 
MASONIC SNOW

Author: Bradley George Bambridge

Copyright Bradley George Bambridge 2010

Published at Smashwords.com

Prologue: Quote: They that can give up essential liberty to purchase a little temporary safety deserve neither liberty nor safety: Brother Benjamin Franklin. Quote: Freemasonry is but a web of favouritism, deceit and corruption.

The above quotations lend 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 tradesman, 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; 600 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 26,000 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 were able to fight many smaller skirmishes rather than one massive force. Saladin was 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 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 and down. Sunday has just passed by with me sat in front of the TV and the evening has turned into a brisk and wet November night. I can hear Cat's car pull up on the drive way and moments later she breezes through the front door. 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. In return: I hug her tightly and we gel as one, it's as if she never left. Forever friends, forever lovers; 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 whole area is peaceful, the village oozes Victorian charm and tranquillity; 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; but we're not necessarily well off and so choose to rent.

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. 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. Whilst dicing the meat, I feel her presence calmly enter the kitchen. Her arms entwine my waist, and she nuzzles into my neck;

'What's up darling'?

She starts to push me for an answer, in that gentle but persistent manner; even though you resist, you know from the start that you will end up giving out all the information eventually.

'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 serine, appears over my shoulder. 'Here you are darling' 'Thanks love'. I feel her arms reach around my waist once more and then the warmth of her breath on my ear, quickly followed by a gentle kiss on the neck. I do not respond, but I 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'?

Says Cat as she strokes my back to sooth the stress. I turn around and 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 I awarded them the job to install 2 air conditioning units in the HV room and in return, they paid for our flights and hotel rooms.' '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 the 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 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 OK'.

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 I am determined to salvage something from this mess. Ray Mead is the problem, the sales guy who suckered me. It's Sunday, but I don't care. Damn him and his bloody cronies. I have basic manners and I do respect his home life, but sod it. I pick up the phone and call him. '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'. 'What's going on then? Why has your high and mighty leader cancelled the flights and hotel bookings?' 'You told him he would get all the work'. 'No I did not Ray, the monies I agreed with you were strictly to the value of the sales I have given you; and you knew that. Not for any work in the future or for 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 shit and you know so'. 'There's no need to talk to me like that, I will talk to you on Monday. And I don't expect you to phone me at home and give me shit on my day off'. 'Click' the phone goes dead, I try to call him back but 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. I was awake for hours that night, watching TV at first, and then tossing and turning as my mind mulled over what that idiot of a man had done, 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 is 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. I on the other hand was totally stressed out and just about surviving as usual. This was not good, I needed to calm down and get on with my life; what was done, was done.

It was soon Monday morning and I called Andy Townsend: the project Manager of East Ham Engineering. This is the guy who manages the projects I award to Ray the salesman. Rue the day I ever met that damned Ray Mead and he sweet talked me into using his company for client projects. Andy explains that Ray had all ready called him. 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 he would have reacted in the same way, which is no vindication of the shit I am in. It's approximately an hour later that Ray calls, but not in his usual friendly manner that beguiles you and demands return for his friendship. His voice is calm, but menacing; he insists we meet in the local Cafe Costa to sort things out.

We met outside the cafe; the greeting is friendly but abrupt and we go inside. 'What do you want Steve?' 'Skinny Latte and a slice of fruit loaf please Ray'. He tells me to sit down and just looks at me. Ray is at least fifty five, but he's a big guy, over 6ft' 6'' and has shoulders to match. His manner is slow, deliberate and menacing. He does not rush his words and looks straight at me during this interface of his thoughts, of which I am intently listening too. I 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. I apologise immediately for my stupid 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 totally disrespected him and I do not understand his position. I again explain that I had passed on enough work to his boss 'Stuart' to justify the £2k of gifts, and this entitled me to choose who ever I wanted to complete other work 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 skill is to impose himself upon you; and you accept their opinion while subconsciously denying yourself that you are scared witless. Ray's phone rings and he takes the call. 'Yes, Yes, all right, I won't be long just clearing something up, be there in 30 minutes'. He leaves in a hurry, but warns me that we will speak again. Thank god for that, he's gone. I am genuinely relieved not to feel as if 2 burly blokes will be waiting for me as I leave work, but hey it's not home time yet, anything could happen. 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. Sod it, and fuck him too, I grab it and leave. Work beckons; I must get back and show my face.

