close the passenger door and we are already two floors down when we spot the Silver Mondeo racing up a car park slope through a gap of its construction. Catriona times the exit from this level with the Mondeo's egress to the same level; they would have only seen the tiniest glimpse of the van if at all. It was time to hit the M1 and head for Furness Green.

It's now 7pm and we have not booked a hotel. Cat and I are quite aware that we are running out of time. The drop is scheduled for anytime tomorrow, but will it surely be early am or after dark, it could be during daylight hours, but that would be extremely risky and highly unlikely. It will take 2 hours to drive to Furness Green, so we will not get there until approximately 9pm. At the moment: I am not worried about getting a hotel room or whether McGovan will catch up with us; but I am worried about Tom and Peter. Tom called just as I spotted the car tailing me and Peter has not called at all which is a real worry. Tom did say an operation was in motion and that we should stay away, but until McGovan's crew is arrested, we are not safe, pure and simple. We are relieved to get away from Orpington; it was safe for a while but we need to keep moving. Our plan B facilitates this; it gets us away once more and gives us an opportunity to help nail these killers. It only takes two hours to get to Croydon, which is the nearest large town to Furness Green. We head into the town centre to find a hotel and book a room. It takes some time for us to clean up, wind down and relax; its 10pm before we realise it. 'Cat. Shall we eat?' 'Oh yes please, down stairs will do fine'.

It's during dinner that we discuss our options. Shall we leave the surveillance until after dark tomorrow or try our luck from early in the morning? The date we had worked out from Nosa's statement was 19th December and every operation scheduled for a calendar date must surely refer to the period of night time that follows. The drop couldn't be during the day, could it? Catriona pulls an ordinance survey map out of her coat pocket and we start to study the map over a glass of Sauvignon. The good food, wine, and the hotel atmosphere begin to take affect and my mind wanders. I begin to notice Catriona' sweet smell once more; I lean over the table and kiss her quickly on the lips. All I get for my trouble is an incredulous stare and a quick rebuff, and told to concentrate on the job in hand.

Chapter Twenty One: The drop off. The area is heavily wooded and my guess is: if an excuse can be found to explain a drop in altitude, a day drop from a chartered aircraft is totally feasible. A night drop in this area would be difficult, not for the pilot, but for the idiots trying to find the bags in the dark. I am sure they would not go so far as to put tracker beacons in the bags; and the next villages would see any temporary landing lights, and vehicle lights would be a dead giveaway also as they drove up and down this disused lane. The map clearly illustrates higher ground to the west of the site; any drop would be lower down in the valley base and be shielded by the expanse of trees. We both agree to set up a hide on the high ground, west of the valley. The approach from the west will be difficult, but a safer and more importantly will provide a panoramic view of the potential drop zone. Our early morning call is booked for 5am, breakfast for 530am. Things are looking up.

The van starts first time. The weather is near freezing and the ground is wet, but it's not raining and there's only a gentle breeze. The thermal underwear is a definite boon; the coffee and sandwiches are also packed. The sleeping bags and plastic sheets are in the back of the van, so we should be comfortable for hours. Catriona reads the map and gives me directions; it gives me time to reflect on our nemesis McGovan. He is a violent and emotionally devoid individual, a controlling sociopath. He is dangerous and as I start to reflect on the past week or so, I become doubtful of my own abilities, unsure, insecure even. It's not as if the police have helped either. We drive out of town. It must be a good 15 miles from Croydon to Furness Green. The A roads turn to B roads, and then into single lane tracks; that follow hedge rows which line the edges of cold, wet, fallow fields. The van crashes into pot holes and struggles for grip as the road gradient increases toward the higher ground. Each corner in the road brings us further into the wooded area; it's clearly shown on the ordinance map. We park the van in amongst the trees and head east, looking for the tree line and a vantage point that will enable us to see most of the valley below.

The weather is grey and overcast, cold and drizzly; and Water drips off my nose as I try to focus the binoculars on the lower ground to the East. The drizzle is a real bind as I set up camp, but I get there eventually and we settle in for a few hours of landscape watching. 'Steve'. 'Yes'. 'Can you here that'. 'No'. 'Quiet'. Nothing, I could hear nothing and then the faintest of noise; I wasn't sure at first but then: yes! It was an aircraft engine somewhere to the south. And it was coming this way. It took some time, but the whistle and roar of a small jet aircraft was definitely coming this way. I suppose it was pretty obvious really; so much better than a night drop. We are in the middle of nowhere; the weather is awful, overcast and wet. Anyone with any common sense would be in doors, and if not the visibility was so low that the risk of anyone spotting anything were virtually zero. The grey sky was set with low lying clouds that clipped the hill tops; how the pilot could see anything was beyond me. But then as the engine roar grew to its loudest yet, the craft broke through the cover of cloud and swooped through the valley. As the sleek jet bottomed out of its dive, heavy bags appeared behind the aircraft in a sweeping arc to the ground. One, two, three, up to 8 canvas bags hung heavily behind the craft on small parachutes, then hit the ground with a soft thud and slid across the valley floor. The jet then powered its way back into the cloud and away. The roar of twin jet engines fading away with Doppler affect. It was at this point that two land cruisers left the tree line and drove towards the line of bags. Five heavy set guys then leapt out of the vehicles and swung the tailgates open; hauling the bags into the rear of the vehicles. It only took three minutes or so from the time I saw the cruisers, to when they were leaving the scene. The only sign of any activity was the heavy tyre marks left behind in the soft and grassy ground. Cat was hitting me on the back with excitement.

'Let's go Steve, NOW'. We both crept out of the hide and headed for the van. The decent from the hillside was a ride to hell for sure. The light rear axle of the van stepping out on every tight bed as the front wheels dug in and struggled for grip on the downward camber of each corner. 'Easy Cat. Easy'. 'Yeh all right, they are out of here and we will never see them again. And where the bloody hell was the police operation? Have you ever been so bullshitted in all your life'. 'Just get round to the east side, find them on the main road, and hold back. We need to follow them and find out where their base is located. What happened next was surreal, my mind and body absorbed the impact, but my soul and real being as a person could not comprehend the violent redirection of the van from a forwards and natural driving motion to an instant 90 degree impact of a giant sledge hammer. The chassis of the van was thrown upwards from the ground and rotated so the left side of the van hit the road surface, the side passenger window shattered instantly, glass digging into my forehead and left cheek. My left shoulder took most of the impact and as my head bounced away from the road I received a second blow on the right side of my head. It was Catriona's head crashing into mine. The van slid for some twenty yards onto the grass verge and came to a halt. The engine screamed in agony as Cat's foot must be jammed on the accelerator. 'Cat. Cat, are you OK'. No reply, there was no reply. I had cuts, grazes and some heavy bruising but I was OK. Cat was just slumped onto me though and not moving. The van was hit from the right, so Cat took the full impact and I am now at ground zero. My whole being, every fibre of my body, screamed at her again. 'CAT, are you all right!'

Someone was walking past the windscreen directly in front of me. Just as I was about to shout for help, I saw the baseball bat: and then before I could cover my face, the bat was lifted and brought forward with such force that the tip of the bat broke through the screen on its first blow, then it was wrenched free and brought down again and again. The screen shattered, then folded and then gave way all together as it was kicked in by our assailant. 'Get him out, NOW! Come on, Hurry up'. It was McGovan; there was no mistaking the depth of malice and the strength of command in his voice. My belt was cut and my body dragged out of the van, my shins scraping across the dash. Cat slumped further to the left and groaned; she was coming around. 'Cat, I'm here, here! Over here'. 'Shut him up'. I received a punch to the nose, I felt the flesh of my nose crumple, and my skull took the impact of two large knuckles. A cold numbness ensued, followed by the warmth of my own blood flowing across my face. My head was mashed into the wet gravel of the road and a heavy knee forced its way between my shoulder blades, pinning me to the road. I exhaled a painful groan as I struggled to breathe and replenish the oxygen my body so badly craved. Every cell in my body wanted to panic and scream for my life; but something inside me was holding me together, accepting the pain as inevitable, and maybe, just maybe, finding an opportunity to live. 'This Mr Mitchell is the price of prying into the private business of other people, of which has nothing to do with you. I believe this is your precious wife'. In an instant I knew who it was: the person laying down the law, not the law of the land which he preaches as an ambassador of public servitude; but as the law of the strongest, who take what they want; it was Peter Bramley and he was in league with McGovan. The thug holding me to the ground held his hand over my mouth, and wrenched my head round to look at the van. Bramley was standing next to McGovan and Banta, the guy from New York. Banta had that look on his face, the same over confident and violent look that I could see when his brother killed Ray Mead. But it was McGovan who raised his arm; he was holding a silenced hand gun. There was no hesitation; two muffled shots hit Catriona in the chest, her body convulsed with each shot. The realisation on her face as she struggled for breath was one of fear and terror, as blood raced into her lungs. My mind seared with agony; my cries of anger and frustration stifled by the hand across my mouth. My face creased and tears wet my face. McGovan took two more steps toward the van, raised his arm once more and fire a single shot to Catriona's head; her body shook one last time and then lay motionless. Two of them dragged me across the road and shoved me into the first land cruiser. I was in the back, in the middle and incoherent with psychological shock. The anger within me for what they had done to Cat exploded into a violent outburst as I attempted to attack one of McGovans team guarding me in the rear of the Land cruiser. A short sharp elbow to the face, followed by a pungent smelling cloth across my face put a stop to my incompetent attack. I was out cold.

Chapter Twenty Two: The Bromley Lock up. The drone of traffic slashing its way through wet weather conditions made me realise I was still on this earth as I came too in the rear of the Land Cruiser. A glimpse of some classic landmarks assured me I was correct in my assumption that we were on the M25 and heading south towards the now famous Queen Elizabeth Bridge at Dartford, North Kent. The traffic was heavy and the sun was going down; it was getting dark. The headlights of a hundred cars reflected on the wet road. Dartford Bridge is a good 140 metres high; you can see down the Thames and across most of East London as you drive over the highest point. After crossing the bridge and paying the toll, a black hood was finally placed over my head. Now I know this area well, I have lived here all my life. There are 2 quick turnoffs to the village of Stone and the Town of Dartford, and then a good 15 minute drive to junction 3 for Swanley and then it's the turn off for Orpington. I was not sure which one it was, but it was definitely one of the two. The car swung left and then right, it must be the huge roundabout at junction 4. We were heading for Orpington, or so I thought, I was sure of it. The car was absolutely quiet, no one spoke; I was scared and do not mind admitting it; they may kill me also, there was no other outcome that could possibly enter my head and give me comfort. Once you realise your mortality and the inevitability of your position in life; you reach a state of mind that can only be described as tranquil. Catriona was dead and no one knew where I was, it was over for sure; they had won. Even though I was resigned to losing my hold on life and heading for the unknown; I was still sad for my beautiful Catriona. She was so strong, athletic and full of energy for life, yet could be so sweet, thoughtful and patient. I cried for Catriona, not myself. I loved her. Gravel crunched beneath the tyres; we had turned off the main road and the Land Cruiser suspension was absorbing quite a bit of movement. My hood was pulled off. Are you with us Mr Mitchell? My lack of reply produced no reaction from McGovan's crew who just continued to ignore me. Bramley: the detective from New Scotland Yard looked at me with a smart, but void look of triumph on his face. These were career criminals who have no respect for life and can only see plans for self-gain; my prospects were getting smaller by the hour. Bramley looked at McGovan; they both laughed loudly as we headed further on down the track. Banta was in the Land Cruiser behind us with another of McGovan's crew. The road opened up into a concrete laid yard. Two Alsatian dogs were chained at the far end of a row of lock ups; they barked at the cruisers until McGovan got out of the cruiser and strolled over to the dogs. The respect was there for all to see as he raised his arm and pointed at the dogs and gave the command: 'DOWN" The dogs were instantly quiet and everyone disembarked the Land Cruisers. The middle lock up was the biggest and McGovan barked an order for someone to drag my carcass inside. One of the crew I didn't know man handled me inside. McGovan, Bramley and Banta stayed outside and started to congratulate each other. It would be Cocaine for sure: New York Snow, Charlie, Rock, Crack, or whatever other street names had been invented recently; they even call it 'Foo Foo dust' for Christ's sake. But this to me, for sure: was 'Masonic Snow'.

Blood coagulated on my face; I tried to wipe my face, but the grit and dirt just dug into my wounds. Outside the gruesome three were laughing and chatting; condensed air from each breath of malicious intent shone under the halogen lights mounted on top of each lockup. The yard was lit up like a shopping centre; they were confident and very happy, very happy indeed. Inside the lockup; I was quickly shoved onto a chair and slapped a few times to ensure my compliance. Then tied tightly with a narrow nylon cord; the cord dug deeply into my wrists, and remained tight due to its narrow gauge, immediately drawing blood. My tormentor took no notice, went back to the table for more cord and tied my feet. It was then that I got the biggest shock of my life as Tom Brule walked through the door. 'Hello Steve. How are you doing?' 'How am I doing? You double crossing piece of trash!' 'Now don't be sour Steve, you could have been a part of this if you had taken up my offer. I have hinted often enough for you to join up'. 'Yes Bill, for the Freemasons, not a criminal gang with a business name of Drugs UK Ltd'. 'This is it by the way, I cannot help you. You've got only a few hours left Steve'. He proceeded to jam a dirty rag into my mouth and then tie it with yet another rag. McGovern then poked his head into the lockup, looked at me with satisfaction; then looked across the room at the others in the group. 'Get outside and unload this stuff, quickly'. Four guys and that damned brunette turned on their heels and headed for the door. Tom just sat down and relaxed, this was his usual style, all ways in control and looking cool, never the working class fool. I could see the blinding halogen lights illuminating the yard and streaming through the open door of the lockup. The rear door of one of the cruisers was just about in my line of vision and the moment a bag hit the dirty concrete surface of the yard, a puff of dust fluoresced as it absorbed the energy of the halogen lights. At this point all hell broke loose. 'This is the Police, Armed police, stand still, you are under arrest'. Tom was the only one inside the lockup with me and he hardly moved; it took several seconds before he raced to the door and looked out. In this time: McGovern, Banta and the 2 gang members dived behind the cruisers; all drew weapons of choice. All had handguns of one variety or another. Peter Bramley threw himself into the lockup, narrowly missing Tom in the process. Then two shots rang out and shards of glass exploded around the vehicles; the halogen lights went dead. For a few moments, everything was silent, still even. 'I repeat. You are under arrest. We are armed Police and will fire, if fired upon. Drop your weapons and stand back from the vehicles'. McGovern and Banta looked at each other; and both swore in unison. 'Bloody coppers' He knew the lay of the land and the coppers could only be in the tree lined bank opposite to the lockups. He ordered two of his guys to run left and right flank; they both nodded and prepared for a make or break sprint away from the lockups, the cruisers and relative safety. As each man ran, they fired 2 shots into the blind darkness opposite the cruisers in a desperate attempt at self preservation. Two shots rang out in reply; the first missing the guy on the left flank, the round travelling straight through the breeze block construction of the lockup; the only clue to its power being a puff of dust ebbing away from a small hole in the wall; but the second shot, fired at the man running for the right flank, entered the man's skull at 950 metres per second and exited his skull a millisecond later taking a 2 inch piece of skull and scalp with it. A massive gush of blood followed the skull fragments as they hit the wall of the lockup in unison and were slowly pulled to the ground by gravity. The guy must have hit the floor before the blood and bone fragments hit the wall, it was instantaneous and final in its deathly conclusion. McGovan, Banta, and the Brunette: all returned fire at the same time; a volley of small arms fire echoed throughout the yard, all aiming for the ground opposite. Each player instantly taking cover, swearing in a string of profanities, eyes bulging with adrenaline; fingers taught around their piece.

It seemed like an eternity, but only a second had passed when the volley was returned three fold; vehicles rocked as tyres burst and glass shattered. Me, Bramley, and Tom Brule were still inside the building and trying to take cover. They were cowering at the back of the lockup, I was tied to a chair in the middle of the lockup with no protection; I rocked and jolted my chair to enable movement in a desperate effort to take cover. It was at this precise moment that a dozen rounds pierced the breeze block wall of the lock up. Dust and clumps of breeze block filled the air and hit the floor in succession; the rounds ricocheted off the floor, and then passed through the rear wall of the lockup: except one, the one that entered the chest of Peter Bramley, the bent copper from the yard. He lay against the wall, in shock at his condition, disbelieving its inevitability; coughing and spluttering blood up from his lungs. Brule just screamed, and it was a scream of panic as the rounds ricocheted around him. The room fell still, but the breeze block dust still floated in the air. Bramley's breathing was becoming more laboured by the minute as his lungs filled with blood. Outside had gone deadly quiet.

'This is the Police. Lay down your weapons. We have marksmen with rifles and small arms. Lay down you weapons'.

McGovan, Banta and the Brunette, looked at each other for reassurance as to what the next 'team' move would be; Banta stood up, arms aloft. The yard was instantly flood lit from the opposite bank; then McGovan stood up, then the Brunette, and finally the goon on the left flank. Brule rushed to the door.

'Stand still. This is the Police, stand still'. His hands were up in an instant. Police rushed in from the bank, and further vehicles raced up the track to the yard; dust and dirt flying as 2 squad cars and 2 containment vehicles turned the last corner onto the concrete yard. A dozen officers suddenly surrounded McGovan and his crew. One lay dead on the yard, thick red blood still oozing from a gaping wound to the head; inside the lockup Bramley was dying fast, barely breathing. Two officers burst through the door, small arms at the ready. Every muscle fibre in my body beckoned for release: here, here, over here. I could not speak, but the body language was clear. The cuffs were put on Brule who was shaking uncontrollably and he was led away for questioning. As for Bramley; it was obvious he would not last long but he was inspected for injuries. 'Medic required; medic for Bramley!' As for me, my bonds were removed and I was released; my wounds still bled a little, but the pain subsided from my ankles, wrists and neck. They would clean me up and treat my wounds later. People were still rushing around securing evidence and prisoners. And inspecting the haul of waxen blocks; it was obvious what they were, but the senior office still cut a package and performed a quick onsite test. The touch paper turned purple, it was a positive test and the officer allowed himself a smile of satisfaction. He then turned to me: 'You must be Mr Steve Mitchell'. 'Yes Sir and thank you for my rescue. It is obvious that Bramley and Brule had nothing to do with it. So who organised this operation? You know McGovan murdered my wife don't you.' 'Later Mr Mitchell, you do not look well, but you have survived. I will answer all your questions later. And as for your wife, please accept my deepest sympathy.' His look was professional and sincere; I could see he meant it.' The prisoners were removed first and whilst the crime scene was put under the correct control procedures I was allowed to stay. Finally once the immediate procedures were set, four officers remained with a resource vehicle to protect the crime scene. The final vehicle was loaded with evidence and we returned to the Bromley Borough Police Station for questioning of individuals and cataloguing of evidence. They counted one hundred and fifty two bags of grade A Cocaine; five tons in all. This was, at last, the successful outcome Catriona and I had been counting on; but she never survived to see. Something within me will always be missing.

Chapter Twenty Three: The Aftermath. The investigation into McGowan's crew is well under way and continues to throw up more questions than it will ever answer. The police quickly incarcerated and legally charged each member of McGowan's gang of thugs; but not his white collared business partner Tom Brule. Detective Inspector Peter Bramley and Ray Mead were dead; as an old friend of mine once said: 'what goes around comes around' and so they got their just deserve. Search warrants were issued to go over McGowan's properties and lockups, also every member of his crew. The fact that McGowan is a career criminal is no surprise, but the fact that he was in partnership with upstanding citizens such as well-known Freemasons is without doubt a story that no newspaper could let pass by and would have any journalist worth his salt frothing at the mouth with the prospect of running such a story. Or so I thought. It turned out that the front page stories were there, and mug shots of McGowan and his crew were there also, with extensive details of their past criminal activities, present crimes and conjecture on how long their sentences were likely to be: but there was no mention of Tom Brule or his close friend Detective Inspector Bramley. They were both involved and Catriona was right, her gut feeling for Tom Brule was right all along. He is my old boss; but he is nothing but a double crossing and dangerous gangster, with that smarmy smooth exterior we knew so well. To be honest, what can I do about it; I'm exhausted and have no fight left in me. Their influence and power within the system far outweighs any circumstantial evidence that may implicate them as accomplices rather than the legal veneer of integrity and democratic process that they portray to support. If McGovan does not give evidence against Tom Brule, which I do not believe he has or will do; Brule is free man. And in this case, Brule must have some sort of hold over McGovan that I do not understand in any way. I am sure of it. The evidence gathered across his properties is damning: four hundred thousand in cash sterling and five tons of class A Cocaine worth $50 million wholesale; but on the street it would make $350 million! Also enough small arms weapons to wage a small war were discovered hidden within one of McGowan's lockups. The charges were stacking up; prosecutors say McGovern is looking at 35 years behind bars as a minimum for smuggling and supplying class 'A' drugs, racketeering, and murder. The fancy cars and houses will eventually be sold by the government as criminal gains reclaimed. His wife and business partners who escaped the investigation will be severely damaged by the process; which to me, to be honest, is bloody marvellous; may they squirm with the pain of loss for property and money is permanently etched into their criminal minds.

The case will probably take 6 months to get to court, but who cares; at least they are locked up and out of my way. I feel safe at last and that's all that counts. It must have taken three weeks for the police to finish taking statements; the constant questioning of your integrity and honesty driving you into the same piece of ground as the criminals themselves. But finally, when all was said and done, I was released without charge and able to get on with my life. Catriona played on my mind terribly and on some days my mood was very black indeed. It has to be said that the police counselling service was exceptional and I was diagnosed as having depression, with a tendency to extreme mood swings. As if I didn't know that anyway. The specialist recommended Lithium, a classic mood stabilizer. But weekly therapeutic drug monitoring was the order of the day to ensure lithium levels remained in the therapeutic range of 0.6 to 1.2. It is a toxic substance and you feel like vomiting most of the time, the nausea was awful. It took at least 3 weeks for the side effects to subside and I still believe the symptoms only subsided because I was moaning so much that the doctor lowered the dose. As long as I took my medication and kept talking to people my life was on the up; and Jeff was doing a good job of keeping my mind off things too.

