The Linobambaki Prophecy v6i3

“This novel is a work of fiction. All characters in this novel are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.”

Copyright © 2013 by Stuart Land

All rights reserved.

This novel or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Design by Rashid Muhammad Rafiq/RMR

www.rashidawan.com

The world is a book and he who stays at home, reads only one page.

- anon

About the Author

Stuart Land is a journalist and copywriter who has lived all over the world. He is an expert in both Scandinavian and Arab affairs and was recently head of corporate communications for a company in the Gulf. He is married with two children and Linobambaki is his fourth novel.

Prologue

Forced to convert to Islam, a group of Cypriot Greeks continued their Christian faith in secrecy after the invasion of the Turks in 1571, and to escape from the stigma of forced conversions, they formed a sect – The Linobambaki. A group of them had realised that the two one-god faiths were similar in nature – and yet since the Crusades, the Moslems and the Christians had been fighting each other. They were determined to infiltrate the higher echelons of government to influence both great religions. It was a very slow process but they incredibly maintained the secrecy of their sect over more than 400 years.

In recent years as the sect had moved from a religious to a more political arena, they had been meeting in Venice and other cities once a year. It had never been their goal of becoming religious leaders for they settled for influence through their business connections.

The Linobambaki had migrated from their Cyprus birthplace to countries like the UK, , USA, Australia, Egypt, Turkey, Jordan… and many of them had managed to obtain citizenship. Once they accepted the Linobambaki prophecy, it was their duty to obtain success in business or politics in their adopted countries… and by late 1990s they had achieved a dominant position in business… three of their sect being among the top 500 richest persons in the world. One of them was a judge in the UK. Another had been elected to the European Parliament via his German constituency, another had become a close advisor to the US President, yet another was the Secretary General for one of the Arab World’s NGOs and another had just been granted citizenship from a Gulf country for his role in building a brand new city.

In all some 200 of this sect were now in positions which, for the first time, could realise the hopes of their founding forefathers.

For the first time, the Linobambaki might be able to bring the Muslims and Christians together through influence and unseen pressure.

But the Arabic mafia, the Al Qaeda, had somehow learned about the discovery of the Holy Grail of the Linobambaki and the list of names of the sect from the 1570s which via today’s sophisticated search engines would be able to trace the original of the sect and their descendants who still followed the “faith.” Nearly 500 years of plotting, the daring of moles, nerve wrecking careers, death-defying double lives, were about to be exposed unless Al Qaeda plans could be thwarted.

And then a new danger arose which would threaten world peace – an audaciously planned raid of fundamentalist pilots in nuclear - armed Mirages.

Janos Hussain would have to sacrifice his own destiny to face a disaster which will make 9/11 look like an every day suicide bombing.

The Mercenaries

The stone hit teenager Soska on her forehead causing an instant blue lump and blood began to trickle from the wound.

“I did not look at Cano, I don’t even like him” she yelled defiantly as she saw her brother picking up another large, black stone, his face contorted with a vicious sneer and maniacal eyes, screaming “Whore, whore”. His missile hit his sister on the side of the head and sent her reeling. Her mother ed in the attack

“You are not my daughter” she rasped and threw a rock which hit the neck of Soska as she lay groaning on the ground. Her sister, obese and ugly with matted hair, aimed at Soska’s face with her walking stick, breaking her nose.

It was left to her father, Lafaw, to strike the last blow. He deliberately bent down and smashed a brick against his daughter’s bleeding head.

The rest of the villagers watched. Silently. With satisfaction. The head-scarved, portly women nodded in unison. It was said the unmarried 15 year old Soska had been seen with a student, Cano, even though she had been promised in marriage to the hean Beja Sindia, who owned most of the agricultural land in this high mountain village and was now in his 60s.

The 300 inhabitants who formed a circle around the murdering family would have turned to walk away and the next day the incident would have been forgotten. Another day. Another honour killing.

But it was not their lucky day. Coming towards them firing their guns in the air, were two European mercenaries. One Russian, one British. Both tall, blond men with machine gun belts wrapped around them. They sprinted through the crowd and one of them picked up Soska in his arms.

“Where’s the doctor?” he asked in their Kurdish language. A timid teenage boy took hold of the hand of the questioner and led him and his friend to a grey, wooden corner house some 200 yards from the village square, which was surrounded by a flock of goats.

He pushed the door open to be confronted with a thin woman with straggly hair

in a white uniform, about 25 years old, hands on hips, standing in his way.

“Get out of my way. Where’s the doctor”.

“We have no doctor,” the woman replied. “I am the nurse…I am all they have in these parts.” She spoke with an American accent.

“Save the girl.”

The girl was still alive but bleeding profusely and breathing heavily. Between tortured and heavy gasps, she whispered “I am a virgin.”

They were her last words. She died still in the arms of the Russian mercenary.

The Brit stepped forward and said to the nurse. “Check if she’s a virgin.”

“She’s dead, I cannot do that.”

He pulled his revolver from his belt and pointing it at her. “I know she is dead… now find out if these savages have killed an innocent girl.” They left the dead girl with the nurse, returning 15 minutes later when the nurse called “She was a virgin.”

“Now tell me where we can find this family,” ordered the Russian.

The nurse gave them specific instructions and half an hour later both men were kicking down the bolted door of a wood and concrete farm house, located on a small hillock, grass tufts sparsely protruding from the gravel pathways.

The father, the mother, the brother and sister were roughly pushed out of the house, all of them sulking and complaining.

The father was dressed in grey baggy pants and a tight blue waistcoat with a fat belly drooping over the waistband, a white skull cap covering untidy white hair. His son was similarly dressed but he wore a red baseball cap while his sister, a surly plump girl with fat legs wore a yellow stained, white kaftan. The mother was dressed in pantaloons with a crumpled and dusty dress over the tros. She had a poker in her hand and tried to strike Vlad with it as she spat at him. He pushed the barrel of his automatic rifle into the neck of the woman and she dropped her fireside weapon.

“You do not understand our customers, Foreigners…Leave us alone. We have our own laws in this part of Kurdistan,” the father grumbled.

“Just keep moving. We want you back in the village square.”

As the family arrived in the square, many of the local people began to gather. The Brit fired his machine gun into the air, the noise bringing the rest of the inhabitants out of their houses to find out what was happening.

The Russian began to speak. Pointing to the family who he had lined in a row, he announced “Soska is dead. She died a virgin. She was killed by her family because she looked at Cano, though we are told she even denied that.

You are all primitive animals. None of you came to the rescue of this beautiful young girl. And now I am going to show you how we treat animals.”

He walked in front of the family and fired his pistol at the sister, hitting her in her right knee. She fell screaming to the ground. The standing three dared not move. The other mercenary then moved forward and fired two shots into the brother’s knees. He yelled and bawled as he tried to crawl away, slithering round in the sandy square like an injured snake. The villagers gave a collective and painful “ooh” as the bullets struck.

The Russian then replaced his friend and aiming carefully, killed both the father and mother with one shot each in the centre of their foreheads. They died instantly, collapsing in front of the rest of the village, blood streaming from their mouths. The executions were carried out with no show of emotion from the two men. The villagers cowered, looking away from the dead and injured. Several of the women screamed and wailed.

“If we hear of any more so-called honour killings in this village, we will return to wipe out all of you.” The Russian glared at the fearful crowd “Raise your hand if you understand what I mean”. All the villagers raised their hands. He yelled at the brother and sister writhing on the ground. “I said, raise your hands.” Both tried to move.

Iraq 2005

Jason adjusted his body armour and reloaded his M62 Assault Rifle. He had just stopped the suicide bomber speeding towards them by spraying 7.62 mm “NATO” rounds to the left and middle of the windscreen. With two calm and calculated sweeps of the deadly Finnish built weapon, he had made the car swing to the right, hit a parked truck and explode bursting into flames as Jason, and his team guarding the ambassador, sped away from the wreckage-strewn street.

It had been a clinical, cool operation, the type detested by the Iraqi government, which had left a decapitated head rolling on the pavement as the only evidence of the assassination attempt, together with the black smouldering taxi and pools of blood. No one had been in the street except for the ambassador with his convoy of Hummers and Land Rovers. It was obvious to Jason that someone on or near his team had tipped off the bombers for the route had been decided at only 9 a.m. that day and now it was 10.30 a.m. on Friday the Islamic holy day, signalled by the cacophony of the Meuzzin echoing through the narrow streets of this poor quarter of Baghdad.

Jason had chosen this route carefully as he had been warned of an attack on the main road and decided to take this never-used itinerary, but someone had betrayed them. It must have been one of the interpreters. He would find out when they returned to the hotel in the Green Zone. His was one of the few private security firms operating in the Iraqi capital since the clamp down on the US teams.

He had no time for contemplation as he pushed the Ambassador down on his seat, on hearing the Yorkshire-born driver of the Hummer shout “Oh, fuck, here’s another bugger” at the same time slamming the brakes on and immediately reversing back along the empty street.

It was an eerie few seconds as the Hummer raced in reverse. With the advancing Peugeot, only a few metres away… but taxis did not chase security convoys in Baghdad and Jason leaned out of the window and fired several rounds to smash

the window of the taxi to try to slow it down. He then witnessed the driver blow himself up in a surreal implosion in a vain attempt to attack the Hummer. The terrorist was determined to go to his 77 virgin brides, together with two armedto-the-teeth expatriates earning $2,000 a day in the most dangerous job in the world.

Today they were definitely earning their pay as the explosion cracked but did not break the Hummer’s windows and the suicide bomber killed only himself, thanks to the quick reactions of driver Ken Thompson, whose West Indian grandparents would have been proud of his heroic deeds, the raison d’ etre being his struggle to pay for a house in Brighton, United Kingdom, for which his army retirement payout from the Grenadier Guards had formed the deposit.

In fact, Ken did not think of himself as brave or heroic he considered himself a bit of a chump for risking death every day to replace the seafront apartment his wife had claimed as part of the divorce settlement. Perhaps he should have forgiven her infidelity, but his Methodist upbringing would not let him do that… he should have been more Christian than puritanical, he thought. Fortunately, they had no children so he was alone in the world save for his elderly mother who lived in London in a small flat which overlooked the Highbury Stadium from where he could see part of an Arsenal game if he leaned out of the kitchen window and used binoculars…but he bought a season ticket instead, at least he had no parking problems using his mother’s empty slot in the building.

Being a “gooner” was his main hobby having switched allegiance from Leeds many years ago and when he was trying to relax back in the Green Zone he played cherished tapes of Arsenal scoring seven goals in a UEFA cup game or clashes with Manchester United and Liverpool. It helped him to relax but at the same time, he realised it highlighted the foolishness of his current employment.