Back in the office: and I think nothing of dumping the folder on my desk and getting 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 fuck 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'. Fuck him! I 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 yes, 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 I may be getting my own back. I decide to leave things as they are for now and get on with my day.

This contract has kept me gainfully employed for 12 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 whole work load thing that is getting on my nerves, 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; I didn't even get the reward you would expect, an annual pay rise or maybe a bonus. Nada: year after 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, all through their books. It was a £100K a year and they were squeezing me to take as little as possible, which was not going down well with me. Still, if I had half a brain I would not have been so greedy; I was doing quite well in my little scheme, and now I am in the shit, and digging the hole still deeper.

Chapter Two: Chilling Out. My boss Tom Brule recommended me for my present job and 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 got to be 10 years younger than me, very short, about five foot six, overweight and has 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 like to be in 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 time out after a long day and the free beer. Its 5pm 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 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 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 as I am so 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 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.

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'' tall, bloody huge compared to me. Jeff 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 2 other brothers just a big as himself and they know all the local 'riff raff'. In fact they were brought up in St Marys Cray, Orpington, Kent; not the most salubrious area of town and have known all the local villains since their school days. And here they are: I can hear the car horn outside, blaring its way through the night air. All 3 are general builders and labourers, and on this particular Friday night all 4 of us guys are heading for Leicester square.

The drive into London is an uneventful affair. Jeff and I squeeze ourselves into the rear of the Ford Mondeo. Jeff's brother Paul hits the throttle and the old girl drags its arse into the city. I occasionally join in the gossip as they ramble on about a few mates and anything else going on the area. After parking up; we head for a few west end pubs. But the order of the night is to finally end up in the 'Grand Casino': 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. I know the reality of what is happening to my brain, 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 15 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, 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 Mondeo.

Chapter Three: Masonic Courier. After drinking with Tom and his Masonic cronies; I'm on the train home I find time to look through Ray's business folder. There's the usual stuff: calculator, note pad: which has a few scribbles about some project works, prices etc, business cards and a memory stick. My laptop is in my rucksack, so I pull it out and start her up. Once the 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. But: The first file I open grabs me by the balls and yells in my ear. I really do not believe what I am reading, actual minutes from a Lodge meeting in New York; the United Lodge Of New York. What is going here then Ray? What are you doing with these? The document is headed by a large emblem: made up of a set of compasses over a set square. I have seen this symbol before; it's nothing uncommon, the standard tools for Stone Masonry. 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, I cannot believe it. Any organisation will have communication process or protocol, and Ray is it! But what lodge does Ray belong to? Does he only courier for that lodge? Ray must be well stressed out about losing this lot: 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. 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 up for clarification, further discussion or final closure. 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. It will have to wait: I switch off the laptop and head for the train doors. The train pulls into Farningham Road station and I take a leisurely stroll home. Catriona is in doors all ready and we settle down for the evening.

'Trevor, Trevor McGovan' that name is still ringing in my ears, who is that? I decide to investigate and head for the home PC. It takes a couple of minutes to start up and wind up the internet, here goes. I type in: 'Trevor McGovan' and hit the return key. The search engine software fires back a dozen search strings within a fraction of a second. The modern era of mans innovation and the internet never ceases to amaze me. Your 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. I click on and activate the download of the first article: a life of crime. What I read shocks me to the core: McGovern attended Inverness primary and secondary schools, and was all ready known for his love of unprovoked violence, revelling in the fear it created. Could it really be the same McGovan? Anyone who crossed his path felt controlled or abused; he was often described as vile and with no emotional respect for anyone around him. He grew in size and ego to a large framed adult of over 6ft 6'' and even at the age of 14 years, when he really became aware of his strength and influence, was all ready 5ft 11. He quickly 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. McGovan had the taste for quick and easy money; but it was not to last and he was arrested for receiving stolen goods. He was convicted at the Glasgow Sheriffs court on 14th August 1979 at the tender age of 19 years. He received a sentence of 7 years at Prestwick Jail in Ayrshire, but served only 3 years for good behaviour. He then seemed to settle down for a few years, but soon became bored with the monotony of a straight life. McGovan then began to travel and had amassed enough monies to fulfil several property deals and began dealing drugs. It was at this point; at only 27 yrs of age that 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 Four: 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 likes the heavy gold jewellery, necklace, ear studs, and heavy rings. Both men are a foreboding sight to your average guy; let alone the army of brothers they command. Between them they control the Cocaine distribution of the entire New York state. They have done this by 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 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' (1735– December 4, 1807), a former slave, he was an early American abolitionist and a writer. He is also considered to be the founder of "Black Freemasonry" in the United States, known today as Prince Hall Freemasonry. As 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 in 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 Masons 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.