Chapter Twenty Four: On the square. We were up town, playing pool and having a beer; the plan was to calm the nerves and then hit the blackjack tables. Jeff's brother Paul was with us, he was always hard work if you know what I mean, but did not give out any vibes that he was about to pan my head in; so I took up the tactic of ignoring him and letting the beer do its work. We were in a bar located just off Tower Bridge called 'Memories', it was about 10pm and the place was packed. After our game, Jeff beckoned to one of the tables, moved some coats out of the way and sat down; whoever was trying to save the table for themselves, would be solely disappointed. I put my beer down and followed suit. Paul came out of the gents, politely worked his way through the busy bar and sat down also. Jeff asked me how I was feeling and I am quite sincere when I tell him. 'Not too bad mate, not too bad at all. If I puke just ignore me'. Paul's silence finally breaks when he offers to get the beers in. Jeff then proceeds to inform me that he knew I was at the yard! It was him that tipped off the cops. It's only now that things have settled down, that he's found time to tell me. Well that's fair enough, I can handle that. But what comes next is a surprise to say the least. I have asked him straight out before, looked him straight in the eye and I asked him if he was a Mason; he flatly denied it, but now after recent events has decided that this is the time to come clean. He informs me that he and his 3 brothers are all in the same lodge, and are settled, even successful members. I don't act surprised and just give it the 'Oh really, blimey and all that'. Paul comes back with the beers and I take two large swallows of ale, nearly drinking half a pint in the first attempt. Paul gives a slight grin and sits to my left, Jeff is opposite, but some distance from me, as the table is low and his stomach won't let him get any nearer. I ask him how long he's been with the lodge.

'A good ten years, my brother's the same.' I had my suspicions Jeff was 'On the square'. At least once a month he would give me a call and always with a happy mood: inform me of his need to stay in a hotel as he had to work late and would be having a beer and a meal with the lads. This had to be his lodge night; many a Mason has told me of the 'once a month meeting followed by a meal' that they must attend. I wasn't surprised, he had amassed a serious amount of 'standing' if you like, especially for a bloody handyman: house, car, motorbikes, and all in good order too. It can't be luck, he must have had help. If I am honest, I wanted some of the action too and for once I would try to keep my mouth shut. He gives me a few little appetizers of information that are designed to capture my interest. All this and some serious back slapping; also: the mother lodge is seriously thankful for the independent thinking that allowed the proper authorities to apprehend a known criminal such as Trevor McGowan, especially as he was already proven to be of an unsuitable character and had been expelled from the brotherhood. And as for Ray Mead: well what goes around, comes around; he received his reward for his criminal ways and the good lord took his life. I can't help but soak it all up; but if I am honest, we were fighting for our lives, a life that Catriona lost. We had to win, or we would both die, and die Catriona did. But again: no mention of Brule or Bramley. Brule's incessant recruitment tactics just did not register with my persona and hence I never crossed the line, asking him what it was all about, muttering the immortal words: 'can I join, would you consider proposing me'. The rules of Freemasonry are quite clear, the recruiter may not ask a gentleman to join; the gentlemen must do the asking of his own free will. He must believe in a god of any religion, or a supreme being, be married and of a sound character. So there I was, seriously considering taking the first step. The recent adventures had seriously brought our friendship to a new level and I was enjoying comradeship that I had not experience since my army days. It did cross my mind though, how Jeff knew I was being taken to the lockup. He did tip off the cops to our location which definitely saved my life; but I still have some nagging thoughts as to what was really going on. 'WAY HAY' is an urban expression of delight, ecstasy, satisfaction and self-achievement, all in one short phrase. Or as in this case: a grand, unashamed announcement of arrival, right across the bar of this busy central London pub. It was Jeff's other brother Kevin, the younger, more confident and loud one. I swear his shoulders get physically wider as he swaggers through the bar. The crowd parts as he makes his way towards us. The brothers are all big guys of over six foot, with the poundage to match. Other guys in the bar look away and the girls are not quite sure what to do, they are not handsome guys, not ugly guys, but big, just damned big. We are now a formidable group, and I am the smallest of the lot at only five foot nine; slim and better looking though! The beer lifts my inhibitions and the company I keep lifts my confidence, I am starting to walk tall again and before I know it, I am starting to chill out big time as the new arrival makes a point of grabbing my shoulder and giving it the 'alright Steve, how ya doing'. And only then, acknowledging his brothers after talking to me first. Jeff and Paul look on with approval. I stand up and offer to get the beers in. 'No not now Steve, I'll get these'. 'Oh cheers.' 'what can I get you'? 'no more ale please, get us a larger'. 'No problem my son; Jeff, Paul, do you want the same?' 'Yeh go on then'. After some good old fashioned chit chat and at least 6 beers each we are all feeling the worst for wear and for once we end the evening on a sensible note and head for home, the blackjack can wait for another night and we'll save some money.

Chapter Twenty Five: Crossing the line. A couple of days later and I'm still drinking; I look in the mirror at myself, I'm unshaven, the white of my eyes are actually grey in colour and I am a shadow of my normal self. The healthy, vibrant and strong Steve Mitchell has been replaced with an unshaven, grey skinned individual with a hollow face of despair; even my hair looks as if it has not been cut for more than a year. I have to get a grip of myself; I pick up a razor, turn the tap on and splash hot water on my face, it's time to take a shave and get cleaned up. Over the next couple of weeks my strength returns a little at a time as I start to eat well, run, swim and hit the gym; small pieces of my old self return as I rebuild the real me: the confident, strong soldier has returned, I'm back and it's time to give Jeff a call. We chat about our nights out in London, the beer and the girls we never seem to score; it's all good laddish stuff. I finally manage to get a word in edgeways and remind him of what we spoke about after we had played pool. He goes quiet and lets me speak, as if waiting for the moment. 'Jeff. I've got to get back to work tomorrow as I'm skint and the firm won't hold my job forever, I was given a six week window to sort myself out and it's over. But as its Wednesday tomorrow and I am at work, can I come and see you Friday night. I have something of great importance to talk to you about' 'Steve, come and see me tonight and you may never have to work again.' 'What are you on about Jeff?' 'Look, you know a little about me now, come and find out who I really am. I have an offer you can't refuse; it's exciting, legal and truly a benefit to mankind – see you tonight, about 9pm'. That's was it, that's all he said, Jeff had put the phone down and literally left me hanging. I would have to go; tonight.

The next sequence of events were to take me down a road that I least expected to travel; at any other point within my life it would be inconceivable, but now I was on my own and needed friendship of a different kind, help if you like, I was open to anything. Jeff answered the door as I approached, as if he had been waiting for me or had a sixth sense. 'Hello Steve, come in mate, how are you today?' 'Take a look Jeff, see for yourself. Can you not see the white of my eyes and the spring in my step?' 'I'm impressed Steve, you look fit and strong; unlike me.' 'You have other more serious attributes though Jeff.' He grins at me in acknowledgement of the flattery, invites me to sit around the dining room table and offers me a coffee; I want to get on with things, but I accept, it seems like the right thing to do. He sits opposite me, leans back in his chair and crosses his very large arms, the forearm muscles bulging under the pressure. He then takes a breath, puffs a little from his pudgy nose and says: 'You first Steve, what's on your mind?' I then proceed to explain that after losing Catriona, with whom I was deeply in love with; I have found a space in my life that needs to be filled and I am very interested in the comradeship that I feel would be available if I was to be accepted for membership in the Freemasons. Would he accept my request to be proposed for membership? The corner of his mouth twitches as he tries not to smile. He leans over the table, pinches my cheek and pats me on the shoulder: 'Of course I will Steve, of course I will, it will be my pleasure.' Once you have crossed the line and asked to join this elite club you are immediately aware of being disempowered from normal reality; you are now at the bottom of a very large and tiered structure of power and influence. I will pray at night and hope this decision will not be closely followed by a very large dose of regret. 'Well thanks Jeff, I appreciate it. I am scared and excited if you know what I mean.' 'I do Steve; I was in your place once.' 'So what was all this about not working again? Surely that was just talk'.

He informs me that we must move fast, faster than the normal procedures of membership normally allows. He cannot tell me anything until I am an apprentice, and then only specific layers of information will be released to me unless a third degree sanction over rides normal protocol. 'But what about money Jeff I need to work' He informs me that he will keep me going until I have reached an appropriate level of instruction, at which point the system will take over and I will receive monies from the mother lodge. An internal project is gaining momentum at a far greater pace than anyone could have imagined and it's important; in fact it's of a global scale and will change the face of world politics and the demographics of a certain region forever. Well it all sounded very dramatic but will it pay the bills? Jeff left the room without a word and was gone for a good ten minutes. When he returned, I was sipping my coffee and looking out of the window at the view across town. He lives on the high side of St Marys Cray and you can see for miles, but I prefer it green and was thinking that he really should move out into the green belt of North Kent. A soft but solid thump on the table brought me to my senses and I turned round and looked at Jeff, and then at the table. A tightly packed wad of tatty bank notes sat in the middle of the table; the impact of this vision: a wad of notes that many will never see, sets in your mind an image of instant gain and opportunities, and a realization that it must be ill-gotten gains and someone must be looking for it. 'Here, this should get you through a few months of bills and expenses.' I pick it up and stare at it, the look on my face was not one of greed and excitement, but sheer shock at what had just transpired. 'Bloody hell Jeff, there must be ten grand here; I can never repay this'. I was duly informed that I was not to worry about it, I would earn it soon enough. All would become clear and very soon. I was to enter the brotherhood blind of faith and vision; but become one with worldly knowledge that only a true brotherhood can offer. All he would tell me, as if by way of keeping me interested; was that the only reason I was even being considered for fast tracking was because of my past history of being honourable and brave under duress of criminality; and that world events had leapt forward at an unprecedented rate. My immediate question was? 'If that qualifies me, what does it qualify me for'? His answer was strong and dismissive: 'Two days Steve, that's all you have to wait for, be patient and you will soon learn what it's all about'. And two days later a very plain, but conspicuous letter landed on my door mat, the envelope and the letter its self were of a light blue paper, an extremely expensive and high quality paper. I opened the letter, it was crisp, heavy even: it was a letter of invitation to an 'Introduction of members' meeting at Bromley lodge no: 698. Jeff had proposed my introduction and the process had started. To say I was taken by surprise was an understatement; I never imagined we would move this quickly. Now: If my approach to this was sensible, I could only benefit; whether I became a lifelong brother or not, I would still gain an understanding of what and who was involved. The meeting was set for 7pm tomorrow, so they were not hanging about that's for sure. I was to attend with my proposer.

Chapter Twenty Six: The lodge. Jeff and I were to meet in Bexleyheath town centre for something to eat before we headed for the lodge. The weather was cold and miserable as I looked for Jeff outside the venue of choice. Here I stood for a good ten minutes before a rap on the window alerted me to the fact that he was already inside and stuffing his face. Entering the eatery my nostrils twitched with the smell of garlic and herbs, very nice indeed. After hanging my coat, I sat down at Jeff's table and just for a moment watched the condensation gather on the front window, and then roll down to the bottom sill, where it gathered and dripped to the floor. We were in a small Italian pasta house; checked cloths decked each table and attentive staff buzzed about the place. In fact I am sure there was more staff than customers. 'Hello Steve, fancy something to eat'. I looked at Jeff with a pasta string hanging out of his mouth: 'Yes, i think a little Bolognese could fill a hole and a cola please. I need to keep a clear head'. 'No problem'. Jeff nonchalantly raised his arm and a waiter shuffled over. I order my food and a drink. The temptation to dive straight in and ask some questions about McGowan, Brule and Bramley, and their links with the Bexleyheath lodge was immense, but I could just feel it was not the right time. There was something going on, but I could not quite put my finger on it. 'How are you managing without Catriona, you look better for sure'? He is direct, but the tone of his voice is considerate, sorry even. My chest rises as I take a deep breath and explain that each day is different, some good, some bad. The truth of the matter is that if I have a bad day and have a drink or two, it becomes a bloody emotional disaster. So I try not to drink alcohol as a general rule, it takes me over the edge. I'm back in training and finding my old self, it must stay that way. Over dinner I asked Jeff about tonight's Introduction and what it entails. He is quick to point out that tonight is a simple periodic meeting which is always chosen to introduce new prospects to the lodge. Just speak when spoken to and remain polite; it will be a breeze. The Master Mason is on your side, even if it may not appear that way. Remain quiet during the listed minutes of the meeting and do not take offence when you are asked to leave the room; the meeting moves on to discuss the financial aspects of the lodge and as I am yet to be enrolled, it is only right I do not take part. A drink at the bar is not mandatory for anyone, but as I wish to be introduced, it will be expected of me to remain in the lounge area of the lodge for at least an hour after the meeting. It will give other members a chance to look me over, have a chat if they wish and for the lodge secretary to ask me a few questions about my background and why I wish to join the lodge. All seems reasonable to me, any club with a membership of people who have a common bond requires some structure and process to work efficiently, this should be no different.

I have always been cynical of the Freemasons, If not a little angry about the whole thing; but you know what they say: you will never beat the system, so you might as well just ride the wave and go with the flow. So ride the wave I shall. Jeff glances at his watch. 'It's time we went, come on.' He catches the eye of the waitress, smiles, pays the bill and leaves a tip. My coat is warm, but the cold wet weather grabs the skin of my face and reminds me that it is definitely still winter. We head further into the busy high street for about half a mile and take a right turn. It's not long before I am looking at an extensive building that appears to be about a hundred years old, is pebble dashed throughout its entirety and to be frank, is not that impressive. The roof is covered in dark grey slates and all held together by some quite old fashioned concrete gables. Not one transparent window exists in the entire building, no one can see into this very private club house. We approach the heavy double doors. Jeff gives the door a slight push; it opens freely and without the slightest of effort, literally flowing on its hinges with grace and strength. I am two steps behind Jeff, who had turned around and was trying to get my attention. But I was staring at the elaborately decorated ceiling and for a moment I could not hear him; as I am transfixed by the beauty of this entrance hall. Then onwards to another set of doors that open into what I can only describe as a very comfortable and very large reception room. So large in fact that the furniture looks small; tables, comfortable arm chairs and sofas are strategically placed in small groups around the room. I immediately notice the room is very square, exactly square in fact. The carpet is a deep red pile; it is obviously tightly woven and looks very expensive. A dark blue and barely visible symmetrical pattern works its way through the entire carpet, with a small gold spot at the centre of every pattern. At the centre of the carpet the pattern is replaced with a large reproduction of Da Vinci's Vitruvian man, again in gold. It's quite something to see for sure. All the furniture is of a period nature and the lighting is via ornate chandeliers, adequate, but the room is not well lit. There are a set of doors off to the left and to the right. The far wall has a small bar that looks well stocked and a barman who looks as if he is ready and waiting to serve royalty. About five people are sat down to my right, in a set of armchairs located around a dark hard wood table. A few drinks of differing types are on the table and they stop chatting the moment we walk in: Jeff smiles in the general direction of the group. I try to look relaxed and friendly, but it must be blindingly obvious that I am a new comer. They acknowledge Jeff by the slightest nod of the head. And then a guy of about 55 years old stand's up and makes his way over to us. He is well dressed in a standard middle class sort of way, smart shoes, slacks and a well fitted shirt. He offers his hand to Jeff, firmly, but with familiarity and then looks straight at me and offers his hand to me also. I gladly and with some relief, accept his offer and shake his hand, thankful that I am not made to feel unwelcome. He introduces himself as David Greg and ushers me over to the bar. I can feel the luxury of the carpet beneath my feet, which draws out any strain in my legs with each mollescent step. David serves us a drink of fifteen year old malt without asking, but asks me if I want ice. He asks Jeff how things are going and they generally chat about nothing specific; for a few minutes I feel as if I am not there. But then David turns to me, calls me by my first name and asks me why I have an interest in the Freemasons and whether I have attempted any historical research. I do feel immediately under pressure to say the right thing, but manage to keep calm and keep a friendly, calm tone to my reply. And as I begin to narrate my pre planned speech about friendship, common values and historical interest in all that the Freemasons stand for, I can hear others entering the lounge behind me. The place is starting to fill up quite rapidly; it's nearly time for the monthly meeting. Voices start to rise and the place gets quite boisterous. David asks me what I do for a living as we are gradually pushed away from the bar; I give him the full speech, it was quite easy because I was telling the truth. Engineering management is what I do, and I have known Jeff for at least ten years; our friendship has gradually reached a peak and hence here we are: in this warm, comfortable and most gentlemanly place. I do not go on about my holiday from hell as from what Jeff has said he would already know about it anyway. In between glancing at his watch and a rather large set of doors to the left of us, David did seemed genuinely interested; I soon learned why. About ten minutes later a gong sounded and the gentleman holding it announced: 'Gentleman, pass through the antechamber if you please'. Jeff whispers in my ear to take it easy and just follow him; we pass through the antechamber and I find myself in another large square hall. This hall is not comfortable, and it is not expensively decorated. It is lined with ornate wood panelling and hard, wooden tiered seating on all four sides. About 120 men of varied age's file into the hall and select what seems like quite specific seats; groups of friends split up and separate to different parts of the hall, I can only assume a system of rank was being implemented. Myself and Jeff sat furthest from, and opposite from a large chair; it was oversized and grand in design, different beasts of fantastical design, and also skulls were carved into every flat surface and corner of the chair. I was already sat down, but Jeff ushered me to stand. Every other man was standing, and more to the point, tying a decorative bib around their waist. The bib designs were similar in that the background was purple, and the edging was a gold braid; but centrally the designs were different, each having a different interpretation of some historical scene embroidered upon them. And in addition to that: they also donned a collaret that was slung over both shoulders, again: coloured purple with gold braiding. The main purpose of the collaret band seemed to be an elaborate way of presenting a solid gold symbol of the Vitruvian man; all the same in diameter and weight, I would say at least 2 inches across.

The centre of the room took my breath away; a large, possibly eight meter square area was chequered with small black and white squares; each square only 10 centimetres or so in width. In each corner were bowls of incense, each bowl was mounted on white marble pillars that were approximately a meter high. The bowls were black and had a raised design around their centre which I could not quite make out; a light but pungent smoke drifted away from each bowl and dissipated into the mystique of the room. Central to this square was a marble arch which stood at least two and a half meters high, each supporting pillar was at least 40 centimetres in diameter, the arch itself being square in cross section and once again carved with fantastical beasts and skulls that matched the master's chair. A massive chandelier hung centrally to the entire affair; the light was bright and intense, and lit most of the room. But as no lighting was setup at the outer edges of the room, eerie shadows shot off the incense pillars, and galleries to disappear into the dark corners of the room. The same man who had rung the gong outside entered the hall, stood rigidly still and rung the gong once more. The room descended into silence and moments later David entered; he walked slowly and purposefully towards the arch and stood beneath it. He was dressed the same as his brothers but wore a purple cloak, and the Vitruvian man he wore about above his collaret was larger still then the others; he stood absolutely still. At this point everyone in the hall put both their hands onto the front of their bibs. This was getting weirder by the second. David then raised his head, looked up at the centre of the arch and started to chant: 'Hear me my Lord; my brothers and I meet this day to discuss the new and the old'. Then everyone chanted: 'Hear us my Lord'. David then walked towards the ornate chair and sat down, it was as if his actions echoed across the great hall as everyone else followed his actions a second later; a great shuffle of clothing and shoe leather echoed around the hall until the last man had stopped moving. David lifted some paper from an adjacent table, read a little, took note, then put the paper back down and started to speak. 'After a great adventure and fight for survival that few of us in this world ever have to face. The friend and colleague of Brother Jeff joins us here today under invitation of the lodge. It is with great pleasure that I introduce Mr Steve Mitchell: who not only foiled a criminal plot that would put at risk all good men and their families, but also exposed corruption in the Metropolitan Police force, and more importantly, in our own ranks gentleman! Yes gentleman: corrupt brothers have been exposed and will be dealt with by our lord. These corrupt individuals were not of our lodge I am happy to confirm, but still from within our beloved brotherhood no less. Let this be a lesson to us all that evil and corruption lingers everywhere. I give you Mr Steve Mitchell'! A polite round of applause rose from the once silent seats; Jeff nudged me strongly in the ribs: 'Go on then' 'What?' 'Stand up and bow!' 'What!' He then proceeded to grind his very heavy foot into my own until the pain reached such a level that I had no choice but to move; and stand up I did. The applause then rose intently and was backed up by shouts of: 'Speech' 'Speech.' I had no choice but to ride the wave and smile, bowing to the other 3 sides of the tiered seating, and waving politely to my side of the room. The overall feeling of discomfort made my cheeks blush and my forehead crease. The noise gradually subsided and I was left alone with at least one hundred and twenty sets of eyes staring intently at me, all waiting for some acknowledgement of their grace and favour. 'Thank you, thank you gentleman. I am humbled by your keen applause and vocal praise of my recent adventures. My invitation from your Grand Master to attend tonight's meeting is a great honour, and it gives me great pleasure to address you in these historical surroundings. Thank you'. I sat down. The applause rose again, and continued for some minutes until David: the Grand Master raised his hand. An immense sense of relief washing over me, that I had not made a complete idiot of myself. Thank Christ for that! 'Gentleman we must now proceed with tonight's meeting, Jeff would you be so kind as to escort Mr Mitchell to the bar. You may be excused due to the exceptional circumstances of this evening's events; I will brief you later in person. Jeff rose from his chair and shuffled along the pier; I followed. We walked out to a further round of applause, not as robust, but solid none the less. 'Whiskey' 'Jack Daniels and coke please Jeff' 'Two please John' 'Well that was one for the books Jeff' 'Don't I know it; David insisted I get you on our side, and once you had asked to join, he insisted he break protocol and invite you directly to the monthly meeting. It's never happened before Steve; you are VERY honoured in deed.' 'So what happens next?' 'What happens next? How about we down these little beauties and then get some more. In fact: how about we get well and truly drunk!' 'No way; we don't want to look like a couple of mugs in front of the lodge' 'Steve, believe me. You are a bloody hero to this lot, and besides, you are amongst brothers, with whom you can trust with your very life. If you can't get drunk here, the world might as well end? Two more large ones please John!' Jeff held his glass up and boldly led a toast. 'To Vitruvian and the promised land'! I could not help but wonder what the toast was in aid off and the quizzical look on my face must have been blindingly obvious. Jeff just looked at me out of the corner of his eye and watched my reaction; and smiled. An hour or so passed and Jeff was definitely on form, and playing the perfect host. My head was starting to spin as I had downed far too much whiskey, far too quickly; it was not my scene to get drunk and loose grip of my social skills in such a business environment. Jeff could sense my apprehension and stepped in to reassure me it was cool to be myself and not to worry about what I said. I was amongst loyal friends that would stand by me. I can't really tell exactly how long we were stood on our own as I do not wear a watch, never have; but some time later the double doors from the antechamber opened and out poured the 100 or so potential brothers of what, business? Or maybe just common values and friendship, yes, maybe that's it. A dozen or so immediately crowded around us at the bar and offers of a drink were plentiful and we accepted a few to be polite. Jeff suggested that we retire to the rear of the lounge for a bit of privacy. As we walked to the rear of the room and toward the Vitruvian man perfectly woven into the overall design of this luxurious masterpiece; Jeff makes a point of walking around the golden image of De Vinci's most famous drawing and hence I follow suit: the thought of defiling the image or breaking some ancient tradition, or respect for what may well be the underlying principles of the Freemason is too much to bear and I will not risk it. Vitruvian was Roman, and when in Rome, do what the Romans do.