His partner, Jason, was another loner. Ex–British Army marine, unmarried, 6 ft 3” tall with a hatred for Arabs, particularly Iraqis, since losing colleagues in his

previous security firm to a roadside bomb. Jason trusted no one, not even his own team . He was also the unit’s manager and ant. He ordered and tested all the equipment. He had managed to keep the crew of six alive for the past nine months which he reckoned was miraculous at a time when the US military had been ordered to curb their protection of the private security firms which meant that street knowledge was crucially missing. Jason had to create his own network of informers. Mostly it worked. Today someone had let them down. It would not happen again for he would find out who had betrayed them.

In his career as a professional soldier Jason had learned not to be vindictive but it was in the current decade of his nearly 50 years that he began to change. It was probably the massacres in Kosovo communities and Iraq which proved the last straw on the camel’s back. Now he believed in the biblical ‘eye for an eye’ philosophy.

The Hummer had a US military-issued security badge stuck prominently on the windscreen but, as usual as the vehicle approached one of the Access Gates in the Green Zone, with its surrounding guard towers, it came to a halt to enable the occupants to be searched before proceeding “inside the wire”. They had ed several blast walls and bins filled with sand, forbidding clusters of barbed wire, and now they went through a metal detector and were patted down, despite the large ID es hanging from their necks.

Jason glanced at the warning signs as two American marines with their Iraqi counterparts with M-16s ed the security check.

“Do not enter or you will be shot”, “No cell phone use at checkpoint”, “Stop here and wait.” The signs left no one in doubt that trying to enter the compound without stopping would be fatal.

The Iraqi guards looked ruefully at the dents and scratches made by the explosion noticing the dark black mark with slivers of blood smeared across the bonnet, and fingered the cracks on the windscreen. The US Marines merely waved them through.

“I’ll take a chopper from Washington next time.” Vowed Jason smilingly referring to the nickname of the busy helipad serving the Green Zone.

They arrived back to the relative safety of the Al Rashid Hotel, having dropped off the ambassador, a scared-looking Uzbek at his consulate. “Pick me up in the morning. Let’s arrange a time over the phone and I’m out of here,” grunted Abdul Neguib with his nasal accent. “Today was too much. It’s getting worse. Thanks for keeping me alive, but I don’t need this. We’ll go to the airport by helicopter tomorrow and I’m leaving this shitty death hole.”

Jason understood his feelings. He was a good customer. They were all leaving. The Cypriot representative they had been guarding during his five-day stopover was also departing, probably on the same flight to Larnaca. The handover to the Iraqi Army had increased, rather than lessened the daily attacks.

Pity, they were all high-revenue customers. He would just have to raise the fees again to maintain the team’s income.

At the hotel he asked the Iraqi concierge if Mohammed, his interpreter, had checked out. He pointed to the receptionist another Iraqi of about 60 years who answered Jason “No sir. I’m preparing his bill again. He refused to pay the first one. He’ll be down shortly.” The concierge had known Jason for several months. He looked at the weapon and the bulletproof jacket and then Jason’s grim expression and knew Mohammed was in big trouble.

Jason nodded slowly to himself and picked up Mohammed’s blue Delsey suitcase standing near the counter, carried it to the far corner of the foyer and sat on it.

His interpreter was now in a hurry. He had been under pressure from the Shiite mullahs “Either betray your Yankee friends or be killed.”

He did not bother to explain they were English but in any case he chose betrayal to death. He knew he had to leave quickly for he had been told they survived. He made the mistake of asking the hotel to provide him with another bill for he knew they always tried to cheat.

Jason had an Uzi casually draped across his lap as Mohammed exited the elevator. He watched him walk briskly to the check-out counter, paying for his room in US dollars. A short man in a dishdash, an old face on young shoulders. He had obviously enquired about his luggage for the concierge pointed towards Jason.

Mohammed looked frantically from left to right and back to Jason. He saw the gun. He knew he would not make the door and decided to change tactics putting a broad smile on his face and rushing towards Jason. “My friend. How wonderful to see you alive. I heard the dreadful news and was afraid they had got you.”

“You mean you hoped they had got me, you little turd. How much did they pay you to betray us. I thought you were with us or at least neutral. Who asked you to do this?”

Jason had not raised his voice but the foyer had emptied on seeing the confrontation and the concierge and check-in staff had disappeared into the back offices. Mohammed knew he had to tell the truth “Mustafa, the mullah’s chief of staff.”

“Chief of staff? That ragtime army of crap house wallahs? What did he threaten you with?”

“Death” Mohammed whispered.

“Death eh? Well, unless you can persuade good old Mustafa to walk into the sights of my rifle you are certainly going to experience that transition. I’m not going to lose any more customers to your crazy fundamentalists. I want you to give me his exact location within 24 hours. Otherwise…” Jason drew his hand across his throat so Mohammed had no doubt of the consequences.

“If you don’t tell me I’ll come after you and your clan. I know where they live.” Jason spat out the words as if he did not want to waste any more talk on his treacherous interpreter.

A relieved Mohammed retrieved his suitcase and left. He had no intention of ever returning to the Green Zone. He did not believe that Jason knew the whereabouts of his family but in any case, they had already planned to move to Basra. He doubted if the Englishman could survive long enough to carry out his threat.

He had done his duty. The Mullah’s men would let him off the hook and hopefully forget him. He found his battered Fiat Punto at the back of the parking lot where he had left it, the doors unlocked so that Security could check the inside any time they chose.

It started immediately. He waved his interpreter’s at the guards at both the security barriers but they insisted on his leaving his car and being body searched. He did not mind. He was leaving, never to return. He decided to collect some freshly baked pitta bread from the bakery at the corner of Itihad Street. He was contemplating whether to buy goat’s cheese or sliced Kraft as he drove up in front of the shop when, for a fraction of a second, he ed he had broken a basic rule. He had not looked under the car.

The timed explosive which Ken Thompson had placed there ripped the Italian car into a dozen pieces and shattered the windows of the bakery, slightly injuring a number of ers-by.

Jason received condolences in the hotel bar later that evening from several journalists who offered him sympathy for the loss of his translator. No one showed any real emotion. Unfortunately, this was a routine incident. This was Baghdad. Kill or be killed.

Cyprus

The next day, Jason escorted the Cypriot representative and the Uzbek ambassador back to Larnaca, the nearest point for the latter’s flight to Tashkent. He called his grandmother from Larnaca Airport. “I’m having a few days’ relaxation in Cyprus…I’ll send you a postcard.”

“Be careful Jason. That’s where your grandad was killed by those Eoka people. They shot him at night. They never found his body. Bless him, your grandad Major Robert James, was serving with the British Army in Cyprus in 1956. There was a Greek chap called Colonel Grivas who started a fight with us. He wanted to Cyprus with Greece. Your grandad’s outfit was sent to a village in the Troodos Mountains to stop the Turks and Greeks from killing each other. Someone shot my darling in the back. I just had one son, your father. He was 22 when his father was killed. Your grandfather died too young. Murdered by Eoka.”

“Murdered by Eoka.” The words kept tumbling around every corner as he drove his hired car through the villages of Cyprus. He felt guilty as he returned the waves of the gentle country folk, sitting on their balconies fronting the streets. He tried to feel some dislike for the café owner who handed him a cup of thick sweet Cypriot coffee, explaining how to pronounce “Mettrio”, but he smiled when he saw the complimentary brandy which accompanied his order.

Alexander Popov

Bald-headed, with a red vodka-induced face, Alexander Popov wearily certified the last tractor for the day shifts off the conveyor belt by sticking an “approved label” on the rear mud-guard and went back to his office to watch television. He switched on the news and saw crowds dancing in the streets of , with young students pulling down the Berlin Wall brick by brick.

As the manager of a state-controlled factory making tractors and combine harvesters, Alexander was not highly educated and, in, fact, had obtained his job through his wife’s cousin but on seeing the news he was bright enough to realise an era was coming to an end. First East and then the Soviet Union… it was all breaking up. He called his friend at the shipyard to ask him what he thought they should do.

“Grab as much of the state’s money as you can and run. Leave the country with the dough. Everybody’s doing it. It’s chaotic in the ministries. No one seems to be in charge. All the former states of Eastern Europe are declaring independence aided by the Americans. The factory’s money will be stolen by one of the oligarchs. Better take it yourself. That’s what I’m doing.’

Alexander went to the ant and explained the situation.

“Open the safes and we’ll share the cash – or you can stay here with nothing for I’m away.”

The ant agreed with his factory boss. He had been thinking about doing it on his own. But there was enough money for both of them. He was happy to share the cash and the guilt with someone else. The Dvina tractor exports to Africa were paid for in advance by some African dictators who were always given a slice of the purchase prize in their personal s. They had just received payment for 200 tractors for Niger and Chad.

Alexander Popov had been abroad only once in his life. As a student he had ed a college trip to Cyprus where he had been treated like royalty by his Cypriot hosts. He had stayed at the house in Nicosia of Niklas Hajipapadopoulos. Niklas and his wife had driven their Russian guests all over the island, to the mountains and the seaside.

“See you in Cyprus,” his shipyard friend had said. He ed the friendship of the Hajipapadopoulos for they had corresponded occasionally ever since. He and his wife raced to the airport with two cases full of US Dollars and pockets crammed with roubles as tips, for Alexander knew some officials might delay his

departure, despite the chaotic situation in the country.

He was able to buy two tickets on Cyprus Airways and there was no attempt by anyone to try to stop his leaving the country. He arrived at Larnaca airport, the customs officials waved his suitcases through and he even managed to change his roubles for Pounds to hire a rental car, as he had no credit card.

His plan was simple. He would his friend Niklas to find out how he could settle in Cyprus. He found Niklas name in a telephone directory and a day later he and his wife were sitting in a seafront café. The now retired Niklas, overjoyed to see the adult Alexander, told his Russian friend that he would be happy to help him. “Leave it to me.”

Alexander’s wife Tania, was shocked and frightened. She was a thin plain woman but her long black hair gave her a much-needed femininity. She was of a nervous disposition. At the small seaside hotel she told her husband she had no idea how they would survive in Cyprus but Alexander calmed her nerves by showing her the suitcases filled with dollars which she had not been allowed to handle.

This was the money he was now using to ask Niklas to find a house for him. “It is my pension,” he told her.

They bought a villa on a hillside near the Neophytos monastery at Tala, Paphos. It was a modest two-bedroom residence with a small garden but Tania thought it was a palace. She wished she could tell her relatives but Alexander forbade her having any with Russia. “They may not understand or appreciate my pension pay-out,” he warned.

Tania never knew that Alexander had stolen the money and never would. They were not the only Russians who grabbed the State’s money and emigrated to Cyprus.

In Tala, there were other Russian families whose money probably derived from a similar source as Alexander’s. It was a small, quiet Russian community who did not mix with each other, preferring with varying success to become part of the British-Scandinavian communities who had chosen this area as their retirement home.