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 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. 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, smack 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 Five: 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 'US of A'. 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 2 weeks in New York. 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 30 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. 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 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 7 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 loving it 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; I tip the driver and thank him 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. We are shown to our room by the concierge; it's on the 12th floor: we dump our bags in a heap. I tip the concierge 5 dollars and declare 'Let's go', it's getting dark and the lights are on in New York City. We hit the icy streets, the snow is still falling and the NYC road sweepers push the ice and snow to the kerb. We exit the hotel, turn right, and walk past numerous Korean restaurants and eateries; the smell of their cooking hangs in the air and fills the nostrils with a sweet and tangy sensation. Then right along 6th Avenue towards 'Times Square', past Bloomingdales and a dozen souvenir shops selling everything from a New York baseball cap to china 'Betty Boop'. Nothing can beat a walk 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 with wonder and pleasure. Cloak this with sub zero temperatures and heavy snow snowfall and you have an effect that is truly psychotropic.

The alarm clock echo's its electronic beep around the room. I jump out of bed as quickly as any 37 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 yes: 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 soft mouth. Her legs slowing drift apart, her hips push towards mine and I slide my leg between her thighs, pushing gently and firmly into her warming woman hood. Catriona grips my back and thigh, nails nipping 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; I become harder and cannot hold back. I ease myself into position and nudge her soft, hot womanhood. I enter her gently, 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 crush of 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. 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 I study the map.

'Well, what do you fancy doing?

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 seems a million miles away; it was worth the pain of saving for the past 11 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. NYC Police cars and Fire Engines seem to push their way through the traffic every 30 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 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 decide to leave our troubles behind us and head out into the night once more; we walk 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 then, next floor please!' we jump on the escalator, an old rickety wooden affair, a bloody museum piece if you ask me.

Chapter Six: 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. Dodge 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 2 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 me, 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 Meader 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 was 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 Seven: The Stake Out. 'Steve, let me look at that folder, have you got it with you?' 'Well, I have a copy of the originals on my memory stick. 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?' 'No'. 'Well, 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. Big time trouble, this will not go away unless we sort this out'. 'Cat; the only clues we have are that: Ray is a courier. He has communication 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 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 I have a copy, here with me now.

'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 we decide to do is move accommodation; there are hundreds of motels on the edge of town. We pack our bags with haste, 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. Park the car about half a mile from the Lodge; we are in Bridge Water Township, a middle class residential area approximately 75 km west of New York, on interstate 78. We walk towards the main commercial road; coats zipped to the top, hats pulled down hard, its freezing. 'Here Steve; I have the map, 2 more blocks then down a side street called Sunset Ridge. Then the second on the right and we are there: Buxton road'. The atmosphere gets a little quieter as we turn off the main road, and far more sinister. The street lights are there, but further apart, it's just not as well lit. A thug of a man suddenly turns the corner and is facing 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, two more streets and it's on the right.

What we are faced with is a quiet street, white with snow, but dark, the street lights are even worse. I 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 finished off with biscuit tiles and 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.

It's them! The 2 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, see if they settle in to something or leave'. Only 5 minutes pass when 2 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.

'There are three cars to follow this could be difficult'. 'I know, let's get back to the car and we'll pick 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'. We tail them out of 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 there 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 looks a little edgy. They enter the building, but soon exit about 20 minutes later with a small bag; is it drugs money? Then back into the car, which 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 a passerby.