Now Vitruvius was a Roman engineer of the first century B.C. and not so famous for his skills of architecture. Active in the 1st century BC, he had specific beliefs in natures 'proportion of design' and how this should be reflected in an architect's work, whether this be the design of military equipment, stone masonry, town planning or natures influence on perfect design with regards to the human form. This was clearly illustrated within his only surviving document: De Architectura, or as it is now known: The Ten books of Architecture. Architecture was a much wider subject in Roman times and known to have included many engineering disciplines and De Vinci was the only scholar who managed to interpret his notes successfully and in doing so produced the now famous sketch of Vitruvius Man. It fazes me that this must be relevant, I have the clues and still cannot figure out what is going on. Vitruvian man is everywhere. Once we were seated, Jeff proceeded to ask me what I thought of it all and did I like what I had seen so far. It was a clear push to get me on their side. Previously, Catriona and I were as tight as could be and no one else was allowed into our circle of trust; we really did keep even our closest friends a little distant from our real thoughts and plans. It was then, as I looked around the room with its Victorian splendour, that I realised I had been taken in by it all, and yes, I was impressed, even excited by it all. Jeff was my best mate and had helped me through the most difficult times of my life, it was time I opened up and had some trust in the world around me. 'Yes: let's go for it, if you please Jeff; continue with my proposal'. He smiled, with a sense of triumph I might add, placed his heavy hand on my shoulder and replied: 'Without doubt my friend, without doubt'.

Chapter Twenty Seven: The Education. The following week was quiet; dull even, just how i liked it. But, it was during these times that the black cloak of depression could set in; if the lithium was low, no challenge was present to raise my defence mechanisms, and no pals were there to deflect my attention away from my own self despair: it could get bad and I would head for the fridge. Alcohol is an immediate and relaxing antidote to stress, depression and generally feeling like crap about anything; pity then, that it is a well-known depressant that will slowly drive you into a despairing roller coaster of doom and neglect. And exasperate any emotions you are feeling to double their normal intensity, so that any one issue will make you over react and behave like a complete moron. I would sit watching the TV, thoughts of Cat and pleasing images of her solid in my mind; they would not shift: 'just leave me in peace, please'. I missed her terribly; my head hurt and my insides twisted with pain. It was 6 am and I have just got up for a drink of water to ease my dry and dehydrated throat. My head was throbbing and my conscience was torn in two. I had really downed a few last night, so much for staying on the wagon. There was a loud knocking at the door, thud, thud it went. It could only be Jeff; he is the only person I know with a fist big enough to nearly knock a door down. 'All right, all right, take it easy, I'm just coming. I open the door and Jeff just barges in like any best mate would do. 'Get the kettle on' 'Yes Jeff' Ten minutes passes by before I put the coffees on the table. 'Have you had a rough night Steve?' 'You could say that' 'Here you are, take this'. He hands me another five grand and a quite old looking booklet. Cash money has a strange effect on people and I am no different. The wad of notes makes me happier the instant I touch it, any stress or anxiety I may have had on paying the mortgage or household bills evaporates in a flash as I receive yet another donation to the cause. I quite rightly question his motives. Resign from your job he says; the night at the lodge sealed the deal; they love you, love what you stand for and absolutely love the way you stood up to McGowan and his cronies. 'But why Jeff, why so easy'? 'Look Steve, you've got two days to smarten yourself up again, you're in a right state'. Let's get out of the hallway, sit down and let me educate you about this world you live within but have no understanding of, it's far bigger than the both of us that's for sure. People go about their business trying to earn enough money to get by and are mostly content with their lot. You know the score, a four bedroom house with a garage, nice car, 2.2 kids and a dog; and maybe a few quid in the bank for the annual holiday. But there is so much more going on in this world Steve: unimaginable atrocities, brutality, crime, debauchery, paedophilia, pederasty, molestation, torture, incest and murder; every sin known to man is committed somewhere in this world every single day. It will come as no surprise to you that the Freemason is under oath to improve his and his brothers standing in this world, but to an end Steve, so that we may contribute to our local society by way of charitable contribution and influence of local political issues; and most of all Steve, something that is far bigger than mankind itself. This little speech stunned me into a sort of trance whereby I was not quite sure how to respond and when I did, it was with a hint of sarcasm: 'Bigger than mankind itself; and what might that be Jeff'. He proceeds to inform me that in two days' time we are to have a private meeting at the lodge. I will be inducted and this will take the form of a ceremony that follows a strict protocol handed down through generations of Freemasonry. I will be asked some very personal questions and I must answer them honestly; should I be found to be lying I will be excommunicated or at worst taken from this world. Everyone knows the Freemasons are a global fraternity and I was duly informed as a subtle way of letting me know they have ears everywhere. 'Steve, let me tell you something, a Mason is duty bound to raise money, by hook or by crook as they used to say: whether it be by winning profitable contracts or by working his way through a company to be awarded high remuneration packages. But why; is it for self-gain? NO Steve it is not; it's about Saddam in Iraq, Gaddafi in Libya, Mubarak in Egypt, and Bashar Al-Assad of Syria: all dictators installed into power by tribal traditions that date back 2000 years. In the Middle East the wealthy and strong endure and consume all the resources with no thought for the weak or any person of the working community. The ordinary working man or woman can be swept aside by corruption or cruelty at the wave of a hand. 'Do you know who built the first temple? And what it stood for? And who destroyed it?' 'Wasn't it built by Solomon in about 100BC or there a bouts?' 'Not bad for an atheist, you weren't that far out'. The First Temple was built in 832BC by King Solomon under the command of our Lord God. The stones were prepared by his father David, the son of Saul: the king disposed by God for not following the way of the Ten Commandments and coming to war with the Philistines. Yes Steve, he started it, all those years ago. Remember David and Goliath? 'Well yes, wasn't David a small guy and Goliath some sort of giant warrior?' 'Well yes, but more to the point: David was a Jew against a Philistine called Goliath. This battle has continued in one form or another, for nearly 3000 years and we are here to bring this war of ages to an end. Solomon completed the temple and built the secret room called the Holy of Hollies, it was here that the Ark of the Covenant was placed in safe keeping. Before the temple was built, gods shrine was kept in a Tabernacle; a sort of ancient tent. The Temple lasted a good 400 years before the siege of Jerusalem by the Babylonian King Nebuchadnezzar; who ransacked and burnt Jerusalem and also the First Temple to the ground. 'That's all very good and historic if you know what I mean, but what an earth has that got to do with the Freemasons'? 'Sit, listen and learn, Freemasons spend many years climbing the Degrees of learning to achieve a full understanding of the historical facts and you are very privileged indeed to receive such advanced teaching'.

During the time of the Temple, peace and holy teaching calmed the land and maintained the right of man to a productive and peaceful life; free from the oppression of his neighbour and enemies alike. But when evil finds transmission through a weakened soul such as Nebuchadnezzar; man fights man and peace is lost to the wind. Only despair and unhappiness prevail. The booklet I gave you is called: 'The way of the Freemason', and is only a level one teaching, which is what you must know for tomorrow night. Read it tonight from cover to cover and be able to recite any part of it upon request. What I tell you today is in addition and only because you are to be one of the few. 'One of the few, what the hell does that mean'? 'Please Steve, be patient, it's a lot to take in and the answers will come in time. Just think though, for you, the rat race is over'. That is a bonus for sure, but it's all a bit weird. Curiosity gets the better of me though and I quieten down. Now the Ark of the Covenant contained the Ten Commandments, but also something else which is not so well known and still exists today. It is a scripture of Moses called the Book of Deuteronomy, or second law, and is the fifth book of the Hebrew Bible and of the Jewish Torah. The Ark of the Covenant was too big and heavy to hide and was easily discovered and hence destroyed by the Babylonians; but the Book of Deuteronomy and other important manuscripts survived, hidden by the Samaritan priesthood of Jerusalem. The Samaritans being a not so well regarded tribe of that time. Are you telling me that the United Grand Lodge Of England is a modern temple of god and houses ancient artefacts that are 2800 years old? Yes. And there is more if you are ready and willing to receive the information. Keep going Jeff, I'm all ears!

After many years of giving tribute to the kings of Babylon; the Kingdom of Judah and the city of Jerusalem became strong again. Cyrus the great of Persia defeated the empire of Babylon and some years later when Cyrus died Jerusalem was free once more. Solomon's Temple had remained a heap of stones for around 70 years until approximately 516BC when the Jewish people were released for a second time and work started on rebuilding the temple, the work was completed some years later. Then a new Jewish King emerged called Herod the Great; who took the renovation of the temple to a new level. The temple was hence forth known as Herod's Temple. The scriptures were reclaimed from their hiding place and reinstated in the room of the Holy of Holies. Until: 'Bloody hell Jeff; let me put the kettle on for god's sake.' 'Easy son, this may be the modern world and we may be free and enlightened souls of democracy; but you must start to think like a Mason and show respect for our ancient fore fathers, the Israelites.' 'The Israelites: That's a pop song innit'? 'I am not laughing Steve and neither will the Master Mason tomorrow night, now get a grip of yourself and take this seriously. Please.' 'Well I do have a bloody hang over from hell. Sorry old boy, I have a very bad head ache and all that, you know'. OK Steve, enough is enough. Now pay attention for the next part of this crash course of human ancestry and the Promised Land.' 'Yes boss'. 'It will be boss tomorrow night after the initiation. Your mine: after tomorrow.' The look of terror on my face was a sight to see. Jeff spotted it straight away and realised his mistake. My thoughts: Fifteen grand and a few choice words and my best mate becomes my gang master! His thoughts: bloody hell I've lost him, all that bloody work and I've lost him. 'Steve, Steve, take it easy, I didn't mean it that way'. 'The tone of your voice said something completely different Jeff, don't walk all over me and expect me to be a puppet of the Masonic machine'. 'It's not like that Steve it's just that I am rushing to give you a very brief history lesson on what we as Freemasons believe Is de facto history and very soon you will receive another briefing on an important mission from David; of which you and I will be two of the main team players'. 'Two. Who are the others'? 'My brothers: Paul and Kevin'. My surprise was evident: 'Oh, is that so. OK Jeff, carry on mate, I can't help but be over awed by it all sometimes and I get a little wary of ending up in a very week position, being pushed around by all and sundry'. 'Are you ok now'? Having calmed down a little, he takes his chance to continue. 'Right, are you ready for another hit of righteous reality'? 'Yes'.

Well here we go then: The Romans arrived at the gates of Jerusalem, in response to the Jewish revolt against unfair taxation; which was controlled by the Romans and governed by their allies, the Syrians. Titus crushed the Jews and destroyed the Temple; but the priests of Samaritanism rallied once more and preserved the ancient scriptures of Yahweh. Who the bloody hell is Yahweh. Please Steve show a little respect. I could see in Jeff's face that he meant it and he was offended; I took the hint and apologised. To be honest it was starting to make sense. I was always on the good side of society and even went to Sunday school when I was a kid, the base knowledge was there to draw on; I wasn't a complete numskull. But some of these lesser known facts were a spanner in the works. He proceeded to enlighten me. Yahweh is the name of God as described in the Hebrew bible and is the correct Hebrew word for God, the one true god that instructed Moses to lead the Israelites, to the Promised Land, away from the tyranny of Egypt and a lifetime of slavery. Do you know nothing! The Promised Land stretches from the river of Egypt to the Euphrates River. The world was created by Yahweh, and he promised the fertile land between the rivers to the Israelites, and they called it the land of Israel. Anyway, back to the Samaritans. As the Romans battered the gates of Jerusalem, the Samaritan priests hid the scriptures in the Well of the Souls, a cave below Mount Zion and our pre-history was saved. It is these scriptures that were discovered by the Knights Templar and brought to England. Is this true and what about the cup of Christ and all that? Oh you mean the Chalice of Christ as used by Jesus at the last supper; that is with the Cathedral of Valencia. Our Spanish brothers have that safely under lock and key. The Chalice will join us in Jerusalem when the third temple is constructed. The third temple! Oh good, I'm glad about that. What about the Dome of the Rock, won't the Muslims have something to say about a third temple? You do have a point, Muslim money does own the Dome, but the Dome was always meant to be a resting place for Pilgrims, to shelter them from the heat of the day and the cold of the night; it was never intended to be a Mosque. Sympathetic Muslim elders are on our side, ready to assist us, should our plan come to fruition; they want to see a lasting peace between all of their people, of all religions. They want to see an end to the 3000 year old war between the Israelites and the Philistines. You're not doing badly for a bloke who cannot read or write Jeff, what's going on? You forget I have spent 10 years learning this stuff; you have about 10 hours and must reproduce any part of it, on demand, at an Induction tomorrow night. The degrees of teaching are there for a reason, to ensure a systematic and achievable pace of learning for everyone. We want all our brothers to be successful and learn the ancient history of Yahweh. Including illiterate idiots like me. You are far from an idiot Jeff, please proceed to enlighten me. That's about it for now. The rest will be explained to you at a later date. It was a lot to take in and Jeff was deadly serious about the whole thing. Me personally: I thought it was a pretty good history lesson and this was the base knowledge you must hold to be a Freemason. No problem then; or so I thought.

Chapter Twenty Eight: The Joining. Jeff and I were in the ante chamber which is well lit but he was placing a black felt and lined hood over my head. Then there was darkness and I could see nothing. He spoke to me as a friend, but firmly; remember what I have taught you and answer the Master Mason truthfully. He led me into the hall and by guiding my shoulders led me to stand beneath the arch. My senses told me Master Mason David Gregg was stood in front of me as he asked me: Who has prepared the entered apprentice to me? Jeff is behind me when he answers: I have Master Mason. Have you educated him in the way of the first degree apprentice? I have Master Mason. Jeff walks between me and the Master Mason; and proceeds to tie my hands and feet tightly to the front of me with what feels like a soft cloth, a scarf or maybe a sash. The Master Mason then speaks to me. Steve Mitchell you have been prepared and presented to me by Brother Jeff for inclusion to the brotherhood of Freemasonry. No complaint of this process has been voiced and so we ask: Brother Steve. Do you believe in the one true god and that he is the creator of our world. I do Master Mason. Do you attend today by your own free will and not coerced in any way by another Brother? I do Master Mason. Do you accept our terms of friendship, commitment and trust between fellow brothers above and before a profane? I do Master Mason. Do you accept our terms of friendship and trust under oath to the one god YAHWEH? I do Master Mason. Do you accept that should you break this covenant, you do so under pain of being removed from this world? I do Master Mason. Is the trust there Brother Steve? Yes Master Mason. At this point I received a hard shove to the centre of my chest. My brain exploded in panic as I realised my hands and feet were tied and I was flying back towards the hard chequered floor. Then there were hands, many hands saving me from hitting the floor. Relief flooded over me that I would not hit the hard floor and my skull would not be concussed. I was slowly returned to my feet. Do you now see Brother Steve that if misfortune should strike you in anyway your brothers are here to protect you. I do Master Mason. Brother Steve. Please be welcomed as a Brother to our lodge. We welcome you. Then as my hood was removed, I heard applause and shouts of 'welcome brother'. My eyes adjusted and there in front of me was Master Mason David Gregg smiling directly at me with a look of genuine warmth and friendship upon his soul. Behind me were Jeff and his two brothers. And in the isles were the hundred or so other members of the lodge; all smiling warmly towards me, then there was a polite bow; and then a rapturous applause as they all welcomed me to the lodge. Jeff and his brothers patted me on the back and we shook hands. Jeff and his brothers then took one step back and each raised an arm in a polite gesture to let me pass towards the exit, and on to the bar, where I believe some mutual male bonding would be the next order of the day.

Chapter Twenty Nine: UGLOE private briefing. Gentleman, for the benefit of Brother Steve: Our continual drive to raise funds through business enterprise and donation has been a global success, after decades of investment by the United Grand Lodge of England through the World Bank we have the billions we need to proceed with the initial phase of our plan. Our considerable holdings have been managed wisely by the World Bank and we are now ready to align our plans with the Arab Spring to enable changes to take affect that will change the Middle East forever. Now is the time to strike at the heart of the sinful man and bring about change for all of gods people. The Arab Rising commenced due to the insufferable treatment of a street trader in Tunisia who committed self-immolation as a cry to the world to realise his desperation; he burnt himself to death in protest of the sinful man that depresses god's people. Since god put Adam and Eve on this earth, man has proven himself to be weak and destructive, and the sinful man has always taken the path of pleasure and disdain. But now is the time for god's people to rise as one and take back what was rightfully given to them by god: the Promised Land! The Arab Rising is challenging dictatorships and regimes in the Middle East; the pressure on their leadership is being tested daily by thousands of people in public defiance of their leadership. They will be over thrown in a matter of weeks. You must leave by tomorrow morning. Here are the instructions for your pilgrimage; read my instructions well and make speed to your allotted contacts. Money, credit cards, and your new identities are contained within each of your cases. Open them now and check the contents. You will find a passport with your latest picture and a new identity. Also: letters of business and introduction to your specific contacts. Get this wrong and our time in history will be lost forever; get this right and the third temple will stand! And a new age of man will arise and reinstate the promised land of the Canaanites. Millennia of wars and strife will come to an end as all the religious peoples of this world realise their heritage and become one. Muslim, Sunni Muslim, Jew, and Christian; and the other minority tribes will be able to live together without fear of reprisal or manipulation for political gain. The people want peace, and the symbol of this peace will be the third temple. Go brothers, complete your pilgrimage and bring peace to this world. The United Grand Lodge of England briefing room was immense; as big as any I have seen in any commercial building throughout the City of London. Jeff, his two brothers and I sat alongside Master Mason David Gregg and we were being briefed by a Thirty Third Degree Mason of the United Grand lodge of England. Jeff instructed me that the most divine and informed of all our Brothers is the Thirty Third Degree Mason; only he knows the true story of the death of Hiram Abiff and his many resurrections. Hiram Abiff was the Master Mason who led the building of the first temple but was tragically killed, but then a resurrection occurred to enable Hiram Abiff to assist with the second temple. Jeff, his brothers and I were now part of a secret and international team. A culmination of decades of masonic fund raising and planning designed to influence every economic and political link, of every government that had anything to do with the Middle East. This was my time to join the struggle, the struggle to reinstate the Promised Land, to bring back its disposed people to Jerusalem. And I wanted to do this thing. The last few weeks have enlightened me to their struggle and the factual history that backs it up. To unite the religions of this world into believing once more of our saviour: our saviour from sinful men: Two millennia of destruction, discrimination, oppression and greed could soon come to an end. Muslims, Jews and Christians would unite as one in the land of the Israelites and build the Third Temple. Democracy would be our weapon of choice, and now within the Arabic Rising, we would find the strength to remove these tribal leaders and unite as one. We shall end 2000 years of struggle between the Israelites and the Philistines; and share the land of Gods earth. Every citizen shall have basic humanitarian rights, befriend thy neighbour and know their place in this world. Tunisia was the starting point, then Egypt, Libya, Lebanon and Syria. This was it, this was the time to rise and be one.

The Thirty Third Degree Master Mason then called Third Degree Master Mason David Gregg to sit next to him at the head of the table; they chatted for a while and then called us to the attend their presence one by one.

Brother Kevin, your Masonic code name will be Solomon; the third King of Israel and builder of the first temple. This King of Israel was righteous and brave until he sinned by way of Idolatry, causing the Kingdom of the Israelites to be torn into two. Be wise and brave: take your pilgrimage to Syria the land of ancient kingdoms; its capital Damascus being the oldest city on this earth. You have your notes of pilgrimage, study them well, find your contact and complete your mission.

Brother Paul, your code name will be David, son of Jesse of Bethlehem and the slayer of the Philistine Goliath. He was brave and loved by the people. God anointed him and made him the second King of Israel after Saul. You will travel to Beirut in the Lebanon and bring the word of the one true god to the Hezbollah. David's people cut the temple stones. You have your notes of pilgrimage, study them well, find your contact and complete your mission.

Brother Steve, your code Name will be Saul, who fell on to his own sword at the battle of Mount Gilboa against the Philistines during which three of his sons were also killed. The first king of Israel was taunted and finally killed by design for not following the ways of the Ten Commandments. You will travel and take the word of our one and true god to the Palestinian people of the West Bank. You will meet with the Palestinian National Authority. You have your notes of pilgrimage, study them well, find your contact and complete your mission.

Brother Jeffery, your Masonic name will be Kish, father of Saul and a Benjamite; the Benjamin tribe being one of the twelve tribes of Jacob: the wrestler of Angels. You will take our pilgrimage to Hamas in Gaza. Kish brings them to us. You have your notes of pilgrimage, study them well, find your contact and complete your mission.

Myself, Jeff, Kevin and Paul, were busy checking our individual attaché cases. Jeff looked up at the same time as me, barely smiled, looked me in the eye as if to say are you alright son; then closed his case and walked over to John, our Master Mason. They exchanged a few words, embraced, shook hands and Jeff walked out the door. I would not see him for 3 months; then Kevin the same, Paul and then myself. As I embraced John, he told me to be strong, and never waver in my belief of the one god. He then placed in my hand a small metallic object; it was gold and about an inch across, a Vitruvian man, with a clasp on the rear, it was finely crafted piece. This he explained was the international symbol of pilgrimage, proving me a follower of the architect and identifying me as a pilgrim; it would give me access to the right places, prove my identity to the cause and possibly save my life. It had only taken me a few days to follow an accelerated path to the eighteenth degree of free masonry and I had not regretted a single moment of my path to enlightenment. I was ready for this pilgrimage.