Alexander bought himself a second hand Pajero and a battered old whaler which he repaired and kept in the harbour, making friends with a number of local fishermen as they watched his boat being transformed. His English was improving month by month and he learned some basic Greek.

The years flew by and eventually his wife persuaded Alexander to buy her a flower shop.

She went to evening classes, encouraged by Alexander to learn computing. He wanted Tania to know how to run the business as his fishing friends had agreed a flower shop was a good idea. But like a parent with computer – savvy child, Alexander was not able to control all his wife’s activities as she became more competent on the computer and began to explore the internet. It was not long before she found the telephone number of her sister in Moscow. If only she realised that the new regime in Moscow had started to search for their missing millions and were casting their net around the Mediterranean, she would have thrown the laptop into the sea.

She called her sister and invited her to visit and stay at her palace giving her the address and telephone number.

A few days later…Alexander froze with justifiable fear when he answered the phone. A Russian voice speaking slowly and softly said “Good morning comrade. I hope you are not thinking of staying in Cyprus. We miss you so much here. Did you know your factory went bankrupt without your leadership? Apparently someone could not pay the bills for the engines for the tractors. You don’t know what happened to the missing two million dollars, do you?”

Alexander’s heart started to pound. This was the day he had been dreading. He could not speak. His throat was dry and constricted. All he said was “Niet” and put the phone down.

He did not know what to do. They had been traced. The government wanted their money back. How had they found him? His answer came the next day when Tania casually asked him, if she could invite her sister to visit them.

“Your sister? Have you been talking with your sister?” He yelled.

“Yes, why?”

“Because my stupid wife, the KGB, FSB, or what the hell they call it now, are chasing after all the Russians who fled after the Berlin Wall and that includes us.

Soon, you won’t have a house to show that stupid sister of yours.”

“But they cannot do that. We’re residents of Cyprus now.”

“But my silly wife, we are still Russian citizens.”

“I’m sure they will just ask us to pay some back taxes.”

“No, you idiot, my dear, it’s a bit more serious than that.” He angrily pushed his wife causing her to fall down, and collect another bruise.

Alexander knew he could expect a visit from Russia. Would it be a tax collector? Regime enforcer to make him return to Russia? Or worse still, an executioner?

He decided to prepare for the worse. He did not have the money to pay back, nor did he intend to hand back one dollar. Yelstin had given billions of dollars of the people’s money to his friends.

There were a dozen Russians like himself in Cyprus…they could not just kill us. We’re well behaved, helping the Cypriot economy. If we had not taken the money, others would have done so. Alexander justified his theft as compensation for the 25 years of labour for a small wage at the tractor factory.

Now he could afford a Japanese car and a laptop for his wife like all the Cypriots.

“Laptop?”

Of course, the link with his sister-in-law would have been through the internet. What a fool he had been to allow his wife, such access.

It could result in their both being killed. They must be prepared to defend their home. Alexander bought a new security system which included night lights which automatically switched on if an intruder was detected in the garden. He also bought an old British.303 rifle from the previous owner of the whaler. He had spent two years in the Russian Army so he knew how to use a rifle. He informed the local police that he had seen strangers lurking suspiciously near his house and they promised to double the patrols in Tala.

He knew how devious the new Russian government could be, but he had taken the necessary precautions and he had plenty of cash available to bribe any tax collector who might turn up.

Enosis

Jason was known as a hard, vicious man, but the Greek-Cypriots were melting away this tough façade and he soon began to enjoy his holiday and dispel all thoughts of his grandfather.

It was only when he returned to the Amadeus Hotel in Limassol and started flicking through the tourist material in his room that he came across the word “enosis”, union with Greece, and once again began to brood about Major Robert James.

What started as a casual thought about his dead relative became the main mission of his vacation.

He decided he wanted to meet the man who had deprived him of a grandfather. He d in the local Cyprus Mail “Let’s bury the hatchet” and was interviewed by a journalist from the Cyprus Weekly with the headline of his story reading “Let old enemies be friends”. Many of the young British holidaymakers reading the newspaper had no idea the Greek Cypriots had ever been anything but friends.

But Demetri Kyrakou, now 72, ed the name Major Robert James. It had been a long time ago. He had been a young member of Colonel, later General, Grivas’ holy warriors fighting the occupying British Army. They were financed by the Greek Catholic Church in a campaign which actually cost only £175,000 from 1955 to 1959. Led by Archbishop Makarios, the resistance fighters carried bibles in their rucksacks and were just as fanatical as the present day Islamic fundamentalists, especially when they heard of monasteries being ransacked and monks murdered with mobs using shot-guns. As the majority of Greek Cypriots ed the young resistance fighters, even more so when the British Army hanged a number of them as a deterrent, it was natural for the British Army to favour the minority Turkish Cypriots during these internecine battles.

However, if Jason had been able to read his grandfather’s letters to his wife, he would have discovered an officer who was fair-minded, neutral and understood the Greek Cypriots desire for independence. He was a man who had made friends with a number of senior Greek Cypriots, one or two politicians and had difficulty understanding the Islamic Turkish Cypriots.

“I feel like a crusader, one of King Richard the Lion Heart’s men,” he once wrote describing a trip in his Ferret armoured vehicle as he drove by the castle of Kolossi where the English medieval king was married in 1191. He had described how his men came between two groups of Greeks and Turks who were threatening each other with hunting rifles. He decided the reason for this particular incident was a Greek Cypriot falling in love with a Turkish-Cypriot

girl. Even he knew that was a “no no”. This time there had been no fights and everyone returned home, in one piece.

Demetri met his friends at a tired looking café at the fishing harbour in Paphos. The blue paint was flaking off the exterior’s woodwork, the metal chairs were creaky and uncomfortable but this kept away the tourists and suited the veterans. The occasional vacationers were parked by the waiters on the wooden Van Gogh chairs outside.

They had been meeting there every morning since drawing their pensions. Now they were all in their seventies, two in their eighties. All still proudly wearing the flat caps they had worn as resistance fighters.

Someone had cut out Jason’s ment and pinned it on the café’s notice board. Someone else had thrown a dart and scored a bull’s eye to skewer it between the “for sale” ads for fishing boats and pre-owned cars.

They were drinking the locally-brewed Carlsberg and the waiter kept filling the communal bowl of potato chips. He knew their habits for these were regulars and as others arrived, he automatically brought extra bottles

“Do you what happened to Major James?” Asked Demetri gazing at his friends and then answered himself “Of course, you do, we all know. I am not sure it will help us to tell his grandson. My airport policeman friend tells me that this Jason James had many Kuwaiti stamps in his port and on checking we now know he works in Iraq as a security guard. He runs his own bodyguard company and recently protected one of our UN representatives. Word is that he apparently is a tough, violent man. We’d be no match for him if he came wanting revenge.”

One of the listeners Alecos Christodoulou looked up, raised his hand to stop Demetri talking. He wore a grey suit with a yellow marigold in the buttonhole of the lapel, as if he was going to a wedding, or a funeral. But this was the normal attire of a businessman and for Alecos the restaurant was now his office. He began mumbling, “We may be old”… He started to cough. Demetri walked over and slapped him on the back. “Finish the crisps old man and then talk to us…” Alecos began again. “We may be old but we have never been afraid of the British and I would be quite happy to meet this man and explain the situation in 1956 …war is war. We don’t need this aggravation at our age. Better to tell him the truth and leave it to his good sense to sue for peace.”

His voice dropped as he wheezed and coughed having swallowed another large crisp without chewing it.

“Here, drink this” Alecos was handed a glass of beer by the waiter who had earlier noticed that his tankard was almost empty.

Dimitri pulled out his mobile and tracing the number in the cut-out ment on the notice board, called Jason’s hotel.

“Jason, is that Major James’ grandson? …Yes we knew your grandfather. We were on opposite sides then but I think we should meet so we can give you our side of the story.”

On the other end of the phone, Jason was surprised but happy his ment had worked. He was being invited into the enemy camp. Exactly as he had planned. He now needed to obtain a weapon. He knew the Cypriots he would be meeting were pensioners but he would feel safer armed with a gun.

He drove into Limossol town centre, parked his car on a coin-operated metered stand and sat on a nearby bench on the sea front, contemplating the day. He liked people-watching. He had been sitting there for almost an hour, most of the time watching bikini-clad European females skipping across the busy road, intrigued by the Cypriot drivers courteously slowing down to allow the women to reach the beach on the other side of the highway. Mind you, he would have also slowed down for a closer view of some of these pretty holidaymakers. He had been so absorbed watching the girls that he had not noticed a car which parked in the next bay to his, occupied by two men who were obviously arguing and had almost come to blows. He could see them pushing each other. They looked like Russians. Square headed. One tall and one short. One with hair and one bald. The driver wore a tie and collar and the other a red T-shirt.

He would wager next month’s Iraq fee that they were Russian gangsters. He assumed they were quarrelling about money. He walked over to the black Mercedes and tapped on the window. He saw the driver was a thick-set man with a pugilist’s nose, heavy dark eyebrows, brown piercing eyes and a glower which had probably scared many a frightened prostitute. This fat one slowly lowered the window.

“Gentlemen,” began Janos. “I need a gun. Any kind of gun. I am willing to pay £2000 if I can have it delivered to my hotel tonight.”

“Piss off cowboy. Or we’ll call the police. We don’t have any guns.”

The driver began to raise the window but not before Jason had reached in and grasped his tie yanking it towards him.

“I work as a security guard in Baghdad. I’m a real nasty piece of work and would normally steal the gun from you, but today I’m feeling generous, can you help me?”

“Piss off arsehole. Don’t mess with us we’re with the mafia.” The driver replied as he tried to wrestle his tie back from Jason.

“In that case old boy” Jason lowered his head to eyeball the driver “you’ll find it easy to lay your hands on a weapon. If not, I’ll come round to get you this evening for being so bloody rude to me. By the way, I’m from the Fallujah mafia which makes your mafia look like nursery children.”

Jason let go of the tie and the driver Boris, suddenly started to laugh perhaps more in relief than humorously, but Jason chortled too.

“My friend, don’t let’s be enemies. You want a gun. We’ll find you one. Which hotel? What time?”

“The Amadeus, six o’clock.”

The other Russian mumbled in Russia. “Let him find his own gun, the bastard”

“But it would pay off our gambling debt.” Boris pointed out.

Jason pretended he did not understand Russian though during his time with the

marines he had been on a six-month concentrated Russian course for a secret mission in Ukraine and could comprehend enough for him to understand the gist of Boris’ conversation in Russian.

“One gun. £2000. 6 p.m. at the Amadeus Hotel”. Jason told them in Russian and began to turn away as he heard Boris laughing and speaking the same language asked “Do you need brave Russian fighters for your Baghdad Mafia?”