'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 Eight: 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 familiar 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 2 hand guns as gifts for our relatives here in Bridge Water Township, is this possible?' Our 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 $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 all geeky. Apparently there's a place a couple of blocks away.

Come on let's go, 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 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 12 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, 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 Angie, 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 Nine: 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 must 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. The car withdrew into the darkness of the street as I turned the headlights off. 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 2 goons and their driver exit the Cadillac and stand 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 twats 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 Peter'. '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 now 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 of our heart rates were up from a steady 60 to a racy 85 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 a 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 fuck about; 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'.

'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 a 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 and finite grip is finally communicated through the tyres, through the 4x4 transmission, and the mechanics hurtle the car towards McGovan. He turns on his heels and heads for his car, reversing wildly out of the lodge car park. The Chevy 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 boys 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 I 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 30kph; 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, 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 chrome 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 road; oncoming cars breaking to avoid a smash, tyres screeching. 'YES! He's a gonna, we're 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. He had 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 fuck himself!' 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 hrs 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 Ten: The run for home. Cat discussed the latest info gained from casing out the lodge. 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 Meader; 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 30 minutes behind them. His transport was disabled, but he would just call a taxi. It was a good 10 minutes before Cat had managed to struggled through the call managing system and reached an operator of British Airways. 'They have 2 seats available for the 0030hrs to London Heathrow get a move on and we'll make it'. 'A change of airport is good; How much?' 'Does it matter? Another $350 each 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! Junction: 5a'. 'OK, nothing to it'. Swing the car to the right, join the slip road, ease off the throttle: 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. The corner finally straightened 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. 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, across the linking bridge, down one floor and then into the 'check in' area. It was 1155 and we were dishevelled; panic was taking over. 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. '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 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 bloody shitting myself 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 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, 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 the numbers beneath the logo?' '51.02.00.00'. 'Is that a reference number? A date? A time? What could it be?' 'It could be a time if the 5 was not there. Reading it backwards would give 0 hours, 0 minutes, 02 seconds and 51 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!' 'OK. OK'. 'Steve'. '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 already. And psycho McGovan has tried to kill us; and will continue do so at any opportunity. 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'. I held her hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze, she reciprocated. I then leant over and kissed her cheek, just brushing her ear, smelling her sweet scent that so coalesced with my own. 'I'm ok. It's just that McGovan is a killer. I desperately want to defeat him and 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 our most valued customer's, please enjoy our information and entertainment media'. 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? 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. I spotted a movement from our extreme left, just on the edge of my peripheral vision; I looked left but nothing confirmed any imminent threat. Cat paced past me and headed for the first sign giving directions to the dual purpose 'drop off zone'. I followed and again was drawn toward movement on our left flank; I looked again and could see a blond man staring straight at me. The human reaction is to look straight back, you cannot help it. I looked back at the blond man and caught his eye, the blond mans 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. I ran straight at the automatic doors, but they were desperately slow and I crashed straight into them. I forced my hands into the initial opening 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 did not move. 'Come on Jeff, let's go'. Cat and I are all ready in the car. Jeff slides his 20 stone bulk into the driver's seat and starts the Jag. He then guns the throttle; 3 litres of fuel injected and twin turbo assisted V8 propel the Jag out of the parking lane and into the traffic flow. 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's 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 joining the M25 heading for the Dartford Tunnel, Jeff adjusting the cruise control to a steady 75 mph.

Chapter Eleven: The Next Move. Catriona opened the conversation once more. 'What the fuck 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'? says 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 work, my boss'. 'Tom?' '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' 'Thx Tom'.

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. Cat and I soon headed for the spare room whilst Jeff slouched onto the sofa and switched on his 'big ass' TV.

Chapter Twelve: 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 things 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: dead. McGovan went through the plan with his team and confirmed every detail with Banta. Banta would later call his brother and confirm that the operation 'was a go' and that they should proceed with the drop.