Chapter Thirty: Solomon and David travel to Damascus. Solomon stood patiently whilst the driver handled his bags and requested payment. Sol entered the departures concourse of Heathrow airport, it was 7 AM and the place was packed. He was twenty minutes behind David who had already checked in his bags and was waiting in the departures lounge. They were both checking in for flight BA2391 bound for Damascus International Airport: Syria. Their briefing was to act as strangers, which was not difficult considering they were two among three thousand passengers milling about the airport. Whilst Solomon waited for the instruction to board the plane he read his mission notes and discovered he was to liaise with an Orthodox Jewish rabbi, known as Shraga Simmons; who resides in the old town of Damascus. David on the other hand had already read his notes and knew he must find his guide and contact known as Zaqaria, who would meet him at DAM airport and ensure he was immediately transported via road to Beirut, where upon he would wait for his high level contact who would ensure he received an introduction with the Lebanese Prime Minister. The flight to Damascus would leave Heathrow airport in thirty minutes and even though it was a very late decision, Sol decided to get some essentials that would tide him over for the next couple of weeks. He could end up anywhere in the next couple of days and decides on toiletries, some under wear, socks and the obligatory book. David is a little more organized and has packed his bags thoroughly, and in advance; he decides to sit in a quiet corner of the waiting lounge and read his mission notes once more. It soon becomes apparent to him that there is a day's drive to get to the Lebanese Border Crossing in Masnaa; an International custom control centre between the countries of Lebanon and Syria. It is completely land-based and links the checkpoints of Masnaa in Lebanon and Jdeidet Yabous of Syria. In-between is eighteen kilometres of no man's land, a typical desert environment of sand dunes and a rocky mountain pass at high altitude, hot in the daytime and extremely cold at night; anyone caught out in the open would be extremely lucky to survive without specialist survival gear. Through this dangerous landscape runs the only link road between Beirut and Damascus; this is the main transport link between the two countries. Trucks rumble to and from each checkpoint transporting livestock, animal feed, food, and manufactured products; the old and worn diesel trucks constantly discharging black, sooty fumes into the hot and humid atmosphere. The checkpoint guards are constantly stretched to discover contraband and firearms destined for the black market or terrorist groups. The mountain roads are dangerous and David is concerned, not so much for his safety, but for the success of the mission. If he is robbed and killed by bandits, the pilgrimage will be over and all will be lost. He reads a little more of his mission notes and discovers that there is no comfortable hotel stay for him, there is not time. He was to meet his contact at the airport and head for the border crossing by road which would take most of the night. But here, now, he had been seated in the departures lounge for some 45 minutes now and as he looked across the lounge; a hundred rows of seats filled the vast space. People sat, slept, came and went. And announcements of flight departures periodically broke through the back ground noise. Then flight BA2391 was announced to depart from gate 27 at 9 PM; David and Solomon both worked their way into the queue. Solomon hung back and joined the rear of the queue; he could see David presenting his boarding pass. After boarding and being seated, Solomon eases back into the business class recliner and pulls out his briefing notes. David does likewise but both maintain their briefing to regard each other as a stranger and hence they have not spoken since their last briefing at the lodge.

The ten hour flight proves to be uneventful and the plane lands at Damascus International Airport at 7 PM Syrian standard time, which is two hours ahead of Greenwich Mean Time; by the time they had passed through passport control, waited at the luggage carousel and retrieved their bags it was 7:55PM. Solomon was tired and wanted to sleep, he had risen at 5 AM and any sleep he had on the plane was uncomfortable and periodically broken on the hour by cabin staff, surrounding noise or lack of comfort. He shook off the nagging ache around his eyes and walked out onto the concourse and towards the taxi rank. The heat hit him first, it was a mid- November evening; but still thirty degrees and extremely humid, his breathing became laboured and his light slacks stuck to his legs. He took a deep breath and hailed a cab. 'TAXI' A beaten up white Chrysler immediately swerved into the kerb; the driver was out of the driver's seat in a second and took his bags; Solomon opened the cab door and took his seat in the rear of car. The boot slammed and the driver returned. 'Where to sir' 'Al Mamlouka Hotel' The drivers thick lack eyebrows visibly rose with surprise. 'A good choice sir, have you come far? How long have you travelled sir?' Solomon forgave his lack of grammar and heavy accent and answered his questions; playing the game of 'get to know me' and 'give me a good tip' the same as if he was in London. Soon though, he sank back into his seat and tried to relax, the conversation drifted away, both players taking the hint that enough was enough. The heat made him sweat, his shirt sticking to his skin. Pulling the air conditioning lever located in the centre of the cab toward the cool blue end of the scale produced no noticeable difference in the temperature of the air stream exiting the air vents; it was insufferable. Some ten minutes passed by as he watched the passing traffic stream by; it was only just starting to get dark and soon every car's headlamps blazed through the night air. Thankfully the old town is not too far a journey and they soon arrive at the hotel, the large canopy announcing its presence with brilliant lights that illuminated the front of the hotel and the immediate vicinity. The taxi driver helped Solomon with his bags, he was quick and polite: 'That will be 400 Syrian pounds - kind sir.' After a quick mental calculation, Sol worked out it was about £40.00. The mission notes gave a rough conversion rate of 100 to 1 for the Syrian pound; but also advised haggling as the meter was rarely used during the night time hours. Sol would have to accept the price as he was so tired. He strolled into the opulent reception of the Al Mamlouka Hotel; his eyes took a while to adjust; but when they did he took another moment to take in the beauty of the reception room: the brown speckled marble floor contrasting perfectly with the pastel yellow wall coverings and golden woodwork. A large palm tree central to the atrium giving a sense cover for the people sitting beneath it. He approached the central desk to check in: attentive staff quickly confirmed his booking and directed him to his room. After unpacking his bags, he showered, changed, and decided that the better man would make himself comfortable and read his mission notes. So stayed I he did, he read his notes and slept well.

Chapter Thirty One: Solomon in Damascus. In the morning there was a knock at the door, it was 6am. Solomon awoke and sat up in bed, stretched, then wiped the sleep from his eyes. The damned dust in this place was incessant. Solomon was a little perturbed to say the least, his morning call and paper were not due until 6:30am, they were thirty minutes early. He opened the door with caution, standing to one side in case of attack. But on opening the door, he was surprised to see a polite looking lad of about 14 stood still and motionless, but holding on outstretched arms, a large pile of white cotton clothes. Solomon slowly took the clothes and bowed in thanks. The boy calmly replied 'Druze, Druze' and then stammered in broken English: 'm-mother sent them' and duly ran off down the corridor and away. He closed the door and recounted from his mission file that Druze was the name of a local homogenous people and he would be safe wearing these clothes. He threw them on the bed and laid them out. It was then that he found the pistol and ankle holster that he was told to expect, and three magazines of ammunition. He inspected the loaded magazine, loaded the pistol and fitted the shoulder holster. The clothes consisted of a short shirt or (Kamis), a waistcoat without sleeves known as a (sidriyye), a fabric belt (hizam) and a wide cloak or (abaye), that looked like it was made out of two large strips of cloth. For headgear there was a small cap (takiyye), overlaid with a white cotton head cloth (kufiyye or hatta) and held in place with a traditional red head rope or (agal). The outfit was modest and would not attract undue attention. Once washed and dressed, Solomon stood in front of the mirror and admired himself, he smiled, but then: his face became stern as he realised the enormity of the task ahead. He must find his contact and set in motion events that would change the world: forever. He knew the others were on the same path to glory; he must not be the one to fail. He closed the door behind him and headed for the lift. The lift was in the heart of the hotel and felt cool, so comfortably cool. The smell of leaking oil filled his nostrils; he could only guess that the lift had never been serviced as it creaked, groaned, and shuddered to a halt. He stepped out into the foyer and handed his key to the attentive staff. The hotel was located in the Jewish quarter of the old town and it was here that Solomon must meet his contact; a Jewish Rabbi and community leader. They would meet at the old town synagogue, the only synagogue left in Syria. He strode out into the bustling streets of Damascus, the white cotton garments flowing against the slightest of breeze, keeping him cool in the Syrian sun. The synagogue was three or four streets away, it was 7:30 am and Solomon needed to eat. He sat down at a street vendors table. The vender immediately attended his table and poured Turkish coffee, hot and sweet. Solomon looked up and thought of his mission notes, then uttered one word: Baklava. The waiter returned with Baklava, a rich, sweet pastry, made of layers of filo pastry filed with chopped nuts and sweetened with syrup or honey. He motioned for more coffee and avoided the smoke coming from the adjacent table. Solomon thanked him in Arabic: 'Shukran-shukran' 'Afwan' replied the waiter. Another large puff of smoke passed by Solomon's table; he looked over and an easy going Arab caught his eye, smiled and looked away. Solomon carried on eating the Baklava, finished and set down his fork. At this precise time the smoking Arab sat down in front of Solomon. 'Salam, sho Ismak'? (What is your name) Solomon was startled, but settled his nerves and replied: 'Ismak Solomon' Hello Solomon, do you follow the way of the architect? Solomon nonchalantly lifted a layer of his fine cotton robe; the Arabs eyes lit up as he spied the small gold Vitruvian symbol. 'You have been briefed to expect me Solomon?' 'Yes Rabbi Shraga Simmons; I am pleased to meet you'. The vendor appeared at the doorway to the premises, Solomon ignored him until he took the hint and disappeared. Were we not to meet at the synagogue? Ah yes, but I fancied some breakfast myself and it was so obviously you I could not resist the approach. Oh thanks, was it that obvious? Well yes actually. Why? Have you looked in the mirror? Well yes. You are very white Solomon; very white indeed, your skin is as white as your robes. Give it a couple of days and you will tan, your robes will be a little dirtier and you will fit in fine. But until that time, we will meet here or at the synagogue. Then and only then, when I believe you are ready; will we meet our good friends of the people. Come. We will go to our beloved Al-Feranj Synagogue. Solomon was surprised at how young the man was, he was only 39 and a Rabbi; something didn't stack up. Rabbi Shraga Simmons went on to inform Sol that there are only about a hundred Jews left in Damascus; there was an exodus after the late President Hafez Assad permitted Jews to leave the country in 1992. Over the past 16 years, some 3,700 Jews have left Syria and migrated to Israel and the United States. 40% of the world population of Jews lives in Israel, de facto. The remaining Syrian Jews live in the capital, Damascus, the northern city of Aleppo and in the north eastern city of Qamishli. Today was Sunday and Rabbi Shraga Simmons was to lead Sunday prayers, which were attended by only seven Jews who worshiped here and up to now had done do so without a Rabbi. At this point Solomon interjected and realised that the young man had slipped up. He could see on the young man's face that he was lying. Until now! I thought you was the Rabbi, I need someone with authority, someone people will listen too, as laid out in my mission notes. Where is Rabbi Shraga Simmons? The young man tried to cover his tracks and create a story to cover his mistake. I am sorry Solomon that you feel deceived, our Rabbi left earlier this year. But you are fortunate; in support of the Arab rising and celebration of the Jewish Passover, which commemorates the exodus of the ancient Israelites from slavery in Egypt, he returns. He will be here in two days' time. Now shall we talk business? No I will wait for the Rabbi.

The young man looked concerned, annoyed even and attempted to sway Sol's decision. Sol left, something was obviously not right; he would have to inform London of this serious breach of protocol. Only Rabbi Shraga Simmons had the influence and connections to ensure a meeting with governor Makhluf of the 14th province of Syria as elected by President Bashar Al-Assad. The plan was to bring down President Al-Assad by inciting the people to create as much pressure on the local authorities as possible; and then by way of the governor, influence the armed forces, and the security forces to switch allegiance from the President and the Baath Party to the Jewish Rabbi, but not as a vehicle to put the Jews in power; but by way of the Rabbi as a communication tool for the people of Syria; all the people, the Jews, the Arabs and the minority Christians. Rabbi Shraga Simmons was the only man with any chance of bringing the people together as one. Political change will be impossible if this plan fails; the Al-Assad family's right to remain in power is actually written in Arabic law, but the modern populace wants freedom, not necessarily democracy, just basic human rights to freedom of speech, self-improvement and religious unity: they were sick of fighting each other over religious difference. So the time of the Arab Rising is upon us; our Masonic Mission? To support and influence the Arab Rising to ensure enough momentum is in place to remove the dictator and his Baath party; and ensure viable changes to allow the building of the 3rd temple in Jerusalem. The Rabbi is the key to it all; he alone has the connections with the governor and the Alawi tribal leaders. But we need to move quickly, protestors are mobilising every day in ever greater numbers. The government is worried, very worried; army and security forces are everywhere. At least two dozen protestors have been killed in the last twenty four hours as security forces retaliate. Blood has literally flowed on these streets in recent days. But the people are stronger, stronger than they have ever been; they now believe change is possible. Sol strides away from the Synagogue, away from the colourful mosaics and glittering pillars; toward the busy, dusty streets of the Old Town. And he becomes aware of something else above the normal noise of these busy streets. People are migrating toward a sound with depth and solidarity, the kind of commotion and shouting that can only come from a crowd of a thousand voices, probably coming from the main square; he decides to take a look. People rush past him, he maintains his pace, but does not run. When he does get to the source of all the noise and commotion, he finds himself stepping onto a massive marble plaza in front of the Umayyad Mosque; the building sponsored by the Romans on the site of a Christian Basilica dedicated to John the Baptist. The Mosque is massive and houses the Dome of the clock, the Dome of the treasury and the tomb of Saladin the great, within the North Wall; it is truly a wonder of the world, a truly famous and holy site. He is pleased with what he sees: flags waving, people shouting and cheering, the place is packed. All pointing and chanting at the Mosque for their spiritual leader to support the day; and then it happens: Grand Ayatollah Sayed Al-hakeem appears on the frontal balcony of the Mosque and the crowd roars. And then Al-hakeem raises his arms to embrace the crowd, his wisen face smiling with serenity; the noise of the crowd increases to a deafening level. His black robes, head gear and long grey beard portray such humble modesty; but the power of the man is incredible, every movement of his arms and hands is received by a loving and devoted people who truly believe in the divine right of Islam. Sol keeps his guard up, always aware of the people around him; he can see the army around the edge of the square; but the plain clothes security forces loyal to Al-assad are not so easy to spot and could literally be the death of him. It would be so easy to be swept up by the whole thing, especially as Sol and his brothers are sympathisers to it all. But his time in Syria was approaching the twenty four hour mark and it was time to log in and sync up with his missionary brothers. He would need to discuss the issues surrounding the failed meeting with Rabbi Shraga Simmons; the pilgrimage was lost without the Rabbi, they would fail.

Chapter Thirty Two: Reporting back. Back in his hotel room Sol ordered some food and pulled out his laptop, logged on to the hotel WIFI and fired up the encrypted messenger software that would enable a safe conference call with his brothers. It was about 3.30pm and the meeting was not for another thirty minutes, so he finished eating. At one minute to the hour he entered his password and watched as the software recognised, and listed attendees on the conference call. They logged in one by one: firstly Brother David in Beirut, then Kish in the Gaza Strip and Saul in the West Bank. Master Mason David Gregg logged in and confirmed his ID; he was in London and calling from within a business unit of the United Grand Lodge of England. Each of us confirmed our codename and location. There was no mismanagement of the call, all attendees had a priority of communication and would wait their turn; they knew when to speak or when to wait until spoken too. Upon request Brother David of Beirut informed Grand Master David Gregg that he is established at the safe house of Mahmood; but is yet to meet with the leaders of the Hezbollah. He is ready to move and expects contact with their representative any time in the next twenty four hours. Grand Master David Gregg cuts in at this point and reminded them that all their contacts are established sleepers and have had extensive communication with the UK and US foreign affairs department for at least two years. The sleepers, all people of political or religious influence have spent many months planning the initial meetings with security commanders or government leaders that were sympathisers of the cause; whether it be an elected official, or more likely a senior military commander, governor or terrorist group leader. Once the meeting was initiated, the plan was to obtain their interest by method of an induction process; which will firstly inform them of the overall plan to select important members of state and tribal leaders to create a Government of Unity, but only upon the imminent assassination of Bashar Al-Assad; the idea of this being to gain their confidence that change was actually possible and at the same time apply immense pressure, that they had no choice but to comply. And once they realised their support structure had been removed; secondly: to offer them an agreed sum of five million euro's upon their confirmed attendance at the Jerusalem conference to discuss the allocated seats that will be available within the new Government of Unity.

Solomon is desperate to discuss his problems in Damascus, but waits his turn to speak and when it's his turn, he informs Master Mason David Gregg of the twenty four hour delay he has experienced in his attempts to contact the Rabbi, and of his frustration as to why no one knew the Rabbi was not in the country, and why an imposter attempted to deceive Solomon. Why would he disguise himself as the Rabbi, unless it was to find out what was going on or he knew of their plans to assassinate Bashar Al-Assad? The answer to this was not easy to resolve and the Master Mason could not see why their information would be incorrect. 'Solomon' 'Yes Master' 'I believe this young man; his name we do not know. Must be loyal to the security forces of Al-assad, there can be no other reason why this problem has arisen. The Rabbi was the contact, not this imposter. He knew of the architect also; he asked me if I was a follower and I concurred. Solomon.' 'Yes Master' Rabbi Shraga Simmons must have leaked this information; maybe in an attempt to save his life, he gave away a little to save the greater cause. Be prepared for the kill, the young man must be silenced. You must ensure the success of our mission; you must do what is necessary. It is possible that the Rabbi has been incarcerated, which is a very big problem indeed. Let us hope he is not dead. You must find out quickly'. 'Yes Master David'.

'Solomon. You are the key to this mission; you must succeed, our brothers in arms cannot proceed unless you communicate the success of your mission. We must have Rabbi Shraga Simmons on our team, if you can find him, and the sympathetic Ayatollah. The Sunni Muslim's and Shia's will follow the Ayatollah to the ends of the earth and the Christians and Druze will cheer us onward; we just need to release them from the bonds of government control. Find the Rabbi, talk to the Ayatollah and setup the meeting with Governor Makhluf and the Minister of Defence: Lieutenant General Dawoud. They have been approached and are willing to talk; but our time is extremely short. Bashar Al-Assad has sacked several governors since the protests erupted in July 2011 and the replacement governors have killed 3000 civilians across the 14 districts during the crackdown that followed. The protests are well under way and gathering momentum, if Governor Makhluf doesn't crack down on the protestors, he will be replaced. Saul cut in at this point and informed his brothers of his problems in the West Bank. You have only twelve hours to find the Rabbi, before angry activists begin the 'day of change'; 500,000 protesters are set to rally the Qalandiya check point here in the west Bank. It will be a blood bath; Herek of the youth movement here in Qalandiya, will only give us twelve hours or the march from Syria will commence. In Damascus we want the protests to continue to fuel change, but here we must stop them. It is imperative our plans succeed, it must happen, Solomon must find the Rabbi and silence the imposter. But be careful, the young imposter will be one of, or supported by Bashar Al-Assad's security forces; they must have the Rabbi; the most likely place of incarceration would be the synagogue.