“Maybe” Jason replied.

Jason found a book in the hotel’s library about the history of Cyprus and learned that the island state seemed to be continually occupied by foreign powers for more than a thousand years. The English took over the island during the Crusades when the ruler insulted King Richard, who then sold it on to the Knight Templars, then came the Luisignons, Venetians, the Turks and then the Brits.

No wonder they had fought for independence. He wondered why they had yearned for union with Greece, perhaps for security? He learned that Eoka stood for The National Organisation of Cypriot Freedom Fighters.

He sat in a high-backed leather chair in the middle of the foyer – one of his favourite places – reading the book and occasionally watching vacation couples checking in and out, with several businessmen producing wallets full of credit cards, while talking on their mobiles. It was a knack he could not master. He decided many of the guests were European Union civil servants, rather than business persons and that there was some sort of European forum being held in the hotel. This belief was reinforced as he noticed black-suited women ing with athletic figures, botox faces, and comfortable shoes. He could imagine them sending e-mails on their personal computers which they all carried over their shoulders. Everyone, apart from the two honeymoon couples, had

checked in with their laptops.

“Where’s the money then?” asked Boris who had appeared behind Jason’s chair, having approached him without being seen.

“Where’s the gun then?” Reed Jason and followed Boris into the bar as the Russian inclined his head in a “follow me” gesture.

Peter, the thin one, sat on a bar stool, looking decidedly uncomfortable as he tried to appear nonchalant. Jason noticed he was sweating profusely, even though the bar was air-conditioned. A sure sign of nervousness.

Jason took in the other occupants of the bar, which was nearly empty. A couple of boozy Brits in the corner downing whiskies, who had obviously been there most of the afternoon. There were also two other Russians sitting at a round table, with three half-finished glasses of red wine in front of them. They were heavyweight wrestlers waiting for someone, or more likely were with Boris.

Jason decided it was four against one and surprised them by turning round and walking out of the bar. It was a routine procedure he had learned in Iraq… if anything smells suspicious, get the hell out of it.

The sudden movement surprised the Russians and it was another hour before they decided to call Jason on the house phone.

“Hi comrade, what is the problem? You don’t want gun?”

Jason heard the tell-tale creak of the floorboards in front of his door. He had loosened them the previous night as an additional security device to the peephole.

On the phone he asked Boris to describe the gun in detail and then left the receiver on the bed as he hurried to the locked door.

Someone was trying to unlock it with the hotel’s plastic key but he surmised they had bought or stolen the wrong cards, probably with an out of date code, for it was not working.

He was about to fling the door open when the card key clicked and the door began slowly to move inwards. He expected one of the “Marx Brothers” to be visiting a little earlier than planned but was shocked to be faced with a huge giant of a man, with crew cut fair hair, rings in both ears, wearing a white T-shirt with “Venetia” embroidered across the chest, holding a stubby 9 m.m. revolver in his left hand.

When he saw Jason waiting for him with one of the room’s brass candlesticks held menacingly in both hands, he broke into a grin.

“Hi brother, thought it might be you. Long time no see.”

Jason dropped the candlestick and rushed towards the Russian embracing him emotionally for a long time.

“Vlad, Vlad, they told me you had died in a bombing. I searched for your body, but couldn’t find it. How come you are here and what happened?”

“Jason, it’s a long story and if I had been allowed to walk into your room you would have noticed I’m limping. I lost half of my right leg, was covered with blood and played dead when the arseholes came to inspect their handiwork. I was found by a US patrol who came to collect the body of the Russian ambassador, or at least the parts of him, they could find. But what are you doing here?”

Vlad dismissed his near-death experience with a shrug of his shoulders and accepted the Vodka drink which Jason had poured him from the mini bar.

“Are you also looking for the uranium?”

Jason nodded. He had no idea what Vladimir Petrovcsky was talking about but it sounded interesting. This former Russian commando who had served in the elite Spetznatz forces, had once told him during an alcohol-filled night out that he still freelanced occasionally for the Kremlin. Neither of the men discussed why Vlad was trying to break into the room.

Jason told the story of his grandfather which was a “cover” he explained for the search for uranium.

“Why don’t we work together? I’ve already received my fee for the job anyway.” Vlad suggested and Jason knew then that his friend was looking for

more than uranium for it was traditional to pay up front for a hit, an assassination.

Vlad locked eyes with Janos and a smile played on his lips for a fraction of a second. It was as though he wanted Jason to be aware of his mission.

“Oh by the way,” he said as he handed over a military 9 m.m, handgun “compliments of the Russian mafia, here’s the gun you requested.” Jason pocketed it together with the box of bullets. No money was exchanged.

As they both swallowed their vodkas they clinked glasses in a familiar gesture of friendship. Jason added: “I was heading for Paphos tomorrow to meet these exEoka fighters who murdered my grandfather. Is that the same direction as you?”

“Yes it is. We believe there is a copper mine near Paphos where the new owners, have recently discovered uranium. We want to make sure that this is true and if so that it does not end up in the wrong hands.”

“You mean American or Chinese?”

“No, I was thinking of Iran and Syria.”

They agreed to meet for breakfast the next morning and shook hands. Jason went to the door and watched his friend limp towards the lifts, proudly holding his head high, knowing he was being watched. As the lift doors opened, Vlad swung round and made a shooting gesture with the forefinger of his left hand. It was

then Jason noticed three fingers were missing on the right hand.

Jason and Vlad drove in the Hyundai Sante Fé to Paphos, skirting the British Sovereign base, the territorial concept of which, despite Jason’s explanation, the Russian could not comprehend.

On arrival in the west coast resort area they booked into the Coral Bay Hotel, a deluxe five-star which had now succumbed to the package market, which hugs the shoreline in a superb location, with Olympic-size swimming pools teeming with near naked, thong-wearing European girls.

“Plenty of Russians here” observed Vlad. “You will be able to use your knowledge of the language.”

Jason grinned “I am too busy to think about girls. I will leave that to you.”

Vlad tapped the prosthetic right leg and grimaced “Not as lucky as I used to be.”

Lounging at the poolside bar both friends began to outline their reasons for being in Cyprus. Vlir peered through his empty glass and asked “Where is your target? Is it the same place as mine?”

“Yes”

“Are you going to kill your grandfather’s murderer?

“Yes”

Then it was Jason’s turn “Do you have a hit?”

“Yes”

“Does he deserve to die?”

“Yes”

“Shall we work together?”

“Yes”

If the intended victims had been aware that the two Iraqi-based warriors were on their trail they would have made for the nearest airport immediately.

“So who is your job?”

“He is nobody really but he stole two million dollars from the state. And my bosses believe he should pay for his years of easy living in Cyprus.”

Vlad explained.

“By his death?”

“Yes”

Neither Jason nor Vlad were verbose and the Englishman had no idea of the other’s intended victim as they strolled the next day into the courtyard of a café near the harbour. As they sat down at a small round rickety table, on the wooden chairs, they were both in a relaxed holiday mood gazing over the harbour.

Vlad breathed in the sea breeze and commented “One more job Jason and I am buying one of those sailing yachts” – which he pronounced “yats” – and spend the rest of my pathetic life floating around the Mediterranean and the Black Sea.”

“Sounds great to me. Need a sailing partner?”

It was, therefore, a grave violation of their bonhomie when they turned round to order coffee and saw about ten elderly Cypriots pointing shotguns at them. Vladimir hardly raised an eyebrow as he saw the posse of pensioners. He merely said to Jason “So they knew you were coming?”

“Oh yes, they invited me here.”

“Nice friends you have.”

“They are scared I am going to kill one of them. I’d better hear them out.”

Demetri had listened intently to this light hearted exchange and the more it continued the more frightened he became. He could hear that both these men were unafraid of them. He presumed the crew-cut one, with the English accent, was British and the other one with rings in his ears, was Russian. They had not even glanced again at his friends who were trying to look menacingly with their hunting guns. If Jason James decided to kill him he knew he would do it. These two were obviously cold killers bred in the backstreets of maybe Iraq or Chechnya.

“Gentlemen,” Jason decided to acknowledge the Cypriots. “Who is Demitri?”

“I am Demetri Kyrikou.”

He was not carrying a weapon. He was the man with a deeply tanned wrinkled face, wearing a pair of thick lensed glasses, a long black waist-coat and looking like a school teacher. He had a brown envelope in his hands.

“Before you kill me,” he began and suddenly Jason felt sympathy for this once great freedom fighter, who had been brave enough to meet him.

“Let’s talk” Jason mumbled embarrassed by these four words.

“I would like to show you some photographs about your grandfather.” Demetri then laid three photographs on the table in front of Jason and Vladimir. Jason picked up the first one to examine it. It was an old black and white print now brown and showed the after effects of what had obviously been a forest fire.

The second photograph in full colour showed a brick wall with a plaque attached to it. The third picture was a close up of the plaque which read “This plaque is erected to honour the bravery of Major Robert James, British Army, and his twenty colleagues who died here in July 1956 fighting the forest fire. They died trying to save our village and the lives of 200 residents. They came to Cyprus as our enemy, they died as our friends. May the Lord God guard the souls of these brave men. We will never forget their sacrifice.”

Jason looked questioningly at Demetri. “But the Army told my grandmother that he was shot and they could not find the body.”

“It was a fire where all the soldiers were trapped when a ‘Curie’ whirlwind changed direction. Major James’ remains were not found. But we knew he was in the forest. At that time, nobody wanted to praise the British. In fact, they blamed a British 2-inch mortar for starting the fire. After independence, together with my friends,” he pointed to the Cypriots who had now laid down their arms – “we wanted to honour your grandfather. We did not ask anyone in our government. We just did it by ourselves. We built the wall in the middle of the Troodos, near our village, especially for the plaque. I swear we did not kill Major James. He is a hero. We honour him once a year, every December 1st, with prayers in our church.”

Jason looked around the anxious faces of Demetri and his friends. He held out his hand and pulled him into an embrace. “Thank you for ing my grandfather. Thank you.” He bought two bottles of brandy, with mettrios, shook

hands with each of Demetri’s friends and left the cafe in a hurry, so that no-one could see the tears which were forming.

Vlad slapped him on the back. “Never mind, we still have someone to kill, you can come with me and help me finish my job.”

“I must be getting soft. I’ve fallen for all these hard luck tales, but you must it, the photographs looked genuine.”

“I’m sure they were -- why don’t you check with your old civil servant friend. To make sure?” Jason smiled at Vlad’s “Seville Servant.”

“Spoken like a Russian. Yes, good idea. I’ll do that.”

They found a Starbucks in the centre of Kato Paphos, and ordered cappuccinos, while Jason dialled a number on his mobile. He automatically started whispering to the bemusement of Vlad and after only two minutes laid down his phone.