The actual route taken by the drug mules starts at the Mexican border. The Mexican gangs take all the risks, but there is no shortage of volunteers wanting a free ride into America. So, Nosa did not purchase the goods until they were on US soil. The drugs that did make it through the border are then driven from the west to east coast. This would take 8 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; are a common problem for any security operation at an airport, but the combination of long hours and low hourly pay were a beautiful opportunity for the likes of Nosa and his brother. Befriended and enlisted into the brotherhood, they were trapped by oath. This was fine for the few that leant towards criminality anyway, but a life of servitude to others who were controlled with threats of violence and even death.

Chapter Thirteen: The Meeting. Catriona woke first at about 2pm, and promptly woke me. After a good stretch, yawn, and a quick cuddle; 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 where and roughly when the drop was, all we needed to do was convince the cops of our information 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 'Cat and Whistle' 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 staying 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 2 days to the drop and we cannot afford to be giving statements for 2 or 3 days while they get the gear and disappear. This is where you come in'. 'I do?' 'Yes Tom, I damn well know you will know some senior Police officers through your 'line of work'. Setup a meeting within 24hrs and we will spill the beans; and then hopefully the cops can set up an operation to nail these bastards'. 'Well Steve, it seems you have a point and I may be able to help you. This seems serious enough to not be a waste of 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. Where ever; call me in 24 hrs and I will have your contact ready'. 'No, 12 hrs; we do not have enough time'. 'Ok; call me in 12hrs. That's 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 shit. Well, as much as I love her and to be honest still lust over her tight little arse, 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 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 consent. We kissed and hugged, my groin pushing 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. How can anyone chill out and make love when you know McGovan could knock on your door at any time. 'Cat'. 'Yes'. 'Let's get breakfast and call that slime ball Tom'. 'OK'. Jeff strolled into the kitchen just as Cat sizzled 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 2 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 gonna 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'. 'Fair play 'Cat' 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 broke, 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 3 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. 'Fucking 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 then access the building. It's also a Saturday, so don't worry there will be plenty of spaces'. I gave Catriona a reassuring look and thank 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 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 Bramley, and he had been with the force for 15 yrs. 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 and CID. 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. 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 pushed his way to the front and 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 6ft apparition 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, it was well lit also, 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 busy with furniture and personal anecdotes from his personal life and professional achievements. 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'.

I could not help but get a little animated; Tom and Peter Bramley just let me carry on. Catriona joined in; we explained about my fallout with Ray, but did not explain any further details as to why we fell out. And then about our trip to New York, that was meant to be a holiday, but turned into a mission to survive and avoid McGovan at all costs. I was beaten to a pulp and left on the sidewalk. We had to move hotels; and 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. I wanted to find out what was going on. And what did I find: Ray Mead, a Freemason, with a known UK criminal, who is an expelled Freemason, meeting New York drug dealers, in a US Mason's 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?' 'We followed the hoods checking on street traders and 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 to? And they were waiting for us at Heathrow airport; they are organised criminals who will stop at nothing to kill us'. DI 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. 'Ok 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. 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. I don't trust them, we need a plan B. 'And what do you propose'. 'Jeff: his brothers and their mates'. '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 either. We have the Lat/Long, and the drop could be any time tomorrow. If we go tonight and stay in a local hotel, we can setup a hide at first thing. The drop will not be until that evening anyway. And we get away from Jeff's; 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 8 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?' 'Yeh, Ok'.

We are back at the house and have 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 20 minutes. Soon, there is a knock on the door and in walks Bret, all 15 stone of 6ft 2'' 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 handles stretch. 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 knocks 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 a 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 fucking gun shop in New York you tosser'. 'There'll do Pete; 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.

We settle down over coffee and toast to discuss our plan. Catriona and I agree to travel to Surrey and book into a hotel; and from there monitor the drop zone throughout the suspected day of the drop, from 0000hrs through to 2400hrs. At some point the Detective and Pete 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 proceed to give them a little more. Look here Bret. 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? 'Take my work van, it'll be ideal'. 'Cheers mate'.

It's now approaching 5pm on Thursday, I would guess that the drop could be at anytime in the next 24 hrs, but: we must cover the drop area from midnight tonight to be sure; as we do not know the time of the drop. I am deeply concerned with the moral issues of letting 4 tonnes of Cocaine and god knows what else into the country; 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. I take the Jag 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 Fourteen: 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 the others. I can only agree with him; this keeps him happy and feeling in control. 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.