Chapter Thirty Three: The Al-Feranj Synagogue. It was 9pm and getting dark. He joined the general influx of worshippers gently flowing through the marble arches. He blended in and took up a position at the back of the hall. As the crowd continued to mill around him and take up their own positions, his only thought was to quickly step to the side and get to the lower reaches of the building before the crowd settled, confirmed their faith and knelt to pray. No movement would go undetected after everyone within the hall fell to their knees. There was a door to the left, it was not locked; in fact there was no lock. It was risky, but he must take the chance or he would fail in his mission. He took his chance and stepped through, he waited with anticipation to see if anyone followed him to investigate what he was up to, but no one followed him or shouted out a warning. He followed a corridor for some 50 yards, checking doors as he went. Eventually, at the furthest point, he pushed the last door until it opened; he was faced with a spiral stairwell that went up as well as down. The stair treads were made of stone and worn away at the centre; the spiral was tight and steep; it was ancient, Sol could smell the history in the place. The obvious choice was to go down, not because it was the safest option, but because that was the more likely place to imprison someone. The stairwell was not lit either and he was pitched into darkness once the door closed behind him; just one or two shafts of light squeezing their way past the old and loosely fitting wooden door. He crept down the staircase carefully, one step at a time. He suddenly realised the danger he may encounter and knelt down to remove his pistol from its ankle holster, and then continued onwards. It seemed to take forever to reach the next point of exit; but this was an ancient foundation below a relatively new building and he could only guess at how deep the stairwell may go. After approximately six revolutions of the stair; the air became damp and cold, but light started to creep into the stair well. He stopped and listened, a feint noise could be heard, but nothing he could make out. He could smell the musk of a thousand years floating in the air. He stepped into the room; it was open to the stairwell with no door and lit by wall mounted torches giving off thin black lines of soot that blackened the adjacent wall and ceiling. The floor was made of stone but covered in sand. He slowly stepped towards the far side of the room, listening intently for any sign of danger. The smell of blood, sweat and urine hung in the air; it reeked of pain and despair. He could only imagine the countless souls that may have been lost to this place over the centuries. There were two doors to choose from, but only one was lit; this was starting to look promising. He entered the narrow stone corridor and slowly worked his way forward, past one, two, three heavy doors until he reached a forth. He could hear voices behind the door. There was no way he could open the door without alerting everyone within the room and he did not want to go blazing in, killing everyone when there was no proof of the Rabbi being in the room. But he must find out who and what was in the room. The words of Grand Master David Gregg were echoing of the stone walls of this ancient building: find the Rabbi, time is running out, find the Rabbi! He placed his pistol back into its ankle holster. Solomon's temperament changed in a moment; from one of caution and fear, to one of strength and brazen courage. He would pretend he was a regular and authoritative visitor. He clenched his fist and thumped on the door three times with such force he hurt his hand. The room fell silent, and then the occupant let out a burst of Arabic in reply; Solomon only recognised the last words of the sentence because it sounded like a name. The door was pulled open with force and vigour, much to the surprise of Solomon; who was himself more of a surprise to the rough looking scoundrel on the other side of the door, his eyes opened wide with terror. Solomon took one step into the room and crashed his right handed fist into the jaw of the man, knocking him flat out to the ground. Two others sitting at a table stood bolt upright, their wooden chairs flying backward and crashing to the floor. Sol took another step forward and kicked the man on the left in the groin; the man cried out in pain and doubled over. The other man had a few more seconds and had managed to remove his dagger from the sash around his waist. Solomon rushed toward him. The man's dirty face turned primal, pierced by the blazing white of his eyes. He raised his arm to prepare for the killer strike; Solomon grabbed his right forearm with his left hand and clutched his windpipe with his right, the man gasped for breath and scrambled with his spare hand at Sol's wrist to attempt a release. Solomon slammed his head into the stone wall; the man went limp and Solomon dropped him to the ground. He spun round and faced the other man as he managed to straighten himself up and gather his breathing. The man froze, raised both hands in submission and dropped to knees: 'NO sir, No sir' Solomon pointed to his chair and commanded he sit. The man sat down. Solomon looked him in the eye and placed his heavy hand on his shoulder. 'Rabbi, where is the Rabbi'? The man closed his eyes momentarily and shrugged as if to confirm he had no understanding of what Solomon was talking about or just did not know anything. Solomon new these thugs would not be sat here for nothing, he must be close. He repeated his command and twisted the man's ear, he screamed out in pain. Solomon gagged him with his hand and twisted his neck also, nearly breaking it. The man's eyes bulged out of his head in terror and a muffled confusion ensued. Solomon removed his hand, but the man was speaking Arabic. There was no way his limited knowledge of the language would help him here, he was unsure as to what to do; the Rabbi was meant to be his contact, aid and interpreter. He repeated his command: 'Rabbi, where is the Rabbi'? The man pointed towards the door he had just come through; Solomon dragged him to his feet and threw him through the door, the man hit the opposite wall and grimaced. 'Rabbi, where is the Rabbi'? Solomon followed him further down the corridor, they turned left and then right; Sol watched him a well as he could in this light, all the time wondering if this man was leading him into a trap. The area was hardly lit at all and the stench was unbearable, he gagged a little and kept going. The Arab appeared not to notice the smell and shuffled forward at a slow and steady pace. He stopped and stepped through a small stone arch, and fumbled in his robes. Solomon leaned on the arch and could feel the texture of the cold stone beneath his fingers. The door shifted momentarily and then stopped abruptly. Solomon gave it a hefty shove with his leg and it swung open with force; dust and rust flew into the air. Solomon pushed the Arab into the cell and adjusted his eyes to the darkness. In the corner was a small figure of a man, now looking up at the commotion. It was the Rabbi for sure. 'Are you Rabbi Shraga Simmons'? 'Yes my son, who are you.' 'Mother sent me'. 'And I shall be happy to receive you my son.' 'Come we must go. Is there another way out of here besides the upper floor'? 'Yes follow me. The Rabbi moved slowly, he was old and had been inactive and under fed for some days, he stretched his legs and gladly left his cell. The Arab went to follow them; one look from Solomon was enough for the Arab to slink back into the cell that he had helped incarcerate the Rabbi in; Solomon pull the door closed and turned the key. The Arab did not complain or shout for help he knew his fate was sealed and if he was patient he may be released: if he was lucky. Solomon grabbed the lone torch from its wall bracket and followed the Rabbi further into the bowels of this ancient foundation. The Rabbi soon warmed up and was moving along quicker with every step. The Arab was now in complete darkness and started to scream for help and salvation. They turned left, then right, the passage getting more narrow and lower too: Solomon had to stoop as the top stones touched his hair. The Arabs shouts became more feint with every turn of this dark, damp and dusty passage. Then suddenly, the Rabbi announced: 'Here, it's here' 'What's here, I cannot see a thing'. 'There by my feet, where the floor meets the wall'. Solomon strained his eyes and pointed the torch closer to where the Rabbi was pointing. It looked like a large stone was missing, leaving a hole. 'What is it and where does it lead to'? It is designed to sweep the waste away; this is the outer wall of the Synagogue. Aren't we still below ground? Only at the front of the building, this is the rear, where the ground falls away at the edge of the hill. Is there a drop? About 12 feet; but the ground is soft, you will be fine, look at me I am nearly sixty years of age. I will go first, lower me in feet first. The Rabbi hoisted up his robes and knelt down; once he had edged his legs into the hole, he beckoned for Solomon to grab his hands and lower him down slowly. Sol was apprehensive, but trusted the Rabbi's knowledge of the building and was impressed with his gamesmanship. Sol was smiling and his eye brows were raised. He lowered the Rabbi as low as he could, looking for reassurance that the Rabbi was happy with his actions. 'Are you OK' 'Yes, I can feel the opening with my feet, let go' 'Let go! Are you sure'? 'Yes let go or we will be here all day'! Sol let go and could hear his Robes sliding against the ancient stone, and then a moment of silence before a thud and a grunt. 'Are you OK'? 'Yes, my knee hurts like hell, but I'm ok' Sol turned around and lowered himself feet first and backwards into the hole, grazing his shins as he went. First his legs, and then as he let go of the torch, his upper torso; finally he was hanging by his finger tips and his feet were sticking out into the night air below him. He could hear the Rabbi encouraging him to let go. He would not normally have had to perform such a trusting manoeuvre, but the Rabbi had made it, so let go he did, and slid about six feet before picking up speed as he flew through the air. And just as he began to panic he hit the floor; his legs doing nothing to absorb the unexpected shock, only once his hips and torso had hit the ground did his speed of ascent diminish. He rolled over on to his side, gripping his ribs where his knee had hit home, hard. After a few seconds of rubbing their bruises, Sol suggested they head for his hotel room to clean up, eat and talk about their next move.

They were now outside the streets of the old town and it was nearing mid night; but they were still inside the newly expanded streets of the city itself. So after scrambling down the bank, they quickly walked a while and re-entered the old town quarter. Some ten minutes later and they were looking at the hotel. The Rabbi's robes were filthy, his black hat was missing and his long beard was matted, amazed onlookers and staff stared in disbelief at the dishevelled Rabbi and a soiled Solomon headed for the lift. Once inside the room they enjoyed the privacy it offered, they showered, ordered something to eat and sent the Rabbi's robes for cleaning. The Rabbi was an educated man and spoke excellent English. The Rabbi confirmed he had been incarcerated by Quedo and the thugs Sol had met in the lower floors of the synagogue. He had been praying, when he was grabbed from behind, blindfolded and thrown into the cell. They must avoid him at all costs; he may well turn up at this room at any time: they were in great danger.

Chapter Thirty Four: The sympathisers. He would make contact with his sympathisers and ensure the scheduled meeting takes place as planned. The meeting must be complete before mid-day or we will miss our chance. 'May I borrow the phone?' 'Yes Rabbi, use my sat phone, it is encrypted and will be safe; do not use the hotel system'. He called the governor directly, in person; and then the Minister of defence, and finally the Ayatollah. Each phone call proceeded with a short introduction in Arabic that he could understand, followed by a brief statement: 'Mother is ready' 10 AM at the shrine of John the Baptist, in the main prayer hall of the Umayyad Mosque. Sol thought about this for a moment and realised the advantages of such a location. The shrine is shielded from onlookers but allows occupants to see anyone approaching. This was good, his confidence started to return once more. He had rescued the Rabbi and saved the pilgrimage; he felt confident they may now proceed with phase one of Mothers plan. He would logon and leave a message for the Master Mason; he would be more than pleased with his actions.

After leaving a message for the Master Mason Sol turned to the Rabbi and raised a conversation to express his feelings as to why he was here; and to find out why the Rabbi's was risking his life for the cause. The reason the Rabbi was helping mother? Anger: at Syria's support of the Palestinian militant group Hamas in the Gaza strip and the Hezbollah guerrillas in Lebanon. Both groups have claimed responsibility for attacks that have killed hundreds of Israelis. The president and his puppet Baath party must be stopped from funding these terrorist groups. They have also killed thousands of their own people in an attempt to oppress the Arab rising here in Syria. The regime was struggling to stay in power. U.S.-sponsored Israeli-Syrian peace talks broke down in the year 2000 over final border and peace arrangements. Syria demanded the full return of the Golan Heights, the territory seized by Israel in the 1967 Six-Day War. And now in 2011 the 'Arab League has suspended Syria's membership and imposed sanctions against Damascus over its failure to end the crackdown on protestors and engage in talks with the opposition. It really was the beginning of the end for President Bashar al-Assad.

Chapter Thirty Five: David in Beirut. David strolled across the concourse, the hustle and bustle of the airport a cacophony of noise and confusion. And then he stopped in his tracks, a dirty looking Arab in traditional robes walked straight up to him and stopped directly in his path; he was smiling in an obviously too friendly a manner that put David on edge before they started. He asked David if the architect would like him to carry his bags. David complained about the heat and in doing so moved his shirt which brought his chain pendant into view. Ah said the Arab my name is Zaqaria Mahmood and I can see that the architect does in deed request the help of my good self, please follow me. Zaqaria took control of David's luggage trolley and proceeded with some pace towards the exit and onwards to the car park. David followed. A new, but dirty Range Rover awaited them; Zaqaria loaded the bags and before David really had time to take it all in they had exited the car park and were on the main road that would lead them into the mountains. David was duly requested to get in the back where he would find a change of clothes more consistent with mountain travel for the region. He found some trainers and Jeans. 'Trainers and Jeans' 'Yes David, This is a modern world no? You are so white and obviously European that it would be foolish to present you to the border guards as a tribal warrior no'? Please put on the clothes and the head gear; it is quite common for European travellers to wear Jeans on how you say; the bottom half and full head gear to keep the sun and sand off, on the top half.

By the time he had changed and climbed back into his seat, they were well on their way and both he and his contact started to settle into the journey ahead; it was also starting to get dark and Zaqaria switched the head lights on. The open road led them away from the city and the landscape soon changed to one of cactus, sand and rocky hills. They climbed steadily into the hills. During this time, they double checked his passport and visa for entering Lebanon. David was to pose as a tourist visiting friends that he had made on a similar trip last year; Zaqaria was this friend and he had picked him up at the airport and was now returning to his home with David. The rest of Zaqaria's family were waiting at home, in Lebanon, for them both. The trip was much quicker than David would have ever imagined, only an hour past by before Zaq warned they were approaching the Syrian check point. There was no ambush by anti-government militants or wild bandits; which was a concern on this trip and David started to feel comfortable about his progress, it was short lived though. They were approaching the Syrian border crossing and David's heart started to thump that little bit harder, he looked nervous. 'Take it easy David, remember to breath' 'I'm fine Zaqaria, keep going'. Two soldiers with automatic rifles approached the vehicle as they slowed down for the barrier. Once at a halt, Zaqaria spoke to one of the guards in Arabic and he seemed to be satisfied with his story, but spoke in quite a firm tone about something David could not understand. Zaqaria opened his driver's door, the heat of the desert rushed in to the vehicle, overcoming the air conditioning; the guard looked around the interior of the vehicle as if just looking at the quality of the vehicle. David took a deep breath to calm his nerves and the guard closed the door. Zaqaria and the guard then walked around to the rear of the vehicle, where the guard repeated his inspection; the tailgate opened and then slammed shut some two minutes later. He then walked up to David's window. Two sharp taps on the window jolted David into lowering the window. 'Papers please' 'Yes sir' David presented his passport and visa. Zaqaria returned to his seat in an attempt to look nonchalant about the whole thing and the guard returned David's paper's without saying a word; then signalled to the guardhouse to raise the barrier. Zaqaria fired up the Range Rover and they cruised through the check point. Both men took a deep breath and exhaled, the action releasing the stress and tension from their very souls.

It was now another 18 km of empty road, across a no man's land to the Lebanese border control and the final check point. They were not safe yet, both men were very aware of the continued danger they cossetted to ensure a successful pilgrimage. Zaqaria drove at a steady 50km per hour, his experience from living in the area his whole life told him that any faster or slower would be suspicious, if he got this wrong, they risked a full search and possibly several days of incarceration. The road was not lit, everything was black except for their headlights until they rounded one last corner and the Lebanese checkpoint came into view some 3 kilometres down the road. A truck immediately appeared in front of us and rumbled past in the opposite direction, blinding us for a second with its multiple headlights; then just for a second, our lights illuminated a silhouette of the driver within the darkness of his cab. Zaqaria slowed for the checkpoint; stark flood lights illuminated the concrete approach and search points. A single soldier directed them to a search lane to the left, where three soldiers waited in readiness, one with a sniffer dog, to search any vehicle and its passengers for drugs, guns and money. The area was rife with smuggling: terrorist groups transported money, guns and ammunition, and ordinary folk would smuggle anything they could sell on the black market; with no jobs from industry or tourism, everyone was desperate to earn advantage from anywhere they could. Zaqaria engaged the handbrake and exited the Range Rover. The three soldiers stepped forward with one thought in mind; to complete the search, the most thorough and intrusive search of mind, body, luggage and vehicle. But then, just as David resigned himself to being caught, or at least detained for some hours; a senior ranking officer observing the action from within his office rapped on the window and rushed out towards them, he had recognized Zaqaria as a local and greeted him with a friendly handshake. To David's amazement, they chatted in Arabic for some time and occasionally looked over at David, smiled and then laughed out loud; the two adjacent soldiers obviously trying to maintain their composure also. Zaqaria returned to the four by four and they went on their way, the senior ranking officer giving one final friendly wave to Zaqaria as they drove off. 'What was all that about' 'I told him you were a magazine researcher returning to visit my family; you were working here last year as a researcher for your magazine when you became friends with my family'. 'Well I know that from my briefing, I didn't think it was funny though'? Zaqaria continued to amuse himself about the whole thing as David continued to look out the window; they hit the desert road and accelerated away from check point and onwards towards Beirut. 'I also told him you were courting my daughter' 'What'! David was not sure how to take this, the culture here was obviously different and he wasn't sure if Zaqaria was joking or not. He reminded Zaqaria not to mess around, there was no time for foolish behaviour; the mission was far too serious and must come before anything else, even his death. Zaqaria understood David's position but was unrepentant and reminded him that he had lived here all his life and knew that man well. The man is a known womaniser and very popular in town; he had told him exactly what he would have wanted to hear, some tall story to make him laugh. 'I love my daughter more than life itself, but Allah was not kind to her when he sprinkled this land with beauty; my daughter did not receive one speck of his favour'. This is why the security officer, a friend of mine, was laughing so much. 'Oh I see. David remained quiet for the rest of the journey and looked forward to the welcome he was sure to receive at the house of Zaqaria Mahmood.

David and his contact arrived in Beirut at 11pm, it was very late, very hot and he was extremely tired. His mission notes informed him of a hotel in the metropolitan area of the city, should this contact let him down, but he did not feel this was necessary at this time. Beirut is a surprise to many; it is listed as a top place to visit by 'The New York Times' and the MasterCard Index lists the tourist spend in Beirut at an incredible $6.5 billion dollars. The twinkle in his eye, and the ever so slight grin, would let anyone who knew him assume he would be adding to that tourist spend within hours. Zaqaria worked his way into the suburban streets of Beirut which looked to be in surprisingly good order. Zaqaria parked on a small piece of dusty ground at the end of a very narrow suburban street; they removed his bags and locked the vehicle. As they walked down the dark and narrow street, the buildings looked as if they were two hundred years old, this place felt totally alien to David and he only felt safe because he was with his contact. He could smell coffee and spices as he walked past houses with flickering lights, and noises of family life filtering through the windows. It was three or four hundred yards to the house, so David looked about him taking in all the sights and sounds of this back street in Beirut. He looked up at the night sky, it was clear of any cloud cover; like a black canvass with a thousand pin holes letting through intense specks of light. But David's eyes were not smiling; this was not the image of Beirut he was expecting at all. Zaqaria suddenly stopped and rapped on a small wooden door; some seconds later it slowly opened and the occupant nervously checked the identity of her visitors. 'It is me my good family, Zaqaria' The door immediately opened wide and they were welcomed in by Zaqaria's good wife; she was quite small, maybe only five foot tall and dressed head to foot in a modest robe. He could not see if she was smiling or not; but her eyes conveyed a message of compassion and friendliness. 'Come in, quickly please' The house was warm and gently lit, and very small, but obviously comfortable. They were guided into a back room where his daughter and young son were sitting on the floor. Zaqaria offered David the one and only armchair, he and his wife sat at a small table. Every one smiled and made him feel welcome; he was offered some hot food from the table. 'Please David, eat.' 'What is this Zaqaria?' 'It is a baked Falafel pita bread sandwich with a chilly dip, and these are hot roasted water melon and pumpkin seeds. Please eat with your fingers, please eat. Would you also like some tea?' David accepted the hospitality of his contacts family and enjoyed the food. He was then guided upstairs and given one of only two rooms; he assumed the children were going to sleep on the downstairs floor. This was not to David's liking; he loved children and this was just not his style. The culture shock was too much; he would go to the hotel and work from there. He asked Zaq to call him a taxi. Zaq protested and informed him that his contact was due to meet David here at the house; he would now have to get a message through to change this arrangement. He asked David where he would be staying; David replied: Hotel Phoenicia. Zaq had no telephone so they walked back down the narrow street to the main approach road and hailed a taxi. David thanked Zaqaria profusely with all the charm he could muster and then jumped into the taxi. Zaq had now to walk to his good friend's house, from there he could warn his contact that mother's friend had relocated, he was not pleased.

Once the taxi had speed away from the kerb, David informed the driver where he wanted to go: 'Hotel Phoenicia'. The driver's eyebrows raised, it was an expensive hotel, this was a pickup in a cheap part of town and David didn't look the part. The driver was interested and started to ask questions. 'You speak English, yes?' 'Yes' 'are you here on business Sir?' 'Yes' they were on the main road out of the suburbs now and joining the slip road to the main city road. David closed his eyes and inhaled deeply through his nose; the humidity of the place smoothed over the smell of traffic and reminded him that the city had much more to offer. Much to his amusement he was sure he could once more, smell coffee and spices, the smell seemed to be everywhere. It was 3 or 4 kilometres to the hotel so Paul sat back and watched the night lights flash by; some 20 minutes later and the smell of coffee and spices was overcome by the smell of the sea. The hotel was famous for overlooking the Mediterranean Sea; situated on the famous boardwalk "Corniche," a few minutes from the city's business and banking district, and the ever lively and entertaining "Down Town city Centre. This would suit David just fine; he would hit the town tonight and sort out business tomorrow afternoon. He proceeded to question the driver on the night life and of course: where the Casino was. 'Down Town is so cool sir, you cannot miss; pop, jazz and how you say sir: Booze?' 'That's good but what about a casino?' 'Only one sir; Casino Du Liban: It's the one and only Casino in Lebanon, located on the hill overlooking Jounieh Bay and the sea'. 'Well at least there's one'

They arrived at the hotel; it was beautiful in architecture and location, and directly on the seafront. A nagging thought lingered though, he was very aware that although his veins pumped with excitement and his nostrils flared; dark thoughts of consequence were nagging at his conscience. He would soon have to find the more business side of his persona, and very soon. He could feel the hardness of his upbringing edging its way to the surface, the side of him that often erupted into violent conflict with whoever dared to challenge him. But for now, he would get to his room, clean up and then head for the hustle and bustle of the Casino. Tomorrow was another day; he would find his contact and get serious, tomorrow.

David strolled into the grand entrance lobby and he immediately felt his body react; his skin tingled, the hair on the back of his neck stood up, and his heart skipped a beat. From experience, he knew what was happening to him, his brain had just received a massive dose of dopamine. He was experiencing a gambler high, but being the professional 'amateur' that he was; he absorbed the initial shock to his system: that he was likely to lose his money and approached the reception desk. 'Good evening sir my I see your passport?' 'Here.' 'Thank you sir, please enjoy your stay.' The roulette wheel spun and the little white ball bounced and tap danced it way to its final resting place. A few muted cheers immediately sounded; but a very loud and excited squeal identified the lucky lady amongst the men, she jumped with joy and flicked her long black hair; her partner hugging and kissing her on the cheek with more joy than lust. Her eyes bright with delight, she spotted David in an instant, her own animal magnetism subconsciously pulling her towards a warrior amongst men and him to her. The sexual excitement of wining and seeing David at the same time dropped her guard and her message of availability drilled across the room as their eyes flashed at each other and locked, just for a second. David stretched his back, stood tall and broke away from her line of vision and those quite beautiful, dark and mysterious eyes. He strolled calmly and purposely towards the blackjack tables. Money was everywhere, on the tables, in the expensive clothes that brushed past him and in every glint and sparkle of gold, platinum and stone encrusted piece of jewellery. You could literally smell money and it was intoxicating; David was in heaven. He found a seat, took off his jacket and laid £500.00 sterling on the table. The croupier swept up the money and counted it in a second and laid the money out on the table once more in evidence of his count. 'What nomination of chips would you prefer sir?' 'Fifty thousand Lebanese Pounds please; I believe that will give me twenty chips at today's exchange rate?' 'Very good sir' The chips clicked as the croupier counted from the tray; his fingers moving with the precision of a classical guitarist. He laid out the chips on the green baize with one swoop of his dextrous hand, David scooped up the chips and moved them around in his hands, enjoying the sound of the chips knocking and kissing each other. The first card was dealt; David received a ten of clubs. 'Place your bets please' David threw down £50,000.00 LP and waited for his second card.

Then a slender hand placed itself on his shoulder, the light touch and whiff of expensive perfume let him know it as obviously female; he was about to turn around when a sultry voice whispered in his ear; 'It's a ten David; it's worth a hundred thousand at least.' She leant over, took another £5,000.00 LP and placed it on the first card. The other players finished betting as David turned around and recognised the woman he had the pleasure of on the way in. 'Well hello.' 'Pay attention David.' He was dealt a four. Not good. 'Keep going David.' He was aroused, but in control; at least he thought he was. 'A seven David; See, I told you so.' David picked up his winnings and asked her to accept a drink. They strolled to the bar; the whir of the casino forever in the background, twenty four seven. 'What is your name?' 'It's Serena. And you are David.' 'How do you know that?' 'I was alerted when you handed in your passport.' 'I was expected then.' 'Where else would you go David? with your reputation.' 'And who may I ask is the approver of this exciting meeting.' 'Why mother of course David, our dear mother.' 'Do you have the symbol of her love?' 'Of course David, see here in my bag' David looked downwards into the opening of her bag and could clearly see a circular emblem made of gold, one more glance proved it to be a Vitruvian man. 'It's time to talk then, is it safe here?'