“He’s checking the records now. Apparently, he has some pretty high flying s and fortunately he has the clout to access these old records.”

Half an hour later, Jason was listening to the full story of his grandfather’s demise.

He turned to Vlad “They have not exactly told me the full story. Apparently, a

week before the fire, Major James, who was in the Intelligence Corps, went to the Turkish - occupied territory to rescue a baby girl who had been kidnapped. Obviously, my grandfather had gained their respect at that time. She was a Greek, newly born infant, the result of a liaison between the major’s subaltern who was also killed in the blaze, and a Greek villager. The girl now lives, wait for it, near Paphos -- she is now nearly 50 years old and the curator of the local Mountain Museum.” Jason’s had actually added. “We know you are with Vlad, Mad Vlad. There is no uranium in the mine. Don’t let him waste his time looking for it if he believes this tale, for it’s a British company which now owns the mine. Uranium is just a rumour we started to keep the locals away from the mine, where we have a listening post. But it seems to be having the reverse effect. By the way, she is called Maria and has been working for us for the past 10 years. She is a looker, highly intelligent, and what she doesn’t know about the Greeks, Turks and Arabs you could write on the back of a postage stamp.

We were just about to send a couple of agents to guard her as she has discovered a secret which appears to be bothering our Arab friends. Could you and Vlad work with the British government for a couple of weeks until we have clarified the situation? Protect her, OK? Half of usual Baghdad fee -- but it’s cheaper living in Cyprus.” He finished the request with a loud laugh which caused Jason to hold the mobile away from his ear.

Jason recounted the conversation to Vlad about the uranium but the Russian was quite happy for now they had an extra job, in addition to the hit.

Maria Brown

Petronella was an extraordinary strong and independent woman who forced the whole village to agree to christen her daughter Maria Brown to honour the father to whom she had been betrothed, Lt William Brown, who was her fiancée for one year before their wedding which would have taken place a week after the fire. Despite the objections of her parents everyone knew that she would marry

the British soldier for whom she had carried a child.

Even after his brave death, she was still shunned by the other villagers but she was a survivor and stubborn, with an indefatigable will which would eventually prevail over all obstacles. She was helped by Demetri who became a life long friend.

Petronella knew her daughter Maria Brown was a gift of God, for she arrived unexpectedly with blue eyes and fair skin, and was then kidnapped by the Turks, then rescued by the British Major .Due to her persistence and obstinence, the whole village had eventually voted to allow her to use the name Brown.

Maria Brown had lived a lonely life in the village, always protected by her mother’s friends. Her life seemed like a Greek tragedy. Kidnapped as a baby, by the Turks, rescued by the friend of her father, who later died in a forest fire defending her and her mother from this natural disaster. As a teenager, she had been standing next to a friend who had been killed by a ricochet from a huntsman’s rifle. She had been unscathed. In her 20s she was about to be married to a boy from Nicosia, who was fatally injured in a car accident. She had not married.

Unbeknown to Maria her life was going to change forever when she was promoted to the curator of the Paphos Mountain Museum, and given permission to research the archives of all the various hilltop monasteries in Cyprus for important documents. She was allowed to record documents, but agreed to leave them with the monasteries, as long as they were kept in a condition which would guarantee their preservation. She was three months into this historic mission when she visited the Stavrovouni monastery.

Maria was given a bunch of assorted keys by the priest designated as her guide.

He handed them over and then disappeared. He had more important duties than showing a museum curator around the monastery. She frowned as she looked at the keys. Most of them were rusty. Some quite old and too worn to gather any corrosion from oxidation. She ruefully regretted acceptance of the heavy keys. All of them appeared useless and door after door remained unlocked rendering the keys an additional burden in a hot and sticky building devoid of air conditioning.

She was nearing the end of a tiring, uneventful day when she came across a small wooden door at the back of a collection of bunting and flags which looked as though they had laid there for centuries. They were tattered and torn, riddled with moth bites and covered by a thick layer of dust and cobwebs. The second attempt, using one of the largest keys, unlocked the door.

It was yet another dark and musty store room piled high with bibles and documents, together with more flags and banners which were of little value. She dutifully recorded the items in her notebook. She was about to call it a day when she noticed a brown wooden casket in the corner. Below a pile of flags. It was covered in dust. Was obviously very old and just looking at it gave Maria, a feeling of anticipation. For the first time, during her many days of fruitless searching as she looked at the chest she felt goose pimples running down her back. She wiped away the dust and cobwebs, a mouse scurried past her feet and then in trepidation, she slowly tried to lift the lid. She noticed it was made from a piece of cedar wood, inlaid with amber, interspersed with brass studs. Having bought many an antique chest in auctions as a museum curator, she pressed two of the studs on the lid, which surprised her by springing open as if it was waiting for someone to find the magic code.

Inside was a drawer which proved to be a metal box and contained two old parchments, which were rolled up inside. She decided not to unroll them as this might damage the documents. Maria put the chest in her large rucksack, in order to hide it from the monks. In addition to the documents there were two rosaries. On one she counted 55 beads and concluded it was for Catholic prayers. The

other had 99 beads, which were for Moslems, she presumed, as the hundredth prayer is supposed to be made in heaven.

Her mother Petronella, waited for her daughter, anxiously looking out of the curtained kitchen window at regular intervals. She wore the black Cypriot dress of a widow, a good-looking woman in her late sixties. She worried about her daughter visiting the isolated monasteries in the hills. She was just as excited as her daughter to see the chest.

Petronella carefully opened one of the documents and placed it under the glass cover of the kitchen table. The parchment was written in Koine Greek, and when she read it she knew her daughter had found a priceless document.

“Maria, I believe this is the missing 15th Epistle of St Paul” Petronella whispered in awe, hardly daring to touch the covered document.

It was written in a neat and precise handwriting. She saw the words “Paul, an apostle of Christ Jesus, by the will of God, and Timothy our brother.

To the Church of God in Cyprus, together with all the saints throughout Kyrenia…

“Verily I say unto you that Christ saith if death by the sword or any other means is threatened because of your faith, ye shall be forgiven for accepting life over death, so long as in your prayers ye will ask for forgiveness and remain Christian in God’s eyes…Jesus said there will come another prophet who preaches the word of God and who will have many followers. They will be our brothers and will be part of the Lord’s family…”

The other manuscript appeared to be a page from an old book and was headed “Michel de Nostredame” and written in French with some Greek and Latin words. After a glance it appeared to be a religious prediction. It was dated 1580 and Petronella translating, read: “The third anti-Christ will come from the East. He will bring to life the great King of the Mongols”.

Maria was putting on cotton gloves to move the documents, when she noticed that the lid of the container was slightly thicker than the other four sides. She examined it again and saw there was a tiny latch in the corner of the lid. She moved it carefully, and the lid opened to reveal a third document written in Greek and dated 1601. It consisted of a long list of names. Many of them were Greek names, as well as Latin, probably Venetian .The parchment was headed by the word “Linobambaki”. The word seemed to have been added to the original document for it was scrawled in green, while the other names were written in black and in stylish handwriting. Petronella knew the history of the Linobambaki and explained to her daughter.

“After the Ottomans conquered the land in 1571, the Turks imposed harsh taxes and Cypriots were given the opportunity to convert to Islam. In the month after the Turkish invasion, the soldiers visited each house in the village. “Convert to Islam. Or else”. Initially several Christians refused and had their hands chopped off, but when the army became tired of seeing the survivors proudly handing over their severed hands to the Bishop for display in church, they started killing Christians and closing churches.

Many converted in order to escape the high taxes and the cruel treatment. But in the evening, under the cover of darkness, they reverted back to their Christian ways, attending church and asking God to forgive their duplicity. They were known as the Linobambaki as this is a material with linen on one side and cotton on the other.”

At the bottom of the page was a list of Greek names with Moslem names alongside. There were about 200 of them. As Petronella described the Linobambaki, Maria realised that had such a document been found at the time of the Turkish invasion it would have led to the deaths of many of the Christians pretending to be Moslems.

She had found a cache of historic documents which would enhance Cypriot history and would be a valuable addition to a museum.

Two days later she answered her mobile phone to hear a voice saying: “I am in possession of the second list. If your museum would like it. You can buy it from me for $100,000. Otherwise I will sell it to the Linobambaki.” The voice did not identify itself. But it was an American and sounded menacing. There was no mention of the Epistle. Only the Linobambaki parchment. Maria ignored the request.

The next day she returned to her Cherokee Jeep after visiting her office to find both of the tyres flat. She thought it was a puncture before she saw the slip of paper written in English on the windscreen, fastened by the wiper. ‘Flat tyres, what next? An accident? Return the documents.’ The next day Jason and Vlad walked into her life.

Jason was intrigued, that there was someone in Paphos linked to his grandfather and he and Vlad decided to call by the museum.

They arrived in the nick of time, just as a burly man in jeans with a scruffy beard was about to smash the windscreen of Maria’s car. Maria was running from the museum towards the car shouting “Stop. Stop”, when the two mercenaries arrived. The man with a baseball bat did not respond to Maria but he stopped his swing in midair when he heard two male voices shouting, in unison “Oie,

arsehole.” They laughed at each other for choosing virtually the same words, and in a few seconds, had disarmed an unfit, fat man in his fifties, wearing a tightfitting white New York Yankees shirt, who had exclaimed, “What the heck.” as they bustled him away from the car.

Maria arrived at the Jeep, repeating “thank you, thank you. They let down the tyres yesterday and warned me they would come back. Oh by the way, I’m Maria Brown.”

“Vladimir, Jason.”

The baseball player suddenly decided to run for it. Vlad started to follow. “Let him go,” advised Jason. “He’s nobody”.

“Would you like to come back to the museum and share a coffee?”

“Yes indeed,” replied Jason. “We came to see you anyway, in fact, we were already on the way when our mutual friends in London asked us to take care of you. And believe me, we’re pretty good at that.”

Vladimir ran ahead to open the door for Maria, smiling broadly and ushering her gently through it. Jason had never seen this side of Vlad who was following Maria’s every movement, as if she mesmerised him. “My grandfather rescued you as a baby when you were kidnapped by the Turks.” Began Jason.

Maria squealed with delight, put her hand over her mouth in a girlish gesture of

surprise and went over to Jason to engulf him in her arms. Tears rolled down her cheeks. They turned to laughter when Vlad said. “If my grandfather had been there, he would also have come to rescue you.” As he held out his arms for a hug which Maria duly gave him.

“So what was that all about?” Asked Jason as they sipped a sweet Cypriot coffee which Maria had boiled on a small gas ring, which was incongruously sitting in the corner of her neat and modern office.

“I’m not sure, but I’ll tell you all about it when we go home to my mum. Please tell me about your grandfather.” And turning to Vladimir she said in almost a whisper “and you can tell me about your grandfather, starting with you.”