I catch a little movement in the rear view mirror of the Jag. I 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. I pull away from the kerb and proceed back to Jeff's. I queue to turn right at the traffic lights and then I spot it. A Silver Ford Mondeo with 3 guys and a woman inside. Two were from the airport: the big blond guy is driving, the brunette woman is in the passenger seat, and two hoods are in the rear seats. I look into the mirror once more as the lights turn green, the brunette woman catches my eye and realises they have been spotted. I urge the Jag forward and instead of turning right, I head straight on to the main road and the M25. They are at least 4 cars behind and driving as urgently as I am; now they have been spotted they have only one option left. They must stop me, subdue me, and use me to get at Catriona and the others. I grab my mobile and hit the speed dial for Catriona. 'Hi. Catriona Mitchell'. 'It's me Cat, 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 do the 'Swanley to Orpington' loop. 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 chat with a bloody traffic island. I hit the slip road for the M25 London circular; I was doing 90mph before the end of the slip road; and gunned it to 110 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 2nd junction and the run for Orpington.

I'm heading for junction 3 when the bloody phone rings, I jab my finger at the in car system and its Jeff. 'Steve, are you OK. Do need some help?' 'Nah, 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. I get to the top floor and I can see Jeff's white van immediately, Cat is already frantically waving 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 2 floors down when I spot the Silver Mondeo through a gap of the 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 be early am or after dark, it couldn't be during daylight hours. 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 that I was being tailed 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 arrive at Croydon town centre, which is the nearest large town to Furness Green; 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. '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 Fifteen: 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 giveaway as they drove up and down this disused lane. The map clearly illustrates high ground to the west of the site; any drop would be lower down in the valley base that was shielded by 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 approach and more importantly will provide a panoramic view of the latitude. 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 the sandwiches are all packed. The sleeping bags and plastic sheets are in the back of the van, 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 ground steeps upward, 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 of 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 is so low that the risk of anyone seeing anything from afar are 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 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 small parachutes, then hit 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 2 land cruisers left the tree line and drove towards the line of bags. Five heavyset guys then leapt out of the vehicles and swung the tailgates open; hauling the bags into the rear of the vehicles. It only took 3 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 back down south. 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 and the left side of the van hit the road, the 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 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 my 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 and struggled to breath and replenish the oxygen my body so badly needed. 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, a path to redemption. '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. She struggled for breath, gurgled 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 2 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. Four guys dragged me across the road and shoved me into the first land cruiser. I was in the back, in the middle and incoherent. A short sharp elbow to the face, followed by a pungent smelling cloth across my face finished me off. I was out cold.

Chapter Sixteen: The Bromley Lock up. I awoke on the M25 heading for the now famous Dartford Bridge. The car was quiet, the traffic 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 200ft high; you can see half of London from its highest point. After crossing the bridge and paying the toll, a black hood was 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 Swanley and then Bromley. 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 Bromley, I was sure of it. The car was absolutely quiet, no one spoke; I was scared. I was going to die, 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.

I could hear gravel beneath the tyres, we had turned off the main road. My hood was pulled off. Are you with us Mr Mitchell; I did not reply, I had nothing to say. Bramley: the detective from New Scotland Yard looked at me with a smart, but void look of triumph on his face. He looked at McGovan, they both laughed loudly as we headed further on down the track. Banta was obviously in the cruiser behind us with the rest 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 exited the cruisers. The middle lock up was the biggest and I was man handled inside by two of the crew. 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 malice 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 wanker!' '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 fucking Freemasons, not 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 fool. I could see the blinding halogen lights streaming through the open door. And I could just see a rear door of one of the cruisers open and a bag hit the dirty concrete surface of the yard, a puff of dust energised into fluorescence by the halogens. 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 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. 'Fucking 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 the life taking 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 m/s 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 seemed to hit the deck 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, outside was 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, and Bramley was inspected for injuries.

'Medic required; medic!' I was released: the pain subsiding from my wrists and neck, from where I had been tied. People were still rushing around, checking, clearing; securing prisoners, and inspecting the haul of waxen wraps of white powder. Or as it should be more commonly known in this case: Masonic Snow.