Serena seemed to ignore him and went on to discuss local political matters regarding Lebanon. 'Since our dear country gained its independence in 1943 our government has been well run and found peace and prosperity; our economy has boomed with the help of tourism, peace and equality for our citizens; but our political process has been infiltrated by terrorists. The prime minister: Rafiq Hariri was assassinated in 2005 which was followed by riots as the Hezbollah backed 'Najib Migati' was proposed for the role of Prime Minister. The whole area has been sensitive ever since; the commercial area around the rebuilt government offices can be paralysed for days at the slightest mention of trouble. We have had a decade of growth, peace and sheer pleasure for living since the civil war that crushed our city; but our people have become once more, used to road blocks and army guns coming and going at a moment's notice. It is our duty to bring a lasting peace to the Lebanon and the Promised Land. Once Phase one is complete we must move fast: I have a meeting with Mr Migati: the Hezbollah prime minister designate and our president Michael Suleiman, tomorrow at 8pm. They are due to attend two days of consultation with associate political parties to negotiate and form a new government. It will not be a success unless the funding for Hezbollah is cut from Syria. Certain parties in the Middle East, rich and powerful: are funding terrorism to squeeze Israel out of existence, inciting tension and civil war to bring down governments and regain control of the region.' 'How did you get close to Migati?' 'My womanly charms; and keen mind I might add, are a formidable weapon. I am also a senior officer in the secret police which is funded by the Hezbollah. I work from the same government offices as Mr Migati. And like any man with power and money, apart from wanting more power and money; they want sex. In this case I am pleased to report; it is not boys or men, but women he wants, and plenty of them.' 'Charming I'm sure.' 'Do not judge me David; my country and people are on the verge of civil war due to the evil infiltration of our political system. And if we succeed in stopping this, we will create a lasting peace throughout the entire Middle East. Far more important things are at stake than my morality.' David apologized; but he could not help himself, he was attracted to Serena and was jealous, clearly jealous. He was mesmerised by her Arabic features, the clear olive skin and wonderfully dark brown eyes. She was beautiful indeed. He managed to clear his mind and get down to business. 'How do we manage to meet this Mr Migati?' 'There is no cloak and dagger here David; these people are in power and they are expecting me by prior arrangement of Najib Migati. But you are the surprise they are not expecting. We are to meet in the local government buildings. Migati and the president will be due to address the political parties once more in 24 hours' time; because of my influence we will have one chance to see him before this most important event. I will pick you up at 6pm tomorrow David, be in the lobby of your hotel promptly at 6pm, no later.' 'I am staying at the...' 'I know where you are staying David; do not be so naïve for heaven's sake; even if you should have been at Zaqaria's house!' Now I think that is enough gambling for tonight David; time to go home wouldn't you say?'

David stood up and blindly followed Serena to the exit as she weaved her way through the busy casino. He was over 6 foot and powerfully built; men could not ignore his presence when he entered a room. Serena was over 6 ft in her heels and of a slender, even light build; yet she showed no sign of being in fear of him and clearly remained in command, David did what he was told and went back to his hotel. It was 530am and the hotel lobby was quiet, except for the coming and going of hotel staff; David sat in the adjacent dining room eating his breakfast and gazing through the smoked glass wall that divided the two busy areas. He had not slept since returning from the casino and could think of nothing else other than the mission; and Serena. The dark skin; the slim but athletic legs and taught mid rift were a beautiful sight to behold, and the eyes, the dark brown eyes that diminished him to boyhood. He finished his breakfast and returned to his room, jet lag and no sleep for 20 hours was enough to finish anyone. He booked an alarm call for 4pm and set the alarm on his watch. After a shower, he lay on his bed and drifted off to sleep. Woken abruptly by a frantic knocking at his door, he sat bolt upright and scrambled for his watch. It was only 430pm, the hotel alarm call was late and he had slept through his watch alarm. He tied up his dressing gown and opened the door. It was Serena. 'Your late David and we have no time to waste.' 'I am not late.' She strode into the room and signalled for her very large, but obviously junior security officer to stay outside. 'You would have been if I hadn't broke the door down; now get dressed please.' David found himself doing what he was told once more by this very beautiful, intelligent, vivacious and confident woman. Today; she was dressed in a black pin stripe suit that hugged her curvaceous waistline and empowered her even more than the evening dress she wore last night at the casino. He smiled at her and went to the bathroom to get cleaned up. She ordered coffee, toast and orange juice from room service. Once David had dressed she poured the coffee and proceeded to brief him. David took a bite of the toast. 'Do not speak until you are spoken to David; he is not expecting you. I have smoothed my way into the prime ministers life and he has agreed a meeting as he clearly likes me. Once I have explained to him that the ruling Syrian Dynasty is about to fall upon the assassination of the President Bashar Al-Assad and the army will take control, he will listen to what you have to say. Only then will you have your chance to convince him your solution for peace is achievable and that by accepting the proposed plan for a Government of Unity he will achieve his aims and produce a lasting peace. What we want to achieve today via the Unity agreement is Religious Union, for all the people of god's earth. I believe in mother David; this is your moment. Are your friends ready?' 'Yes. Solomon is the key. He is in Damascus and awaits the completion of Phase one; the timeline is tight though, we only have 4 to 6 hours for Solomon to complete his mission or the whole pilgrimage will fail. Saul is in the West Bank, using local resistance groups as a means to communicate our plans to release the West Bank and the Golan Heights back to the Palestinian people; to honour the pre 1967 boundaries. Unless we do this we will never convince the young Palestinians not to support the Hamas and Hezbollah. The 1967 six day war devastated their way of life; most fled their homes and farmland as Israel took control of the West Bank and the Golan Heights. The Israeli's benefited greatly by gaining control of the area and building the west bank barrier which drastically reduced terrorist acts; preventing suicide bombings, missile launches, and Syrian troops firing upon the Israeli people and controlling local water resources. Mahmoud Abbas will be in attendance tonight also; the moderate leader of the Palestinian Liberation Organisation. Successor to Arafat; he is the key component to our success in creating the Government of Unity. We must convince him our actions are for the good of his people.' 'Is he not FATAH? Born and bred.' 'Not quite. The PLO under Yasser Arafat was considered a terrorist organisation, and Arafat founded FATAH in 1959 as a political tool to achieve his aims for the Palestinian people. But Abbas is a moderate, who has instructed his followers not to attack the Israeli's; he is another piece of the jigsaw which will come together to build our road to peace and religious union. The PLO was formed in 1964 and originally wanted the destruction of the Israeli state and the creation of a Palestinian State in its place. Mahmoud Abbas succeeded Yasser Arafat on his death; but it must be said that the PLO changed immensely during Arafat's reign as chairman of the PLO, which was considered a terrorist organisation until he changed his outlook during the Madrid Conference of 1991; when it was stated that the PLO recognised Israel's right to exist in peace, accepted UN Security Council resolutions, and rejected "violence and terrorism"; in response, Israel officially recognized the PLO as the representative of the Palestinian people. It was a massive leap forward, Arafat protected the rights of the Palestinian people, but now Mahmoud Abbas has the chance to ensure a lasting peace and unity for his people. In past decades, dozens of suicide bombings and assassinations have killed thousands of Israeli Defence personnel and civilians; nothing will be fruitful until we can create a Government of Unity, agree our policies and give the people peace. If you can communicate our success in controlling the money men, they may, just may, believe us. If this communication fails, many more will die in the following repercussions. Who is your operative in the Gaza strip?' I informed her Kish was in Cairo, but should by now, be in the Gaza strip. As the crossing point was closed, his contact was chosen as he knows a local business man who runs one of the many tunnels into the Gaza strip. He will pay his way into the strip and locate the Hamas leaders; it will be easy enough, their spies check everyone coming in and out of the strip; so they will find him. He is looking for Mohamed Deif: the Gaza commander of the military wing of the Hamas. There has been a cease fire since 2005 and we believe the Hamas leaders are ready for the Religious Union; they have no choice if the PLO and Hezbollah become politically viable in a newly formed Government of Unity. And they will quickly agree when we pin down Musa Abu-Marzuq: born in the strip in 1951, he is an engineering doctorate and bases himself in Syria. When the Syrian army takes control, they will imprison him also. He negotiates with the Syrian government parties and in doing so, controls and finances the Hamas even if he is not directly declared the leader. Her one remaining question was how we managed to convince Rabbi's, Ayatollah's, and the leaders of the Hamas and Hezbollah to talk to our contacts? The centrepiece of our intelligence has always been Sheik Hassan Yousef: the son of the founder of The Hamas. Yousef was released from an Israeli prison and given asylum in the states. Now in his fifties; he denounces the violence and is considered by many experts to be a pragmatic and guiding hand to the peace process. The participation of Yousef in a newly formed government would promote moderation within Hamas and the Hezbollah. The job of our missionaries is to communicate this compliance to our cause and give the other pro-Palestinian groups confidence to cross the threshold to peace and unity. 'It is time David; we must go.' They left the room and strode toward the lift lobby. A guard positioned himself at the front and a second at the rear of them. The guard upfront was brisk and abrupt if any civilians blocked their path: hardly subtle; but Serena was not in the mood for subtlety and the guards had been briefed as to what was expected of them in advance. As they exited the hotel lobby, David could see two motorcycles leading a motorcade of two limousines. The driver of the first vehicle remained in his seat and at the ready; the officer in the front seat immediately got out and opened the rear door for Serena and her guest. Once seated, the limousine doors were closed and the two body guards sat in the rear vehicle. Once every one was seated the motorcade slowly pulled away from the beneath the hotel canopy. They were on their way to meet the leader of the Hezbollah; who could soon be the leader of the Lebanese government. He was a major player in this generations influence over the politics of the Middle East and would give them access to Mahmoud Abbas also.

The motorcade glided through the busy streets of Beirut towards the central district and the newly built government buildings; most of the city was rebuilt after the 1975 civil war that reduced most of the city to rubble. The streets at this time due to civil unrest and the subsequent clamp down were empty and nothing hindered the progress of the motorcade. The centre of Beirut is a no man's land once more since the assassination of Prime Minister Rafiq Hariri and the political upheaval that has since followed. The slightest hint of decent on the streets and the army closes everything down. As they approached the centre of town and the Grand Serail government buildings; David was shocked to see the building protected by a line tanks and razor wire. Serena noted David's shock reaction to the terrifying vision before them. Are you shocked David. Well yes; is there really a need for all this? Of course David; since the assassination of our prime minister and the subsequent collapse or our government the army has taken control. If the correct authority to run our country is not present, our streets are not policed, and a new leader is not elected in a correct and democratic way, what else can you expect but protest in the form of anarchy and riots? The motorcade was waived through the security checkpoint and came to a halt at the main entrance. The limousine doors were promptly opened by yet more security personnel. They gathered behind Serena and strode with purpose through reception and into the lift lobby; passing security guards at each door and lobby. Exiting on the 3rd floor, Serena led them into a massive conference room the size of which David had never seen before; armed guards stood in each corner, silent and motionless. A large round table with full conference facilities filled half of the room; the other half was obviously set up as an auditorium and cinema.

Four people were sitting together at one side of the table and although all of this party were engaged in a furious discussion of some importance, they stopped immediately on us entering the room and gestured for us to sit at the opposing side of the table. Serena was up front as her rank and position demanded; she stopped at the opposite end of the table to the incumbent's and smiled at the man in the centre of it all. He stood up and smiled warmly at Serena, it was obviously Najib Migati, the nominated Prime Minister from the Hezbollah; Serena's friend. David recognized the others instantly: Dr Musa _Abu_ - _Marzuq_ , deputy head of the Political Bureau of the Islamic Resistance Movement, Hamas, and head of its delegation to Egypt. Then Michael Suleiman, the Commanding Officer of the Lebanese Army. And finally Mahmood Abbas, the President of the Palestinian Authority. 'Please sit Serena; sit. And who is your friend?' 'This is David; a friend of mine and our people as a whole. He has a very interesting proposal for us all and is here to help us.' David was as nervous as hell, but this was his moment, he must convince these people to seek out a lasting peace. He stood still, took a deep breath, his head spinning with messages that he must convey. They were looking at him, wondering who an earth he was; it was Michael Suleiman who spoke next: And who are you David? To walk in here on the slight invite of my good friends bedroom partner. Serena went to complain, but Najib shot her a look as if to say: not now. Then Mahmoud Abbas spoke: I know who he is; he is mother's missionary. I have been told this day would come by our good friend in America: Sheik Hassan Yousef. But I did not believe him; I am still finding it difficult to believe even though he is stood in front of me now. Listen to him my friends he has a very interesting proposal. David asked Serena politely if he may speak, in turn, Serena then asked Najib Migati; they both looked at David at nodded for him to proceed. 'Before I commence, may I ask that the guards be instructed to leave the room. What I have to say is extremely sensitive and for our ears only.' Michael Suleiman, the Commanding Officer gave an abrupt order in Arabic and the guards promptly marched out of the room. 'Gentleman, please listen very carefully, I have a very important message for you all. I have been sent here by people more influential in this world than you can ever comprehend. Without the bullet or the bomb they have shaped this world to ensure plentiful funds are available, to ensure a plan seven hundred years in the making will be recorded in the histories of all our peoples. Today I can offer each of you 5 Million Euro's; guaranteed by the World Bank. Mahmoud Abbas cut in abruptly: 'The World Bank exists to give development loans to ailing countries for redevelopment under strict conditions. Who is going to repay this money?' 'We do not need to borrow this money; mother has amassed tens of billions in readiness for this moment.' And then Michael Suleiman spoke: 'Five Billion; ha, do not make me laugh. What fantastical terms would be attached to this generosity, Englishman?' David took up the mantel once more and pushed on in his attempt to win them over, and instructed them that within two hours President Bashar Al-Assad of Syria will be dead. That in Damascus, the Lt General was approached some time ago by Sheik Hassan Yousef and is a sympathiser to our cause. The Lt General has already had secret meetings with his most trust worthy commanders and issued orders in secret. When the assassination is confirmed and the final order is given, the army will arrest all the Baath party members and 13 of his 14 regional governors; Governor Ahmad Khaled is already assisting us and is part of mother's team. Any party member who agrees to our terms and joins a new 'Government of Unity' which will initially be selected by us will be released. Upon the confirmation of President Al-Abbas' assassination; the Hezbollah, Hamas, FATAH and PLO will realise their political ally has been removed from the equation and if other funds are not secured their organisation is at risk of collapse. They will have no choice but to negotiate with our missionaries and accept our terms of peace and unity for all of Gods people. It is time to stop this bloodshed. They will all be offered seats in the Government of Unity; they will not refuse. 'A government shaped and proposed by you; a silky white westerner! Do not seek to fool me sir! What is democratic about that?' Dr Musa _Abu_ - _Marzuq was incensed with rage at David's proposal. But, David pushed on as he could see Mahmoud Abbas, who new_ Sheik Hassan Yousef _warming to the overall proposal. David's mission notes advised Abbas and_ Yousef were moderates, and that both men had enjoyed a fruitful relationship with the American foreign policies department. This was proving to be correct; both men were quietly helping David nudge the negotiations along without being too obvious. Mahmoud Abbas raised his hand to stop David and pulled Abu-Marzuq away from the table; they spoke in private _at the rear of the room. Serena looked up to David for the first time and touched his arm; he returned a terse smile and returned his attention to the other side of the table. Some minutes passed by before Abbas and Abu-Marzuq returned to the table, Abbas kept his cover by looking indifferent, whilst Abu-Marzuq looked resigned to the fact that this political upheaval was well underway and he may have to join the new agreement or be frozen out. Mahmoud Abbas placed one hand in friendship on the shoulder of Abu-Marzuq and looked up at David and Serena, and asked them to proceed. Abu-Marzuq looked up also and asked David to proceed._ The narration continued: 'After our Government of Unity are selected and issued a fair distribution of representive seats. A new constitution shall be agreed by all parties' allocated seats within the new government; to include a clear understanding of citizen rights, voting systems, localised regions of governance and state borders. Then, 12 months' from the completion of this momentous task, a national vote, free from corruption, will be held to renew or re-elect candidates for the governing party. This 12 month window of opportunity will allow elected members to prove their efficiency for the job in hand and popularity with the people.' David felt his sat phone vibrate in his pocket. 'Excuse me gentlemen.' He read the message: phase one, complete, inform our new friends, go to phase two. Success, Solomon had completed his mission. David felt his heart race; his eyes were wide with excitement. 'Gentleman I can inform you President Bashar Al-Assad is dead! Our time has come!' Musa _Abu_ - _Marzuq jumped up in unbridled anger. Never, this is outrageous nonsense. Guards! The other three, Mahmoud Abbas, Michael Suleiman and Najib Migati, instantly jumped to David's defence; they could see great potential for wealth and power. They stopped the guards entering the room and huddled round Abu-Marzuq to calm him and make him listen. 'This is our chance; to have our say, become rich and give peace to our people. What more do you want?'_ ' _A Palestinian State, it is our God given right; and what about I_ srael's Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu?'

_There will not be a State of Palestine or Israel; but a united land of god where all religions will be tolerant of each other and share this land. We will have to find a new name for it that represents the unity of our people. The only way we can achieve peace and fulfil our promises to god is to share this land. The world will look upon us with wonder and all of our people will live in peace and prosper. And_ Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu of Israel is ready; he has repeatedly told you sir- he was pointing at President Mahmoud Abbas: that the programme of settlements in the West Bank is not the cause of the conflict between Israel and the Palestinians. The reason for the conflict has always been, and unfortunately remains, the refusal of the Palestinians to recognise a Jewish state of any kind. As you can see if he gives up Israel as a Jewish State, and you release your people from a 3000 year old struggle to hold a recognised Palestinian State; thousands of lives will be saved and you will release the Promised Land from this evil we call terrorism. You will all have a seat on the Government of Unity: The Hezbollah, Hamas, Palestinian Liberation Order, Jew, Christian, Druze and Muslim, will all have equal seats in the government of Unity, and equal access to the Holy history of Jerusalem. Michael Suleiman stood up. 'I have a question for you David: What about the Old City, The Temple Mount, The Western Wall, The Church of the Holy Sepulchre, The Dome of the Rock and the Al-Aqsa Mosque?' He became more animated as he proceeded to name these most important historical and holy sites. 'You cannot just tell people we have to give up these things, it is not possible!' David reassured the meeting that they would not be asked to relinquish control of these most holy assets; but to open your doors so that others may share them. And most importantly, we shall build a third temple of unity to honour the one true god YAHWEH; this will enable the second coming as predicted by our holy scriptures.

At this point Najib Migati stood up and joined the furore: 'The second coming will come from all directions like a colossal flash of lightning, sound and light will come from every corner of the universe; and then, the son of god will return to Judge us all.' The room fell silent. Only Musa Abu-Marzuq looked dissatisfied: 'Bashar Al-Assad was my friend and political ally, but he is gone now. I agree we must proceed, what is the point of fighting if Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu is prepared to give up Israel. We must get our most trustworthy men to relay this message of unity to our commanders on the ground, before they retaliate for the death of Bashar Al-Assad.' David and the others thanked him profusely; they all looked satisfied with the outcome of this most important meeting. Everyone should instruct their commanders to call in immediately to communicate our message. All party leaders will then be requested to attend a conference in Jerusalem and we will commence our first meeting of unity; to discuss the interim period before we raise a fair and honest vote to allocate seats for the Government of Unity. I held out my hand and we all shook hands in vigorous agreement of the plan.

Chapter Thirty Six: Cairo, the Gaza Strip and the Hamas. Kish arrived at Cairo airport at 0125hrs on Saturday 5th October. The weather was hot, it was at least 45 degrees c. Kish and his fellow passengers entered the customs area and queued up to present their passports. Security was everywhere; his mission notes had briefed him to not only look out for armed IDF soldiers and airport security which were in plain sight and clearly scanning all the passengers for unusual behaviour: but also undercover airport security that could be found on the passenger list. To his surprise the customs operation was quick, polite and efficient, this was one hell of an airport. The place was run as well as any other International airport, but to run with such efficiency, considering the constant threat of terrorist attack was something else. Kish was dressed as a scruffy westerner and did not particularly stand out from anyone else collecting their bags and heading for the concourse. But as he walked through the concourse and was quite casually looking for the correct exit sign, he felt a firm, strong grip on his upper arm. The sort of grip that instantly warns of an assailant who is not going to let go or start a polite conversation. 'Come with me please sir' 'Pardon, I have done nothing wrong. What is wrong'? 'Come with us sir' Kish was man handled some - one hundred meters across the concourse, the obvious commotion causing some discomfort amongst other travellers in the airport. Once through a very innocuous looking door, and then some way down a well-lit corridor, Kish was pushed into an interview room. He really could not afford these delays and be tied up in some security loop of questioning and suspicion of terrorism. 'Sit please' He did so without question. The thought of how serious this may become, even life threatening, was a very big worry to the mission. The last security person left the room and Kish was on his own. The room was white and windowless. The door was white with a small glass portal at head height to assist a quick inspection of the interior. He was sat at a table with 2 chairs on the facing edge. The only other thing that caught his eye was a small camera mounted very high in the furthest corner of the room; he was on CCTV. Some thirty minutes passed by and Kish had no option but to stay calm and wait; but that would be what a professional would do; he decided to play up and act like a stressed out and genuine traveller who was annoyed at being incarcerated. The chair he was sat on flew across the room as he abruptly stood up and banged the table: 'Where are my bags? Why am I here? Who is in charge? I want to complain'! 'Bloody hell someone talk to me'. Some fifteen minutes later and two burly security officers, in uniform, entered the room and demanded Kish sit down and be quiet. Then immediately after this a senior office walked in, he was much smaller than the younger security officers but had the commanding presence of someone used to being in control. He sat down opposite Kish. 'Now Mr Kish Lieberman, please sit quietly while I explain the situation. Apart from having a nice Jewish name; you have absolutely no known links with Israel, its people or any business in this part of the world. What is going on Mr Lieberman? Why are you here? You are a perplexing problem that causes me some concern. Kish was about to reply when he was struck from behind with such force that he was knocked out cold and just slumped forward onto the table. The senior office barked out a series of commands: 'Get him on the table. Strip him!'

It was during the strip search that another more senior officer entered the room and halted the proceedings. The interrogating office was not impressed and demanded to know why he had done so. The senior officer commanded the security guards to leave the room; he then instructed the interrogating officer that some intelligence had just been received from HQ. Mr Lieberman was on a special visit that would benefit the State of Israel and should be assisted at all costs and not hindered in his business. During this conversation, the senior officer calmly 'tucked in' behind Kish's shirt, his Vitruvian man. He had seen the symbol over the CCTV and realised Kish was a catalyst to the big plan; he had to be saved. It was some time before Kish came to; his trousers and shirt were on but not buttoned up, everything else was on the floor next to him. Across the table sat a solid looking security officer with a uniform emblazoned with several symbols of rank, the guy looked important. As Kish rubbed his head and grimaced at the pain, he noticed they were the only two people in the room; the others had left. 'Mr Lieberman. Please let me introduce myself; I am special officer Ismack, from the Directorate of Military Intelligence. It was unfortunate that my men somehow missed you on entering airport customs and then airport security picked you for a random check. Only pure chance ensured I was looking at the CCTV at the time you were being strip searched and your symbol de architecture came into view.' 'What symbol?' 'Do not be coy Mr Lieberman; my name is Abdul-Ahad and I am your Arab League contact. The rest of my delegation is waiting outside. These are important men; do not keep them waiting any longer. Put on this suit and smarten yourself up Remember your mission notes Mr Lieberman. At this precise time he turned over the lapel of his uniform to display a small gold lapel brooch of a Vitruvian man. Kish was stunned at how close he had come to failing in his mission. He continued to dress and compose himself. Good morning brother; is it still morning?' 'Yes Mr Lieberman, dress quickly we must go.'