Jason hesitated for he suddenly realised that the Cypriots who had built the wall probably knew much more about his grandfather than he did.

Instead, he told of the love story of his grandparents and Maria added her story of her father, Lieutenant Brown, and her mother’s struggle to keep his memory alive, with her name. As they finished their coffee Maria clutched her hands ‘It’s no good. We must go home. I have to share you with my mum.”

Maria had not alluded to Jason’s opening remarks about ‘mutual friends’. Perhaps she was being cautious and wanted to check with her herself before accepting his story, Jason decided.

On the way Maria called Petronella, and when they arrived at the yellow brick house with its tin roof, and solar heaters, Mrs Brown had created a huge salad in a blue glass bowl, which stood in the centre of a lace tablecloth alongside small

wicker baskets of fruit and bread. Vladimir rushed over shaking hands with Petronella and kissing her on each cheek “This is Jason, his grandfather saved your baby. We’ve come here to look after you.”

Petronella’s reaction to Jason had been just the same as her daughters.

She grasped him tightly and pulled him towards her, patting his back.

Then Vlad followed Petronella into the kitchen as she went to fetch drinks.

“You really work for the British government?” Queried Maria.

“Yes. I do. I’ve been on an assignment in Baghdad as a guard. That way the British government doesn’t have to pay me, only protect me and I feed them the latest gossip. Vlad is my best friend who works in my security firm… He’s taken a shine to you.” Jason did not know whether he should say that, but he was already feeling as though he was part of Maria’s family and blurted it out.

Petronella seemed to think the same way, for shortly afterwards she and Vlad emerged chuckling from the kitchen, carrying bottles of beer. “So that’s decided” began Vlad “I am going to settle in Cyprus in this village, marry Maria and live happily ever after.” Petronella chuckled, with her arm resting on Vlad’s shoulder. Jason grinned from ear to ear and Maria strode across to Vlad, kissed him warmly on the cheek and said “You have to ask me first. Not my mother.” Vlad stopped laughing, dropped on his knee and bowed to Maria “I have known you for less than an hour, but I have fallen in love with you. I have only half a right leg. I have spent my life fighting. I do not know how to be a husband, but I’m healthy and strong, have plenty of money in the bank and promise I will care for

you and your mother for the rest of my life.”

Jason was confused. He did not know if this was a Russian charade or a Cypriot custom or whether Vlad had just gone loco after all the bombings in Baghdad.

Was this the Vlad who had faced hundreds of grenade-throwing insurgents, the assassin of the Russian secret service, who was in Cyprus to kill another enemy of the State? Jason looked intently at Petronella. She felt his gaze and turned round to see the shock in his eyes. Petronella nodded slowly, unnoticed by Maria and Vlad who were looking at each other in amazement. The mother signalled Jason to follow her out of the dining room and closed the door behind them.

“Just once in a lifetime, sometimes this happens. Two strangers who had different lives are destined by God to meet and find happiness in each other. Maria Brown was chosen by the Lord to meet this mad Russian. Trust me, they’ll both be happy.” Petronella pulled Jason close to her and gave him a mother’s kiss.

He looked searchingly at this small, white haired Cypriot, but Petronella had said it with such conviction in a quiet soothing voice, that he believed her. It sounded like mumbo jumbo but it was true, Vlad deserved some happiness in a life filled with violence and why not start in a tiny village in the Troodos Mountains?

Petronella insisted they stayed the night and it was fortunate that they did.

At approx 4.30 a.m. Petronella heard someone trying to break into her bedroom by opening the window with a screwdriver or gemmy. She rushed to Vlad’s room and woke him from a deep sleep.

“Vlad, Vlad, Someone is breaking into the house.”

Vlad slipped out of his bed, pulled on his pants as Petronella averted her gaze and felt under his pillow for his revolver. He crept into Petronella’s room to be confronted with a half dressed Jason, hand in air urging silence, waiting for the intruder to appear.

As the head and the arm appeared both men recognised it was a woman who was breaking into the house.

The growling of Maria’s dog in the lounge alerted them to another possible would-be intruder and Jason signalled that he would take care of the second assault.

Vlad sat down on the edge of Petronella’s bed and idly watched as the woman climbed through the window and tried to unravel the green curtain which had wrapped itself around her.

“Hello.” Vlad greeted her.

“Wha…” the woman saw the gun pointing at her and raised her hands automatically. She was a Cyprot, about 30 years old, in a dark green polo sweater and jeans. She began to cry.

“Oh dear,” said Vlad “Don’t cry or I’ll have to shoot you.”

Meanwhile, Maria’s dog was scratching at the front door of the house. Jason peeped through the side windows and was surprised to see two cars and a Suzuki Jeep parked at the end of the driveway. He then knew there were more than two people trying to invade Petronella’s property.

He cocked his weapon and the dog halted his growling as if he was reassured that reinforcements had arrived. Jason pulled the door open and pushing the gun in front of him yelled “Raise your hands. Drop your weapons, or I’ll kill you all. We’re the heavy mob. You’ve picked the wrong house.”

Maria switched the outside lights on, and Jason saw three men. Two of them looked like tourists. Shabby. Flabby. Wearing colourful T-shirts. The third was dressed as a priest.”

“Father Nicolas?”

“Oh Maria, thank goodness, this is all a big misunderstanding. Would you tell the man to stop pointing a pistol at us?”

“Big misunderstanding eh?” repeated Vlad pushing the girl in front of him to Jason’s trio. “Well, this girl tells me you and the others are trying to steal Maria’s box.”

“It’s not Maria’s. It belongs to the church,” replied Father Nicolas, a gaunt, clean-shaven priest with a large silver cross hanging over his black robe signifying his profession. He was annoyed but not afraid.

“But why try to steal it? And why try to break into a house when you know Petronella is at home.” Asked Jason.

“Because they believe these two fat guys would frighten Maria into handing over the chest.” Added Vladimir.

One of the two tough guys was shivering uncontrollably, despite the warm night on seeing Jason’s gun and the other had started to babble. Only the priest maintained a confident demeanour.

“Maria, you know you stole it from the monastery. Now, hand it over and I won’t tell the police.’

Maria walked from the porch and stood at the side of Vlad defiantly staring at the priest: “One, I did not steal it. No one in the monastery knew it was there. Two, I reported the find to the police and the National Museum have full details. Three, I can assure you, and those who damaged my car that you will not frighten me into handing it over. But why are you doing this – for money?”

“No, not for money, but the chest belongs to the monastery and must be returned.”

“Then, I’ll return the chest. Once I have had time to study it.”

Petronella suddenly re-appeared dressed in a red nightgown, her hair festooned

on top of her head held by a black brooch.

“Ladies and gentlemen, just in case one of your friends gets similar ideas I have to tell you that my Staffordshire bull terrier is trained to attack. Tonight you are lucky to be alive for these two men, real men, would scoop up rubbish like you and deposit you in that rubbish tip over there.” She angrily shouted, upset and embarrassed that her house guests should be disturbed by burglars.

“Petronella, this belongs to us. I beg of you. Hand it over.”

“No,” Maria moved forward.

“The Lord has sent these two guardian angels to protect us from his disloyal servant. Now, be off. Count yourselves lucky that Vlad and Jason did not injure you.”

“Or kill you,” added Vlad.

The time was now 6 a.m. in the morning, and they could all smell the bacon being fried in the largest frying pan that Jason had ever seen. It was large enough to accommodate 12 rashers of Danish Bacon, four eggs, mushrooms and tomatoes. Even the dog anticipated the feast, wagging his tail at the reward for guarding his mistress.

Vlad made toast, Maria had squeezed fresh oranges while Jason lounged on the settee studying the chest.

“Petronella, after breakfast please tell me what the Linobambaki did. Maria says it’s the name of a double sided piece of cloth. Is that correct?”

Petronella smiled. It wasn’t often she had the opportunity to entertain men with an English breakfast. William Brown had taught her all about the English breakfast appetite, and sometimes she and Maria had a fry up. “Yes of course, but now come to the table and show me that you’re a real Englishman.”

“And Russian.” Added Vlad.

Maria’s interest in history had come from her mother and Petronella would intrigue both men by describing life under the Venetians and the Turks in the 16th century in Cyprus.

After breakfast Petronella explained: “It really was quite incredible that a small state like Venice, built on islands completely surrounded by the sea, could create an empire and become the most powerful state in the Mediterranean.

“ they had been involved in the crusades from the beginning, Venice – or to give it its proper name “The Most Serene Republic of Venice – La Serenissma” was a mighty naval force from the 700s, even helping the Byzantines to drive the Arabs from Crotone in the 9th century, though they were defeated in a sea battle with the Normans in 1084.

The ransacking of Constantinople and the raping of the nuns and killing of 100,000 Christians by the Christian Crusaders of 1204 gave lie to the

justification for the crusaders promoted by the European countries. ‘We must kick out the Moslems from our kingdoms in the Middle East.’

The Fourth Crusade instead of fighting Moslems attacked the Orthodox Christians of Constantinople purely for the wealth of the city, stealing 900,000 silver marks in a campaign to refund the money which the Venetians had invested in the Crusade and for the income which had been lost for a year while the whole of Venice concentrated on building galleys and horse transportations for the crusade.

The evil, wily and blind Doge Enrico Dindolo then cajoled the knights to attack Zara and later Constantinople to repay him his investments.

Pope Innocent iii excommunicated the whole crusade but relented when they promised to go to Palestine. In fact, most of the crusaders never reached Palestine.

Constantinople was weakened and would later be captured by the Turks – thus the crusade actually had the opposite effect of the campaign.

The real decline of La Serenissima probably began in 1509 when it was defeated at the Battle of Agnello.”

Petronella smiled as she could see Vlad and Jason leaning forward to catch every word of her little monologue.

“Cyprus was annexed by Venice in 1489 and suffered from the weakening of the Serene Republic when the Turkish fleet bombarded and destroyed Limassol.

This encouraged the Venetians to strengthen the fortifications in Famasgusta, Nicosia, and Kyrenia and provide all the citizens with arms to defend the country.

In 1507 Mustafa Pasha invaded the island with 60,000 troops, including infantry, cavalry and artillery. It was a formidable and cruel army. When the fortress of Nicosia fell in 1507, some 20,000 Greeks and Venetians were slaughtered by the Turks – so you can see our animosity goes back a long way – Kyrenia folded immediately on hearing of this massacre and the Turks took over the city without a shot being fired.

Quite different to 1974 when they faced fierce opposition for their treacherous invasion… but back to the 16th century. Famagusta was made of sterner stuff holding out for much longer but finally every man, woman and child in the fort was killed by the Turks.

In fact, it was only two months later that the Holy League consisting of the Vatican, Spain and Venice completely destroyed the Turkish fleet, but it was too late to save Cyprus and the Turks stayed in control here for another 300 years.

Ok boys, end of history lesson, let’s get back to the chest.”

They examined the documents, the front and the back searching for a clue, as to their origins. Even Petronella was ready to give up when Jason asked “What if it is the case, what if that’s the clue?”

“What do mean?” Petronella asked.

“I mean, what if this drawer, which Marie has removed is part of something else?”

“Like what?” Vlad squinted at him.

Maria ed in “Of course I have always assumed the documents were the important items. Jason could be right, perhaps it’s the candle drawer in the chest. But what if that was always in the container for quills instead of for candles. What if the case belonged to St Paul. His writing set maybe?”

“I like the idea, but that does not constitute danger. Nor does the Linobambaki list or the Nostradamus prophecy. The container and documents are probably equally priceless.”

Vlad picked up the metal drawer and began examining it. It was about 24 inches long, 3 inches wide and 3 inches deep. It was covered with a layer of heavy dark wood, probably teak.

Vlad tapped the lid of the chest, and then he pushed his thumb down and with his two fingers began pulling a thin piece of cloth from the now easily to identify millimetre-thin crack. He prised out part of it – with a reddish mark identifiable on the off-white cloth.

Maria shouted ‘Stop Vlad. I know what it is.’

Vlad put the container back on the table, with about a one inch wide piece of satin now projecting from it. They all looked at Maria.

“It’s the original Linobambaki. That’s probably blood from a severed head, or hand, maybe the first martyr. This is the proof. He was bluffing, I don’t think there is page two. This is the Holy Grail for the converted. Not just words in history books, but physical proof that our 16th century forefathers kept the faith, while professing to be Moslems.”

“But why should that be a threat?” Asked Vlad.

“Maybe because many Islamic and Christian extremists have always denied these forced conversions and because the Linobambaki, if they still exist, would give their lives for such a priceless relic. I’m thinking this morning’s visit was a trial run. Mind you, they will think twice about stealing it again.”

“Or bring in reinforcements,” shouted Jason seeing intruders moving outside the window pulling Petronella to the floor as a volley of bullets punched through the window.

Vlad also had reacted quickly and leaned over to cover Maria with his massive body. He was angry that they had not ensured the priests and company had left the neighbourhood. “Leave it to me.”

“Two shooters on your side. Looks as though they are about to slam a jeep through this door. Get the girls out.”

Maria and Petronella stayed on the floor and both moved commando style into the next room, wondering if the parchments or their guardian angels were turning their lives upside down.

Vlad and Jason had never been too subtle with their military tactics, and Vlad went to the back of the cottage and then came roaring around the front, having picked up Petronella’s double-barrelled shotgun from the kitchen and a handful of cartridges.

Before Vlad had a chance to load his gun someone shot at him from the jeep, which then began to race towards the front door. In Baghdad street-fighter style, Vlad now fired twice at the driver. The Suzuki slewed to the right hitting a carob tree which brought it to a halt.

The driver had forgotten to fasten his seatbelt and was catapulted through the front windscreen. The crash killed him instantly. When Jason ran out to pull open the jeep door they were no other occupants. Vlad had reloaded and was aiming at two men hiding behind the wooden storehouse as if that would protect them from a shotgun. He estimated there were near the corner of the barnlike structure and pointed them out to Jason, who had acquired a browning pistol once owned by Maria’s father. He shot twice at the corner of the barn.

Jason shouted to Vlad. “Amateurs again, I think just nuisance makers.”

“Probably dead nuisance makers.”

“Yeah, but they should not have been so stupid. I think there were two of them in the barn.”

“Okay, you idiots,” yelled Vlad. “Throw your weapons out. Raise your hands.”

The two men from earlier in the day walked slowly out of the barn placing automatic rifles on the ground. Crestfallen. One of them had a wound in his shoulder. The priest had been driving the Suzuki.

“Take him away and we will not tell the police, and if you or anyone else returns, you’re dead, comprendez?”

Then he prodded the injured American on his wounded shoulder, and he tried to run away yelling expletives.

The First Linobambaki

Antonias was not a brave man, but he had been emboldened by the priest who had shown him the Epistle of St Paul to the Cypriots.

Antonius and his friend Carlos became Moslems taking on new names of Ibrahim and Ali, but once a week, together with 50 other like-minded men and women, they met in a disused church, high in the mountains of Troodos, where mothers brought their children to be christened and the dead were buried. For two hours from 2 to 4 a.m. on a Thursday morning, they reverted to the religion

of the cross.

The donkey cart was moving slowly, creakily through the town with checkpoints at 10 km intervals. Antonias was transporting three coffins for a Christian burial and a blessing from the priest. He knew it was dangerous for if the coffins were discovered underneath the melons he would probably have to lose a limb, he might even lose his life. But Ibrahim reckoned he owed it to his friends to have a Christian funeral. The butcher had kept the bodies on ice for the past month. But now it was time to act. Besides, it was becoming too risky for the butcher.

He knew the first guard by sight and he waved to him as he trundled past. No one stopped him. The second guard halted him and was going to search the cart, when Ibrahim handed him two large melons, which he had stored underneath his seat.

“For your family.” Antonias began, as the melons were snatched from him and hidden away by the guard, before his colleague returned from relieving himself. He then hurried Ibrahim through the checkpoint.

It took 12 hours to reach the church and Antonias only felt safe when he was ed by a group of villagers as he entered the hamlet. There were approximately 50 worshippers. Father Phillipos began the service in the candlelight of the old church with the windows completely covered by blinds. The rare, church candlesticks were now only stumps in brass holders.

“Today we welcome two new arrivals and bid farewell to three old friends. Dear Jesus. We have so little time. Please accept, Marcus and Thomas into your church. Help them to live through these terrible times until the scourge of the Turks has left us. We also pay respect to the souls of Alex, Nicos and Darius to be accepted into heaven. It is true, they changed their names, but they did not

change their hearts or beliefs.”

The mothers handed their babies to the priest to mark their foreheads with a cross and then gratefully kissed the ring of the Minister, afterwards scurrying away from the church, each holding a newly blessed child.

Twelve elderly but strong farmers stepped forward to carry the coffins to the churchyard, where graves had already been dug… After the rites were read the coffins were lowered into the holes and they were immediately covered with grass and twigs to hide the newly dug earth. Within two hours of Antonias arrival, Father Phillipos had christened two babies and buried three parishioners and then the church was locked up for another week, appearing to the uninitiated as an old disused relic. But God knew differently. Every house in the village had bought a melon from Antonias, and even today, more than 400 years later, Thursday Markets always feature melons.

Petronella

Jason stopped the injured American leaving, grabbing his arm. “Who sent you?”

Both Americans pointed at the dead priest. “He did.”

When the jeep, with one dead priest and a shattered windscreen, had reversed out of the drive, Vlad told Jason – “We should lay down some Basra police bumps for the girls that will stop any nasty accidents. Like today. You Jason, the bumps with the hidden broken glass. They obviously freewheeled into the drive. But what did he mean about the box, he did not mention the documents?”

Maria interrupted. “Then someone is actually only interested in the box, I wonder why?” A call from Jason’s at the British Ministry of Defence seemed to solve one of the questions.

“Jason, old boy, now you’re with Maria, please tell her to send that old box by diplomatic bag to me here in London. It’s quite a valuable piece she’s found and could cause a little kerfuffle. If one of the maniacs from either side were to come in possession of it. Under no circumstances should anyone try to open it.”

Jason reported the phone call to his friend.

“They are lying. There must be something else, otherwise, the British government would not be interested. And they did not even mention the parchments.”

“But what?” Maria repeated.

It was two days later when Petronella became ill. She developed a hoarse cough, and her face, hands and body became covered in a rash. Maria was frightened and called in the village doctor, Lucas Papantonio. He had studied in the USA, after graduating at Edinburgh, Scotland. He examined her thoroughly and then said. “Maria, if I did not know better, I would say that your mother is suffering from the most infectious disease known to man -- the bubonic plague. But thankfully we got rid of that in the 16th century, though it wiped out thousands of Cypriots. They say it came from the Venetians. She must stay at home. Please use rubber gloves and a mask. When looking after her and tell your guests to do the same. I’ve given her antibiotics, if it was the bubonic plague, this will cure her in days. They did not have such medication 450 years ago… But I think it is

something else.” He handed a box of surgical gloves and masks to Maria. Doctor Papantonio was about to leave the house when he suddenly ed a medical paper he had been reading.

“Oh gosh, Maria, I now realise your mother has the symptoms of an exposure to Mycotoxins -- is there any mould in the house she could have touched? Redness, tenderness, blistering, nausea and dizziness. They could all be the first symptoms. Let’s wash your mother’s hands and face thoroughly. In fact, that should do the trick as they seem to be very mild forms of the infection.” Maria followed the doctor’s instructions.

“Mould? Mould? Where could Petronella have touched mould, the house is spotless.”

Jason was the first to link the Petronella’s condition with the document .

“I bet the parchment is mouldy and Petronella has picked it up while handling the documents.”

“From now on, let’s all use the rubber gloves and masks. In any case, no one is to touch the document.” Maria gave her orders to the two men.

Vlad put on a pair of rubber gloves and sat by Petronella’s bed placing cool damp flannels on her forehead at 10 minute intervals and urging her to sip the Russian lemon tea he had made. Maria watched Vlad, tenderly moving the pillow to enable Petronella to sit up to drink the tea. She could not believe that he worked as a bodyguard in Baghdad, and no one would have been able to convince her that this man was one of the most feared assassins in the Western

world.

Dr Papantonio called from the clinic: “Maria, let me read this: mycotoxins are naturally occurring substances produced by fungi that typically afford the organism survival benefit. An estimated more than 300 mycotoxins are produced by some 350 species of fungi.

…Yes, I hear you, it could have come from an old parchment if the document had been sealed.”

Vlad and Jason took it in turns to guard the girls, while one or the other helped with the shopping duties and visits to the pharmacy to collect medication for Petronella. The third night Maria called Vlad to her mother’s bedroom. “She’s not very well. Shall we call the doctor?”

Vlad went over and placed his hand on the sleeping Petronella’s cheek. “The fever has broken. She is going to be fine. Trust me. She is over the worst now”, he sat down by the bed and he and Maria waited together until the early morning sun streamed through the window.

“Hello you two, have you been here all night” were Petronella’s first words on seeing her daughter and Vlad dozing in the ading chairs.

Vlad was proved right, Petronella had recovered. The ancient mould had been strong enough to cause a scare, but weak enough to be defeated by antibodies defending the respiratory epithelium and bone marrow cellular elements.