The cover story for Kish was for him to join the Arab League monitors granted permission by the International community to inspect the welfare of the general population and report on the economic conditions of the Gaza Strip, since the steel wall had been erected. 'It is now 10am and we must leave before the next security shift begins. I have enough to explain already'. Moments later they were striding through the administrative corridors of the airport. Several security staff stopped in their tracks, saluted Officer Ismack and let them pass. They kept walking through several lobbies and finally stepped into a lift which would take them down two levels to the staff car park. Four cars were already waiting; with at least a dozen people milling about impatiently. The delegation quickly took to their cars on seeing Ismack and Kish enter the car park; doors slammed shut one after another. Kish was guided to the lead car by Ismack. The doors closed and Kish instantly felt cocooned by the new world luxury interior of the Mercedes. Ismack's driver speed out of the car park and headed for Ismailia and the coastal road to Rafah. It would take at least an hour to get there, Ismack advised Kish to take this opportunity and get some sleep. Kish was both mentally and physically exhausted; he drew the curtains of the side windows and let his head loll back onto the headrest. He closed his eyes and drifted along with the sweeping road. He awoke to shouting: check point Kish, wakeup. Check point. You have your documents, no? Yes its fine, they are all in order. Kish could see the newly installed and impenetrable barrier; supplied and installed by the Americans; its upper edge literally cutting into the sky, so unnatural in its presence within this landscape.

The barrier extends eighteen metres below ground cutting off all known smuggling tunnels and runs along the entire 4km border between Egypt and The Gaza Strip. Kish could also see that the checkpoint is open; but Ismack advised him that for normal Gazan's this is not so; the steel wall might as well be continuous as they are not let through. The steel wall is merely a means to enforce sanctions against The Hamas, but it also punishes innocent people trying to live a normal life in this tiny patch of god's given earth. The Israeli's accuse the tunnel owners of smuggling guns and supporting The Hamas who control the whole west bank since they murdered the opposing party leader; can you believe they threw him off a building! Kish then replied: That may be so; but do you know at this point, if they renounce violence; we have no choice but to engage with them and bring them into the political fold of communication and sharing of power. Just think of all the innocent women, children and men suffering in their thousands because of this religious land grab. When will it ever end? How can it ever end except in war? 'May be Kish-may be. The time is 1pm, we are nearly there, smarten up.'

The motorcade slowly came to halt. They were expected of course. The checkpoint guards checked their passports and physical likeness to the descriptions they had been given; everything checked OK and they were allowed through. 'That was easy.' 'Here, now, yes it was easy but previous negotiations with Prime Minister Ismail Haniyeh for access to the strip were not. But he is desperate for funds to rebuild damaged buildings and infrastructure. The reality of winning control of any area is maintaining the economy and local infrastructure. Money talks, even in areas of religious conflicts. We are to stay at the Grand Palace Hotel, clean up, eat and commence our meeting tonight at eight in the main conference room.' 'Are we to meet in the hotel?' 'No; we will meet at the Islamic University of Gaza.' 'Isn't that a Hamas headquarters?' 'No. The United Nations Fact Finding Mission on the Gaza Conflict cleared any suspicion that weapons were stored here. It is merely a civilian establishment and no misuse of its facilities has taken place. It is an ideal place for our meeting and the most important point is the Prime Minister agrees to the meeting. He has many problems and we can provide the solutions.' 'As representatives of the Arab League; here today in the Gaza Strip and our other teams in Damascus, will ensure civilian interests are prioritised. This program of negotiation and working in parallel with mothers plan should ensure success for us all, and a new history of peace and unity shall begin. We are here; let's rest. Be ready for 7pm sharp.'

After something to eat and a few hours rest, Kish showered, shaved and dressed in a dark business like suit. It was 630pm and after one more check in the mirror, he took a deep breath and made his way to the reception area of the hotel. Once seated, he ordered coffee and took one of the free UK papers to pass the time. Ismack soon appeared and introduced him to the other six members of the delegation as they appeared; there had not been time beforehand. Firstly and most importantly to the head of the delegation: the former Sudanese Intelligence chief Lt Gen Mohammed Ahmed Mustafa al-Dabi. He was a bull of a man with calm intelligent eyes that instantly put Kish at ease. His hand shake was equally calm, but firm; very personable indeed. The Lt Gen proceeded to sit with Ismack and Kish to discuss their strategy for the next four hours. He was keen to remind Kish how ambitious the Prime Minister was, he had after all just violently evicted the ruling party from the Gaza strip, killing many in the process. If they could convince the Prime Minister their offers of political influence and unity was genuine, they may, just may, convince him to support a new Government of Unity. A driver appeared: The cars were ready. All seven promptly rose and walked with purposed toward the main exit of the hotel. A strict position of rank was maintained without thinking: firstly Lt Gen Mustafa al-Dabi, then Ismack, Kish and finally the other members of the Arab League.

People looked on as the three cars sped off, flags fluttering at the point and rear of each vehicle. Dust flew and slowly descended as dirty clouds. Security guards below the hotel canopy remained rigid with training and purpose; arms at the ready. The motorcade swept through the narrow and busy streets, occasionally passing by buildings damaged by recent air raids and civil war; most with walls pock marked by gun fire. They arrived at the university to be greeted by a choreographed dance routine of women in traditional Palestinian costumes. A small band played music as they danced and sang a warm welcome; the only odd thing about it all was the soldiers creating a ring of steel between us and the outside world. Prime Minister Ismail Haniyeh stood at the double door entrance of the university with two other men, obviously bodyguards. All three wore extremely smart suits and very wide smiles, ingratiating to say the least. The six of us, still maintaining our order of rank on the approach, returned the favour. The Lt General and Ismack shook hands with the prime minister while the rest of us filed in behind. Some small talk progressed over coffee and fruit juice. We then filed into what looked like a lecture hall. The Prime Minister started off by welcoming the Arab League monitors; praising their work and recommending projects that required further attention and their backing to secure funds for refurbishments. At this moment Ismack chose to interject and recommend to the prime minister that Kish be allowed to speak. He agreed. Good day prime minister. My name is Kish and my Grand Master from the United Grand Lodge of England has sent me to offer you a solution to your many problems. The prime minister and his aides looked bemused, a little angry even. Kish paused for a moment, but kept his nerve and proceeded. 'I have just received confirmation via my sat phone that President Bashar Al-Assad has been assassinated.' The look of shock as he realised his last line of financial support was severed was palpable. He was stunned into silence. His nearest aid raised his arms and went to speak but was silenced by the president as he continued to listen to the speech being made by Kish. 'Now I know you remain on the hard line with regards your demands for a Palestinian State. But: You have lost partnership and allegiance with the Palestinian West Bank on the Golan Heights and Israel continues to whittle away at your military strength and social management. The Americans and Egyptians also collaborate to exercise sanctions against you. You are in short, being squeezed into the sea. I now, today, can offer you and your party 5 million Euros if you will join our Government of Unity and take up political seats to discuss and action - sharing this Promised Land between all the people of this land, regardless of religion, after all, we all follow and pray to the one and only true god YAHWEH. 'We will never give up on our quest for a Palestinian State. It is an outrage.' The two aides shouted and banged the table in defiance. The Arab League delegates watched and recorded our actions, saying nothing, but recording everything. Kish went silent and allowed the rant to continue unabated. Prime Minister Haniyeh, deep in thought, finally raised his head and spoke. 'How can I trust you Kish?' 'One week from now an Interim meeting is being held in Jerusalem. And yes you will be guaranteed a safe passage. Delegates from Syria: where today, the Army has exercised a coup against the Baath Party. The West Bank and Golan Heights; where they have agreed a cease fire until the Interim talks are complete, and the Lebanon: where the Hezbollah have agreed the same, a cease fire; will all send selected personnel to represent their regional issues. And now all I need is your agreement to attend the Interim peace talks. And if the talks are successful and a Government of Unity is formed, you will receive your 5 million Euros. And any additional funding required to rebuild your community will be forth coming also.'

The Prime Minister and his aides, no doubt senior Hamas officers were shocked into submission, but were not voicing complaint. Ismack spoke once more. 'The Arab League will also back the proposal with a letter of intent to support any and all parties engaging in the peace process.' Prime Minister Haniyeh and his aides were still standing as if forming a wall of defiance against the siege of common sense now facing them. He requested a stay of twenty four hours to speak to the rest of his party and supporting factions. Gentleman as much as I can see progress for all parties I am unable to make such decisions alone. We must meet again twenty four hours from now. Good bye for now gentleman. My aides will contact you to confirm the time of our meeting. Upon this statement they walked out of the conference hall and left.

Chapter Thirty Seven: The Golan Heights. Saul would have a more difficult journey to the Golan Heights. Since the occupation of the area, any movement of people or vehicles throughout the area has been highly restricted, and at this time year, November, the slightest amount of rain will turn the dirt track roads into a quagmire. The hotel industry has been crushed by the constant barrage of media frenzy, feeding on the news of the next suicide bomber or civilian killed by a stray bullet. Some hotels still operate in Jericho and Hebron, but Saul was instructed to meet his contact at the Qalandiya refugee camp, just three kilometres south of Ramallah, where most of the Palestinian population resides. It is large by any standard, but there were definitely no hotels. The contact was Khaled Al-Asi; who was briefed to look after his interests and receive him, but it was rough living from that point onward. They were to meet at the community centre and then call a meeting with regional commanders of the youth movement; the aim of the meeting? To stop the protest and save hundreds of lives; if Khaled Al-Asi and his commanders did not listen there would be blood flowing that day. Herak Shababi is the key; Herek controls and influences the underground movement that secretly spearheads most of the Palestinian protest marches. This week, on the anniversary of the 'Naksa' – which represents the occupation of the West bank, East Jerusalem, the Gaza strip and the Syrian Golan heights by Israel; Palestinian refugees are to march from Syria to the Golan Heights, led by Herak Shababi - whilst other protests commence simultaneously across the West Bank and the Gaza Strip. The youth movement continues to be a popular and supported part of youth culture to aid remembrance of those lost in the struggle to protect what is rightfully their land and support terrorist movements that are part of the struggle against the Israeli's. The Israeli army is expected to retaliate and every person at this protest is knowingly risking their life. The march from Syria will culminate at the refugee camp of Qalandiya, where the Israeli's have constructed a checkpoint to stop Palestinians entering Jerusalem. At least five thousand people are expected to shock the authorities and in doing so, alert the world's media of their plight. The protestors are calling for basic human rights, to live a life of freedom, free from Israeli occupation, apartheid and ethnic cleansing, and the right to enter and be part of Jerusalem.

Saul landed at Tel Aviv airport and caught a taxi to Ramallah; it did not take long, only a couple of hours, as it was only a hundred kilometres. The Taxi driver could talk for England, so no change there, Saul did his best to dodge his inquisitive questions. At Ramallah, he entered the central 'Souq' market area, located near the main bus garage and local Mosque. Here, he bought a popular snack of spiced pancakes, washed down with a very popular juice drink for under 10NIS (about one pound, UK Sterling). Ramallah is a vibrant business area where many young people flock to look for work, and hence these many young souls have secretly setup the underground youth movement. Once rested, fed and watered; he headed for yet another taxi and asked to be taken to Qalandiya. The taxi driver was of course very aware of what was to transpire within the next twenty four hours at Qalandiya and was visibly taken by surprise, but proceeded to load his bags into the car and gestured politely that Saul should take his seat. Once underway, the driver persistently yelled profanities at any pedestrian or vehicle that slowed his progress, Saul winced with the agony of it all. Once out of the city the driver managed to calm down and get on with his driving, and just for a moment, the only thing Saul could hear was the strain of the worn out engine that had probably not been serviced for sixty thousand miles and the rear left wheel bearing that sounded as if it was about to collapse. Then it started: the subtle but incessant questions probing Saul to give up why he was travelling to Qalandiya, on his own. The driver knew that in two days' time, the biggest protest for some years was going to disrupt the area for miles around, and probably many people would be killed by the occupying Israeli army. People would be shot, with live ammunition, and die. Tear gas would be fired upon the crowds, regardless of whether man, woman or child would be injured. It would be a terrible conflict and the apartheid wall would still stand, it would be a futile attempt. Saul kept to his mission brief that he was returning to aid a family friend, a much loved friend, who was struggling to get by now that he had lost his job and could not support his family. The story seemed to satisfy the driver's curiosity and the taxi fell quite once more.

Saul was soon standing in the centre of Qalandiya; it was dark, hot and eerily quiet. He stood out and could not in any way hide the fact that he did not belong there. But this was his tactic; word would quickly reach Herak Shababi of a stranger arriving in town, Herek would check him out, recognise from his brief that Saul was his man and the contact would be complete. He looked about him and could only see ramshackle sheds made of wood and corrugated iron, and tents, many large tents in tight neat rows. And children everywhere, playing, chasing and screaming at each other, not a single adult was to be seen. The contrast of tight, neat dwellings against the chaotic behaviour of a hundred playing children made him feel uneasy, it was odd. Almost as if the adults were in hiding as they understood the danger of being out and about, and the children having no perception of danger, just got on with growing up. He swung his travel bag over his shoulder and calmly strode away from his drop off point, through a narrow path, ramshackle dwellings either side of him. Some twenty minutes passed by and he started to wonder if he would be out here all night, it was getting dark, and the temperature would soon drop. It would soon be very cold indeed, he needed shelter. Then it happened, a tug on his cotton jacket made him instantly react to a possible threat and he swung round. And it took a second before he realised the threat was a small child of about six years old stood calmly below him, pointing down a side alley. The child did not say a word, but Saul understood that he should follow. A few yards behind a rather large dwelling, the child stopped and pointed at a makeshift door. 'Herek – Herek' the child said. Saul took a deep breath, steadied himself and slowly opened the door. The first thing he noticed was an open fire in the middle of the room, and then the six men and women sitting crossed legged around the fire. A youthful and strong young man stood up and came to the door, he had long black hair and wore a long woollen robe; Saul guessed he was about twenty five or so, and the others younger still. 'Would you like coffee Senor Saul'? 'Only if we are friends and I am safe here.' 'Would this help reassure you my intentions are sound'. Saul could see the gold Vitruvian man hanging from his neck on a slim leather band; he smiled and entered the dwelling. A young girl of about twenty smiled and pointed towards a small stool, he sat down and enjoyed the coffee, he had been travelling for twenty four hours, he was very tired, and extremely relieved to find his contact. He was offered hot pitta bread from a metal tray hanging over the fire; it was hot, doughy and sweet. During this initial welcome, nothing much was said; he drank his coffee and eat his pitta bread. The six just looked on, interested as to why this stranger was here. Except Herak Shababi, he knew why Saul was there. Herek was not a believer, but he secretly hoped Saul could deliver on the promises made by his American contact from the Foreign Affairs Office.

The girl next to Herek opened the conversation; she was pretty, with dark looks, but looked hardened to emotion, Saul could only guess at the painful upbringing she had endured. Her question was direct and delivered with cold efficiency: 'Why are you here Saul.' 'I have been sent by my brothers to stop you protesting tomorrow.' Before he could progress any further, the young man on his left threw his last remaining bite of bread into the fire, swore in Arabic and finished the insult by spitting into the fire. Herek calmed the man by raising his hand and speaking to him in Arabic; Saul could see the influence Herek had over the group and things calmed down once more. 'Carry on Saul'. 'If you protest tomorrow, hundreds will die. And the wall will still stand.' The young man on his left suddenly stood up, and stated shouting angrily at the group as a whole. But Saul could not understand a word of his ranting. Again Herek and the others too, persuaded him to sit down. Saul asked what was said and Herek replied that after years of oppression and just recently, night time raids on this very camp, the Israeli's have killed their brothers and sisters and this protest must go ahead to prove to Israeli's founding father Ben Gurion, that his statement that "the old will die and the young will forget" will not come true. The millions in the refugee camps will not allow it, the generations living behind the Apartheid Wall, will not allow it. To exist is to resist. Saul proceeded to ask Herek to listen and translate for him. He explained that if they could only send a message to delay the protest by twenty four hours they would save those hundreds of brothers and sisters from further bloodshed. 'And just how will you do that Saul'? 'Tomorrow, at some point; my brothers in Damascus will complete their mission'. The six faces were now all looking intently at Saul; he could see the fire's flames flickering in their eyes as looked back at them with true sincerity and hope in his heart. 'Their mission is to assassinate Basher Al-Assad'. No one moved a muscle; he could see the nonchalant disbelief in their eyes. Bashar Al-Assad supported every political group they were in favour of in their fight against the Israeli's. The young man on Saul's left instantly jumped on him, pulling a knife to his throat, drawing blood as he spat his disagreement at Saul, who fell backwards during the assault. Herek and the others all jumped on the young man to protect Saul from fatal injury. As he was pulled off, Saul regained his composure and remembered why he was there. 'How' Herek demanded: 'How will you convince my good friend that what you say is not nonsense?' 'Wait twenty four hours; that is all I ask and you shall see my brothers that we will succeed'.

Herek looked at the others; they looked at each other with hope in their eyes, interested, but still disbelieving. Come 6am in the morning, Saul awoke to his shoulder being gently pushed; he looked up and was met with a warm smile from Herek's girlfriend. 'Coffee' 'Yes please' Saul re-entered the communal part of the dwelling; his assailant from the previous night was stoking the fire and barely looked up as he entered. It was some time before Herek entered from the outside; Saul could again sense the influence his contact had over this group. He really was a charismatic leader with strength, honour and above all, intelligence. Intelligence to make correct and informed decisions; Saul sincerely hoped today would be no time to be proven wrong. 'You have twelve hours' 'Is that all, I need twenty four hours to be sure. 'Saul would need to confirm that Solomon was on track, if he had failed to make contact with the Rabbi they were lost and these young people would die later this day. He would check with the Grand Master, the conference call was at 10am.

Chapter Thirty Eight: Back in Damascus. Sol awoke at 630 upon a sharp knock at the door; he scratched his head and rubbed his face. The Rabbi was already awake and sitting serenely at the table drinking coffee. 'We have two hours before we must leave' 'Thank you, where's my coffee'? 'In the pot where I found mine, where else'? The Rabbi had ordered breakfast an hour ago and had left some for sol. The curt reply was a reminder for Sol to get a move on and be more serious; he did not reply, but pulled his robe on, poured a coffee and looked out of the balcony window. The sun was already high in the sky and he temperature was rising, his European sensibilities liked the warm weather in November; it was freezing at home. 'You have one hour to be ready Solomon' 'Yes Rabbi, I am surprised Quedo has not reappeared since I last saw him' 'He will appear when you least expect it, be on your guard. He will kill to court favour from his leaders'. It was soon 9AM and it was time to start what would be a democratic and religious upheaval of the Middle East. They strode out of the hotel and took a left instead of the required right turn that they would have normally taken. Secret police, Quedo or paid street spies would be everywhere; they must take precautions. Solomon could hear chanting in the near distance, another day of protest had begun. They would walk twice the distance they needed, too provide reassurance they were not being followed, they would then cautiously approach the Mosque. The Ayatollah was a good friend of the Rabbi; they were both from differing religious and cultural backgrounds, but they were educated and compassionate men who cared for their people. They wanted to help mothers pilgrimage.

The Rabbi was following a route that Sol was sure would miss the Mosque completely; he stopped the Rabbi and asked him where he was going. The Rabbi instructed Sol to trust him. They could not enter the Mosque by the front door; they were not civilians queuing to pray: they must enter the Mosque covertly. The Rabbi led him down a long narrow street, uneven underfoot. He suddenly stopped and approached a wooden door of a very old house, its frontage small and narrow. He knocked, twice, but softly; the door opened slowly, a set of dark brown eyes peered back through the ajar door. 'Come in Rabbi, quickly'. 'Good day my brother, how are you today'. 'All the better for seeing you in good health; is this our man'? 'Yes, this is mother's messenger; without them we are nothing'.Solomon entered the small, dark room. Only two men greeted them, they were dressed in dark robes from head to foot. One of the men instructed them to follow him deeper into the house, into the rear room. The house was damp and dusty, so much so he could smell it. He tugged at a rug and revealed a trap door. Sol's eyes lit up, this was reassuring and gave him hope. Before entering the man opened a small cupboard and grabbed several torches; he led the way down a ladder into a dark basement area, there was no lighting. Once everyone was in the basement, the other man closed the hatch. They were plunged into darkness until one by one, beams of lights leaped from the torches and cut through the darkness. The Rabbi tugged at a large iron ring on the wall. Sol could just about make out a square outline on the wall but was still shocked when half the wall suddenly moved toward him; the wall didn't hinge like a normal door, it came toward them and allowed access via the sides. They entered a dark, dank tunnel and pulled the wall closed behind them. The Rabbi told Sol the tunnel was 2000 years old and used to allow secret access to a Christian basilica that occupied the site before the Mosque was built. Sol did not reply and followed them further along the tunnel, they walked for some twenty minutes and what must have been at least half a mile; then the floor seemed to rise beneath his feet, they were ascending. The gradient of the rise increased and Sol could feel the strain on his thighs as he dug in and followed the Rabbi and his guide. They were then looking at a wooden door which opened easily, but the ground had not levelled out and it was difficult to grab the frame of the door and pull himself up and into the room, which was not lit, dark and dank. But the other door, obviously to exit the room, let shafts of light through. The other side was lit and would provide the final exit from this dank tunnel. The guide produced a key and unlocked the door; they stepped through into what Sol instantly recognized as a crypt of some sort. There were several people there, waiting and expectant. The Rabbi's guide returned to the tunnel without speaking, Sol and the Rabbi stood silent for a moment until the Ayatollah smiled, welcomed the Rabbi in Arabic and lifted both arms as a gesture of welcome. Then in turn, the district governor, and Minister of defence spoke to the Rabbi with a positive but caution tone of voice. After, and only once cultural protocol was complete did they each turn to Solomon and welcome him to their homeland and wish the pilgrimage a successful outcome. 'Let's talk my friends' the district governor sat on the cold stone seating provided within the crypt. The others follow suit. Sol respectfully asked to speak first. The Rabbi nodded his approval. 'Gentleman, as you are well aware, the next 24hrs are critical to our pilgrimage and you have all taken great risks to be here. The fact that you are here proves you agree with our plans and we can agree to go to phase one. Minister, you are the key to it all; is the army on our side, do you have the armies senior staff on board? Are they ready? Do they have a man ready for the hit'? 'Yes, the coup d'état is ready; if I give them reassurance the district governors and religious leaders are on our side, then they are ready. And yes we have not one, but several men ready for the hit. The president will be addressing the National Progressive Front and Ba'ath party leaders tonight to discuss how to finally crush the rebellion. But now we have come together as one; we will cut the head from the snake and our people will be free. Governor, as one of 14 district governors; are you and your brothers ready to allow the Minister to lead a temporary government, a government that allows the peoples council to take their rightful place and truly be heard. And have influence on day to day policies and law. 'Yes I am, once the fateful shot is fired; I and the security elite will take prisoner the president's favoured vice presidents and his prime minister. They are hardliners that we could not risk approaching to join our glorious rebellion. They will be detained. The Rabbi now spoke to the Ayatollah; we must be seen to be in unison at this precise time. We must both speak in our respective chambers of worship and communicate our messages of love and democracy for our people and their future. We can live under a regime no more that practices war and oppression its people for its own gain. Minister, when will your army general order the shooting? The emergency meeting of the Security Council is being held in the great hall at 2100hrs tonight. All the heads of state will be in attendance, the President and his Vice Presidents; the Prime Minister, all 14 district Governor's and of course all 100 of the Ba'ath party and the minor party leaders. Our marksmen and his backup man will be installed in an adjacent building; the plan is to assassinate the president as he exits his car. The team will begin this process once I have left this meeting and given the signal to the High General of the armed forces; he will issue the final command for the hit team to take up their positions. The man who pulls the trigger will change history; he will be a hero of our time, but a silent one, many pro Al-Bashar supporters will hunt him until his dying day. Solomon was pleased. 'What time will you strike'? The president's motorcade will arrive at approximately 2030 hours and he will be escorted into the great hall. It is during this time, when he approaches the entrance to the great hall that our men will have their one and only chance to take 'The Shot'. The moment the shot is fired my troops will be ordered to take control of the great hall; and in doing so arrest the ruling elite and Baath party members of the Syrian government. You governor will leave immediately and take control of the security forces and ensure you control the districts. You must communicate our coup d'état to the Alawites and the people of all Damascus. Solomon looked at the Rabbi and the Ayatollah: Our religious community leaders sat here today with us, have managed to bring us together, to this place where past and present will collide and provide new futures for us all; but they must also announce to the faithful that we are set free and the Minister of defence will lead the new government of Syria until a democratic vote can take place.

Today would change the world. Solomon had only to press send on his personal Sat phone and an encrypted message 'Bashar dead, phase one complete' would bounce of the communications satellite and directly inform London and his fellow pilgrims that phase one was complete. Further news had reached Sol that individual soldiers, albeit lower ranking Sunni conscripts; were turning rebel and taking their weapons with them. The problems for Bashar Al-Assad and his ruling party were multiplying by the day. But here and now: the Rabbi and Sol looked at each other with anticipation, the noise outside was one of a thousand footsteps, striding forward with determination, anger and frustration; he opened the balcony doors and stepped out to look. Hundreds of civilians were parading past as they headed for the main square; dozens of red and white Lebanese flags being systematically waved back and forth in unison to a thousand voices chanting and clapping:

Jews and Arabs refuse to be enemies!

No peace, no welfare. Down with the government!

Jews and Arabs refuse to be enemies!

And then from the far left of the street: the harsh crack of gunfire split the air like a knife; people panicked and ran, some to the door ways, others getting trampled and fired upon. Sol could see several falling to the ground with gunshot injuries. It was the Alawites, a Shiite sect that makes up the backbone of Assad's security forces. They will fight for the life of the regime, less they be persecuted if the Sunni Muslims gain power. Crack, crack: followed by thud, thud: as bullets ricocheted off adjacent stone work: shards of stone and sun baked mud rained down on the fleeing masses. Men and women fleeing, screaming for mercy as they ran; some slumped next to kin and friends alike, tears streaming down their dirty, dusty faces. A man, his head gear discarded, stumbled by holding a young teenager in his arms, maybe it was his son or a friend. Sol came away from the balcony and re-entered the shade of his hotel room, he could feel the anger and frustration of the crowd curse through his veins; he looked directly into the eyes of Rabbi Shraga Simmons. 'Tonight cannot come soon enough Rabbi; we must act decisively. What if the hit team misses as he exits the car? We need a backup plan, we need an inside team. What shall we do? The Rabbi sat quietly at the table. 'Do you know of the Torah Solomon?' Yes it's the 5 holy books of Judaism, the words you live by.' Correct: what about the book of Deuteronomy?' 'I've heard of it, but I do not know it.' 'Well, it's the fifth book of the Jewish Torah and of the Hebrew bible; the book consists of three sermons delivered to the Israelites by Moses on the plains of Moab, shortly before they entered the Promised Land. My brother the Ayatollah and I agree this book leads us all to a path of righteousness and a love for all our neighbours. Deuteronomy states: **If you are not able to make a decision as to who is responsible for a death, or who is right in a cause, or who gave the first blow in a fight, and there is a division of opinion about it in your town: then go to the place marked out by the YHVH (YAHWEH) your God; And come before the priests, the Levites, or before him who is judge at the time; and they will go into the question and give you a decision: And you are to be guided by the decision they give in the place named by YHVH, and do whatever they say; Acting in agreement with their teaching and the decision they give: not turning to one side or the other from the word they have given you.** Do you know YAHWEH Solomon?' 'Yes Rabbi, our mother teaches us he is the one true god. God has empowered your mother to be the judge of our time and I am the instrument of this judgment. I will do it. I will have access and a god given right to be at the great hall of our oppressors. I will sacrifice myself to free my people.' **Solomon listened to the Rabbi's sermon with some interest and was about to protest against this fine gesture, when he stopped himself. He realised there was no other option; the Rabbi was courageous and disciplined in his faith; and he would not fail. You will need a pistol; here, take mine. Do you know how to use it?' No. You will need to show me only once. Please now, carry on.' He proceeded to show the Rabbi the essentials of small arms operation. The pistol could easily be concealed in his robes and the Rabbi would be introduced to the president on his entry to the building.**

**Staying in the room all day was not easy, periodic, but erratic and noisy clashes could be heard outside and Solomon was keen to get involved. But he could not afford to be arrested or at worst injured or killed. He must remain in his room until the plan was ready to be executed. Some six hours later and it was 1800 hours; the Rabbi was expected at the Mosque and Solomon could hit the streets now it was getting dark. They left the hotel and stepped onto the hot, dusty streets of Damascus. The street was still full of people, but it was calm. People were stood and also sat in groups of differing sizes along the street. Old, young, men and women, collected in their fight for social justice and peace for all regions of the Promised Land. They headed for the square; Solomon remained a good fifty yards behind the Rabbi as they picked their way through the crowd. It was then, in his peripheral vision that he noticed a common movement, someone moving at the same pace as them. Solo dropped back further and investigated. It was Quedo, he had been watching the hotel, for how long he did not know; but he was dangerous and obviously a security officer of some kind for the regime. What would he do? It was dark, but there were so many people around. He would follow, but very closely, he would need to react quickly if the Rabbi was threatened. As they approached the square, Quedo was closing in on the Rabbi; Sol could feel his whole body firing up for the kill; his breathing deepened, his mind focused on Quedo and nothing else. And then as they entered the square, the chanting started and the crowds pushed in around them. Sol pushed and shoved his way nearer to Quedo. Quedo pushed and shouted as he doubled his efforts to get at the Rabbi. Sol shouted and pointed at Quedo: 'security! security'! People turned and looked at the pair pushing their way through the crowd. And then with no warning, the first of many punches was thrown by the man Quedo was pushing to get past; years of oppression, frustration and anger had to be released. Then everyone within reach grabbed, punched and pulled him to the ground. He screamed his innocence, but no one could hear him, once he had fallen he was finished; kicked and stamped on until he was unconscious, dozens of hands pulling at his clothes. Quedo would be dead in minutes. The Rabbi looked back at the chaos and for a moment felt sad for Quedo; but he must continue with his greater calling and continued on his way to the great hall. Some minutes later he reached the side entrance; two security guards approached the Rabbi, Sol held his breath. Just as they were about frisk him, the Rabbi protested his innocence and priority over such protocol. The guards took a step back as if shocked by the Rabbi's display of indignation and let him through, Sol breathed again. The Ayatollah and the Rabbi soon appeared on the steps of the great hall and the crowd erupted into a crescendo of noise; hands clapping, voices singing, others chanting slogans of peace and equality. Sol checked his sat phone was ready and joined in the chanting so as to not stand out. He looked around at the adjacent buildings, trying to imagine the sniper priming his weapon, checking the sights and ensuring his position was right before calmly preparing his mind to execute the fatal shot. The slightest movement of his trigger finger would release a 7.62mm sniper round that would hit the target a split second before the sound of the shot was heard by people in the vicinity. Bashar Al-Assad would drop to the ground before a shot was heard, and then chaos would begin.**

**Chapter Thirty Nine: The Great Hall.** **A thousand voices chanted and shook their fists in unison. The crowd jumped and throbbed; every beating heart ready to die for freedom and equality.**

Jews and Arabs refuse to be enemies!

Jews and Arabs refuse to be enemies!

Jews and Arabs refuse to be enemies!

**Sol shook his fist also and rolled with the crowd. It was then that he noticed people running into the square via the east road adjacent to the great hall. A tank and two troop sections were approaching via the east road. The crowd backed away nervously as the tank rumbled closer to the square, the sound of steel tracks squealing against their drive shafts cut through the noise of the crowd. Everyone was looking to the East road as the tank suddenly and unexpectedly came to a halt at the corner of the hall and the outer edge of the square; a moment later the troops came to a halt which completely blocked the view down the side of the great hall. Solomon pushed his way through for a better view, and just got a glimpse of the limousines parked up behind the tank and army troops, all stood neatly to attention in rows around the limousines. It was obvious that Bashar Al-Assad had entered the great hall from the East entrance and would not be in view at the front steps. The sniper was useless; it was up to the Rabbi now. More limousines pulled up, body guards and security stood alert as generals and governors quickly filed into the great hall. The crowds continued to chant; the rhythmic clapping becoming even louder:**

Jews and Arabs refuse to be enemies!

No peace. No welfare.

Down with the government!

The Ayatollah and the Rabbi waved one last time to the crowd and re-entered the heart of the building. They worked their way to the great hall and stood in line to greet President Basher Al-Assad. A strict line was presented that reflected the rank and position of everyone required, and permitted to attend. The Rabbi was mid-line, then the district governors, the head of security and finally senior army officers. Minor party members were already sat down and would stand when the president and his entourage approached the benches. The president chatted calmly with the head of the army as if nothing was going on outside, he seemed oblivious to it. The Rabbi stood his turn in line, looking calm and serene; but beneath his ceremonial robes he sweated profusely, the pistol weighing heavily on his arm. He knew his time was short in this world for when he struck the fatal blow, he would be shot down like a dog in the street. The president approached the first in line, spoke a few words and moved to the next person. The Rabbi looked at the ground and prayed to the Lord for forgiveness, for it was a far larger sin not to take this chance to help his people towards a better life. The president would not suspect a holy man to be a threat, so he would take his chance at point blank range. Under his robes, he fingered the trigger and pushed the safety catch forward like he was taught, going over and over this in his mind. He must not miss; so many people depended on him. Panic shot through the Rabbi as if touched by a scolding iron: the head of the army was approaching him first and the president was still at least ten metres away. Good evening Rabbi. How are you enjoying the Ayatollahs Synagogue? It is fine general, a beautiful building in praise of Allah. I am sure my Lord would agree it is a fine day for us all.

The general looked a little puzzled by the Rabbi's positive reply and looked him up and down with a look on his face that suggested he was not impressed. The Rabbi looked at the ground, his body language showing no signs of defiance, just placid submission to this powerful man. The president approached but the general was still in the way, he was sure he would fail if the general did not move aside. But then he moved as the president approached the Ayatollah; he checked the safety catch one more time and pushed the catch firmly forward until it would travel no more. The Ayatollah smiled and offered his hand in friendship, they exchanged a few words. And then President Basher Al-Assad turned towards the Rabbi. The Rabbi wanted to scream out about all the injustice and cruelty that had befallen his people, but instead he calmly raised his head to greet the President. His hands were now folded in front of him as protocol expected when the president approached, but they were still concealed by his robes; and then as the president offered his hand, they made eye contact and the Rabbi exposed a hand, and shook hands with the President who began to speak, but the Rabbi could not hear him, he just nodded at the end of each sentence and agreed with everything he said. The president turned to walk away, every fibre of the Rabbi's body screamed at him to act now, or nothing will change. The Rabbi should have just folded his hands to the front of his robes, but he slipped his right hand beneath his robes and grasped the pistol with both hands, raised the pistol, which was still beneath his robes and fired. In the instant it took for the explosion to register to all around that it was gunfire; the president slumped to the ground as a hole in the Rabbi's robes burnt and smoked. In the next few seconds as the general and his aids realised it was the Rabbi who had fired the fatal shot; as if in slow motion: their muscles flexed and each took a step towards the Rabbi, pulling to arm their pistols and small arm weapons. In this time, the Rabbi got off three more rounds; the president jerked and gasped his last breath, blood splattered on his shirt and dress jacket. Then, a moment later, round after round of small arms fire hit the Rabbi: four rounds directly to the chest; he slumped to his knees and fell face first onto the marble floor, he did not move, a round directly to his heart killing him instantly. Blood trickled from the corners of his mouth, his eyes staring, eerily into the distance. Both the President and the Rabbi lay stone dead on the cold marble floor. The stunned audience to this drama: the two hundred minor party members waiting for the emergency conference; suddenly burst into a crescendo of indignant protest at the murder of their beloved president, all so desperate to show their loyalty. The crowd of party members joined the scuffle around the dead president, arms waving frantically, faces screaming with rage; ignoring the dead Rabbi. While the military high general and his staff tried to hold them back; the Ayatollah worked his way to the edge of the ensuing scuffle and left the building. He had to find Solomon and fulfil his promise to the Rabbi; he headed up the side street towards the square. The Rabbi had given him a mobile and a pre written text he must send. He kept walking, fumbling in his robes for the mobile phone. The crowd jumped in unison, fists in the air, chanting:

Jews and Arabs refuse to be enemies!

No peace. No welfare. Down with the government!

One God, one people

Solomon stood quietly at the corner waiting for news of the Rabbi's mission. He could see soldiers forming a defensive square around the side entrance of the Mosque. Had the Rabbi succeeded? He felt a vibration against his ribs; his sat nav phone had a message. He pulled the phone from his robes and pushed the message button; it read: Silent President completes phase one. It was done; Bashar Al-Assad was dead. He moved to draft messages; he had a pre designed message to send to his fellow missionaries: 'phase one complete, inform our new friends that Al-Assad is dead'.

Chapter Forty: The debriefing. Me, Jeff, Kevin and Paul returned to London and arrived at the United Grand Lodge of England for a debriefing by the 33rd degree Grand Master and Grand Master David Gregg. As we stood together, outside, before entering, we stood looking up at the grand old lady; the imposing stone building looked back at us and I felt small and insignificant; but then its tall and grand image empowered me to stand strong and I remembered my oath. It was Ok to be here; I have the right, stand tall Brother Steve Mitchell and enter. The pilgrimage had progressed as planned, although at times it had been touch and go whether we would succeed. But succeed we did and the way was now open for a Government of Unity. The United Nations Council would now communicate our plans to the world's media. The council was already on high alert and had convened more than once at its headquarters in New York due to recent events around the Middle East. Sanctions would now be dropped against Syria and the Gaza Strip, so they were now free to reconnect trade with the global economy.

The Arab league was out there also, on the ground, with teams of councillors communicating to the hundreds of communities across the Promised Land; Syria, The Gaza Strip, The Golan Heights, The Lebanon and of course Israel. It had never been so busy. We sat for lunch and chatted loosely about each other's adventures in the Middle East; two of us nearly lost our lives. Our contacts at the world bank where preparing our funds for dissemination across our new political allies; they would each receive five million euro's each as promised by the pilgrims: but only if they responded to our wishes and attended the Jerusalem conference as per our original negotiations. Where upon the United Nations Council, as guided by mother of course; would select the first temporary members of the Government of Unity. Anonymous letters would be hand delivered to our newly embraced friends announcing their invitation to next month's conference in Jerusalem. It really will be a world event that will be etched into modern history. President Shimon Peres of Israel has already agreed to embrace this momentous change, which is hardly surprising since Bashar Al-Assad is dead and it releases his people from Years of conflict, into a period of peace, growth and prosperity. And most importantly of all, with religious tolerance to ensure every person has the right to follow their chosen faith in support of YAHWEH, the one true god, free from the risk of oppression, ethnic cleansing and discrimination. There really would be an end to three thousand years of Palestinian and Muslim conflict.

Egypt promptly opened its borders with the Gaza Strip and the West Bank apartheid wall was in the process of being torn down to the cheers of the local people. Israeli troops withdrew from the West Bank and dismantled the check point at Qalandiya; thousands of people were celebrating instead of demonstrating, they were dancing in the streets. Literally singing and dancing. It was all happening so fast, that as each statement was made by the Grand Master; we sat dumfounded at our own success in this global political coup. Had we really done all this? And finally: The Hamas and Hezbollah promptly negotiated with the United Nations peace Counsel to disarm and promote their political party politics for inclusion in the government of unity. The Arab league was inundated with requests to attend business seminars and public declarations of peace; and the media flocked to every known corner of the once depressed areas of conflict. Reporting on the people and how they felt, their joy at being set free to think, talk and travel without fear of persecution. Foreign aid flooded the Gaza strip and the West Bank; bull dozers were delivered to demolish the Apartheid Wall that separated the Palestinians from the eastern quarter of Jerusalem. It really was a marvellous time for us all.

We were eating in the main dining room and the room was spectacular; the long mahogany dining table held its position in the room so well against such a strong and to be honest, quite ostentatious décor. The 33rd degree Master Mason sat at the head of the table and as usual did not intervene much in the proceedings, he occasional spoke to Master Mason David Gregg, but that was it. It was remote management and event reporting at its best. None of us spoke to him; we were not allowed too. He would sit and enjoy his lunch and just listen. The reason he was at the lunch was to ensure our business was conducted in a suitable and gentlemanly fashion, and that we discussed what needed to be discussed, and that we made the correct plans to ensure a successful outcome to any new requirements of the business as instructed by the 33rd degree Grand Master. He would then report back to the senior members of the lodge that mother's plans were in motion. And then Tom Brule walked in. My jaw dropped and I was instructed to stop staring; it was rude and not gentlemanly. He had his usual swagger and a smile wider than I had ever seen. 'Well done brothers! Well done.' Jeff just grinned at me. Kevin and Paul marched straight up to him and embraced him like a true brother. Tom then turned towards me and Jeff; he winked at Jeff and then looked straight at me. 'Well done Brother Steve.' He embraced me and I responded. We were brothers on a mission from God to save the Promised Land and we were so close to achieving our aim. The last time I had seen Tom, he was being dragged away by the police, when they arrested him and McGovern in Bromley, Kent. To say I was stunned to see him, was an understatement, especially as I was sure he was as guilty as hell. Over the next hour or so we had lunch; and Tom duly informed me that he had done his bit for the Promised Land as well as the lads and I. The original plan was for him to gather enough evidence to expose Brother Ray Mead as a known associate of McGovern, and prove he was on his payroll also. In doing so he discovered Detective Bramley was also directly involved with the McGovern gang.

The Masonic Brotherhood was originally created from the London Guild to generate funds for charity, and the release of the Promised Land was its final goal. But, some members had taken it too far and had crossed the line to become the greedy criminals that they were proven to be. Once suspected they had to be flushed out and this was the job handed to Brother Brule. Unfortunately Brother Bramley paid for his sins by the loss his life by a gunshot wound inflicted during the arrest. This was most unfortunate and he will always be remembered for his original character before his life became corrupted. Once the arrest was made, Tom was due to join the pilgrimage and once the Arab Rising had gained momentum, head for the Middle East with the team to ensure their plans came to the fore. But as he was injured and I had somehow become entwined with the criminal events that Brother's McGovern, Bramley and Brother Ray Mead were involved with, it was decided that they would do their best to recruit me to the cause. And what a good decision it had proven to be!

Chapter Forty One: The next Step. Lunch lasted a good three hours and only ended after the wine was finished off. The 33degree Master Mason congratulated us on the success of our pilgrimage and left. Master Mason David Gregg then proceeded to instruct us of our next move. He believed the Jerusalem conference would be a success and none of us could think of a reason it would not be so. But, the next step in our plans was to get boundaries rewritten and the whole area renamed as The Promised Land. This could only be achieved with the consent of The United Nations Council, the people of the land and the new elected members of the Unity Government. In this way all parties would be proven to be part of the decisions and it would be written into International law. Master Mason David Gregg would head our team, which would be declared as an Internal Masonic Envoy to the Unity Government. Day one of the conference agenda was set out solely to introduce all parties to the basic process and protocol of Unity Government that would enable every representative from every minority to communicate effectively, with clarity, honesty, and without bias. Day two would be dedicated to using that process and protocol to vote in a representative from each party, at the end of day two we would have our Unity Government. This would be followed by a day of rest, which would allow time for prayer, and reflection of our values.

On day four, the conference would be given a presentation of our vision for the Temple Mount. Master Mason David Gregg would illustrate a presentation to the forum that sets out our plan to build the 3rd Temple, to be known as the 'Temple of Unity'. This temple would enable our lord to return to this earth. The second coming would become a reality. The second coming would not be advertised as this time, it would be too much, too soon, and would remain a Masonic secret. But the vision to build a Temple of Unity would be presented with confidence to ensure a better, safer and agreeable future for us all to share. Temple Mount is the holiest site in Jerusalem, where Jews and Muslims alike turn to prayer. It is this sanctity that turns many holy men away as they are worried that they will unintentionally step on the same area that the Holy of Holies once stood: The 'Holy of the Holies' being the tabernacle, and later on the First and second temples; where the Ark of the Covenant was kept. According to holy law some aspect of the divine presence is always present at the site. It was here that the early high priests first communicated with YAHWEH, the one true god of mankind. And it is here that we will build the third temple and enable the second coming.