Petronella, now hungry, wanted to talk, of tales surrounding this document. “I have heard of the curse of the Linobambaki. I thought it meant that turning from Christianity to Islam was the curse. But perhaps the mould has struck in the past many years ago?”

“What I don’t understand.” Asked Vlad “how do these people know that the documents are missing or had been found?”

“I think we should pay a visit”.

“No, I think you should pay a visit. I am not leaving the girls alone,” Vlad glared at his friend and Jason shrugged his shoulders and said “Okay, fine with me.”

Kamares

Alexander Popov was not a nice man. He was a wife beater punishing her for being late with his morning tea by hitting her across the head. Punishing her for forgetting to bring his favourite beer from the supermarket by swatting her with his belt until she begged him to stop and often taking her by force in the night if she refused his “favours”. It was therefore not unexpected that the peasant from Russia would treat his servants in the same way.

He purchased two villas for rental in Kamares. One-bedroom villas, white with red-tiled roofs, nestling on the side of a hill, complete with a small swimming pool. They were rented out for him to tourists by an agency in Kato Paphos.

Popov noticed that some of the other owners had hired Sri Lankan maids to clean and maintain their houses.

He arranged through his policeman friend to bring two Sri Lankan girls to Cyprus and put one in each villa. When both the villas were rented out, the girls stayed in the main house with Alexander Popov and his wife.

But when the villas were empty, the maids dreaded the visits from their employer. For Popov had discovered his new status as an employer with money meant he could threaten to withhold the Sri Lankan’s salary, unless they indulged him. As a result, at least twice a week he visited each girl and if they did not oblige voluntarily he raped them. Once he beat the youngest of the maids giving her a black eye because she would not let him touch her, and the next time, as soon as he opened the door, she began to undress. She did not want another beating

One of the girls, also a Christian, informed his wife after a particularly violent rage, but Tanya said to the girl. “Don’t fight him. Just give in. It will make life easier for all of us.”

So the tyrannical Popov was enjoying life with two concubines and a wife when Vlad and Jason arrived on the scene. .

“Jason can you help me?” Vlad began one day as they patrolled the gardens surrounding Petronella’s property.

“How?”

“I have promised Maria that I will not make any more hits, nor will I return to security in Baghdad. I think she’ll marry me if I agree to stay here and change my lifestyle. I’m 51. Never been married. Tired of fighting. Can you make the last hit for me?”

Jason paused for a moment before continuing their patrol. “Are you sure about this Vlad? It’s not just what we call a holiday romance?”

“No, I’m 100% sure I want to be with Maria but if I don’t complete the job, Moscow will come after me. You know that.”

Jason nodded. He knew the rules of an assassin, especially if they’d already been paid, which obviously Vlad had.

They continued to walk in silence around the house and on the next circuit Jason paused, moving closer to Vlad and said simply. “Okay, I’ll do it. Give me the details.”

Jason decided to act quickly, urged by Vlad, who told him, that Moscow was waiting for a positive call from him. That afternoon he took the Santa Fe and drove slowly around the Kamares area, noting the houses engulfed by pines, cacti and palm trees planted by expatriates living on pensions and still longing for their English gardens with roses and apple trees. They found tropical trees easier to grow. He had been given a photograph of Popov and Jason soon found his quarry who was in his garden shouting at his wife. Jason was driving past slowly and saw Popov brutally punch his wife in the face and then kick her as she stumbled. He only just managed to slow down as the Group Four Security van halted in front of him. The driver had left his vehicle and was now standing

in the middle of the road, holding his hand up to beckon Jason to stop. Then Jason knew he had found the right man.

“Excuse me sir,” said the uniformed guard “can I help you?”

Jason pretended to cough in his handkerchief, turning away so as not to show the guard, his face. “I’m looking for, the social club.”

“Well, you’re quite near. If you turn around and at the end of this road turn left and then left again you’ll see it in front of you. There’s a big sign.”

“Thank you.” Jason nodded, again turning his head away from the security guard who would never be able to identify him.

“Perhaps this would have to be a night-time job.” Thought Jason.

Later that evening he returned to Dios Avenue and was surprised to see Popov leaving his driveway. Jason followed him. About 300 yards down the road, he wheeled into the path of a small villa and entered the house without knocking on the door. Jason crept up to the window and looked inside.

“No master. Not today. I don’t want to do it.” He saw a young Asian woman trying to push Popov away from her. Popov slapped the woman hard on her face causing her lip to start bleeding and then pushed the woman down on the bed. Jason could see him pull the blouse and skirt from the woman and then he was on top of her forcing her to have sex with him.

Jason did not want to watch this rape, but he gained some satisfaction with the knowledge that this would be the last time the woman would have to suffer from such an attack. Jason decided he would not use a gun. It would be too messy and noisy in this semi-built-up area. He was surprised to see Popov throw money on the bed but happy to see the woman pick up the notes and throw it back at him. This had been no play-acting routine, this had been a rape and not for the first time. On the way to the house Jason had noticed a small copse at the end of the road, dark with no street lights penetrating the trees. It was the perfect place. Jason would have liked to have known if the Russians would allow Popov’s wife to continue to live in Cyprus, in exchange for his death, but it was too late to stop. He came up behind Popov a couple of metres from the copse, and dragged him into the woods, using the Hereford technique to strangle him. He was dead in less than 30 seconds. He shone his torch at the unfit Popov who had expired, surprisingly quickly and had not tried to fight back. There were no marks on the neck. Maybe he was resigned to having his life ended in Kamares. Maybe he had drunk too much vodka and eaten too many fine meals, during his golden years in Cyprus. Anyway, he was dead. Good riddance. The local doctor would pronounce him as having had a heart attack. He hoped that Vlad could persuade his masters to allow Mrs Popov to remain in Cyprus. After all, she had not been part of the criminal act.

Vlad and Maria were surrounded by dictionaries and Encyclopaedia, which were lying on top of the glass topped table.

“We believe the list hides a code.” Maria greeted Jason. Then Vlad looked up. Jason inclined his head. Maria did not notice.

“Come and help us to find the code, you’re always good at puzzles.” Vlad invited his friend into the circle, handing him a bottle of Carlsberg beer at the same time.

After studying it for a few minutes Jason suggested. “It seems to be a simple system. Take the first letter in the second word in the second line and the third letter in the third line, and so on.” Maria turned to Jason in surprise. Surely, it just cannot be so simple. But, let me see, it reads “Christ’s blood in Cross.”

“What Cross?” Jason asked.

Maria and Vlad looked at each other. Maria explained. “Jason, we all believe the chest is made from a piece of the cross of Christ. Probably made some years after the resurrection and acquired by St Paul, and made into this case ensuring he was always close to the cross, so this all seems to hang together.”

“But in that case.” Realisation suddenly struck Jason. “Any blood on the cross, in the box, will possibly contain Christ’s DNA -- and that’s why it’s valuable. Not the rosaries or the parchments, which are of course valuable nor the list, which is probably a red herring although probably it is the holy grail of the Linobambaki.

“Maria, I think you have taken away their most priceless possession. My guess is, it was left in the storeroom covered in dust as this was probably the perfect hiding place. These Linobambaki probably took it from there once every 10 or 20 years on some special occasion connected with the beginning of the Linobambaki and had no idea about the significance of the chest.”

“Now we’re getting somewhere.” Enthused Maria, “is this what you would call a brainstorming?”

Jason nodded sagely like some university professor as he examined the list

turning it over slowly with the same huge hands, which only an hour before had ended the life of a greedy Russian expatriate. Petronella suddenly appeared. She was all white in her face and looked a little shaken but otherwise said she was “better”. She was wearing rubber gloves and delivered sandwiches to the trio -brown bread with cucumber and haloumi cheese and a flask of coffee.

Placing the food down on the wooden side table, she announced. “Maria, I think we should take the Linobambaki cloth from the chest. I think it is connected with the list.” Maria demurred. “Okay, but let’s be very, very careful. We don’t know how well it has been preserved and whether or not it has that fungi. Everybody put on gloves and masks.”

Maria pulled the Linobambaki cloth slowly from the hidden crevice. It was the size of a large handkerchief. Satin on one side, cotton, on the other. There was a reddish/brown stain on the cotton and there were two Greek words, now smudged by the ing of 400 years but according to Maria, they probably read “Two Christs”.

“Could that be the blood of Christ? What does Two Christs mean?” Queried Jason.

Maria touched the cloth “No, definitely not. This cloth is from the Linobambaki and is probably from the 16th century. In the Gnostic Gospel of St. Thomas, Judas Thomas. refers to Jesus as his twin brother. Perhaps they knew of this Gospel then, though it was only discovered at Nag Hammadi in 1945. But, perhaps, two Christs had some meaning back in those days.”

Influenced by the genius of Michelangelo, the Two Christs incorporated the Two Jesus or Twin Soul concept into their religion. The Nathan Jesus and Solomon Jesus are found in the gospels of St John and St Mathew. Michelangelo’s

painting from 1501 shows two Jesus’, one covered in animal fur to escape censure in 1502 and in 1503 he created Fjad relief sculptures which showed both God children. Borgognone’s “Two children in the temple” enhanced this belief.

It was a short-lived movement with only Cyprus and a mountain village in Lebanon maintaining the sect.

Subseqauent revelations from the Dead Sea Scrolls and other historic documents from the time of Christ have never uncovered even a hint of twins, but the legend was certainly reinforced by the masterpieces of these great Italian artists. These seemed to be the clincher for the sect of the Two Christs’ worship.

Leonardo da Vince’s visit to the tiny Cypriot village of Lefkara in 1481 also had been falsely interpreted by the Cypriot Two Christs as another indicator of Cyprus’ importance to the twin-soul movement, though there is no evidence whatsoever of Leonardo making other than a commercial visit to Cyprus to purchase lace for the Vatican.

Petronella declared “I think this handkerchief was a bandage, which was once used to hold the hand of a Christian who lost it by refusing to convert, perhaps even the first Christian to refuse. So, we all agree this is the Linobambaki Holy Grail and this is what is causing the problems? the Linobambaki were always following the writings of the Cypriot Jew Barabas who, as Muslims claim suggested Judas Iscariot replaced Jesus on the cross. But, it’s all very confusing for someone like me who is a Greek Catholic.”

Debt Repaid

“Perhaps we should pay a visit to the monastery to speak to the monks about this. We cannot have them regularly attacking Maria and Petronella.” Vlad held out his hand to Maria, as if for comfort, after his comment.

She squeezed and said “Let’s do it tomorrow when mum is a little better. I don’t think they’ll dare to come again now. With you and Jason with us.”

The Stavrovouni monastery was located on the very peak of the mountain. The defiant symbol of Christianity with its white cross atop the sprawling higgledypiggledy greybrick building, shining in the sunny days, floodlit at night, highly visible from the ading Turkish Cypriot region.

Jason went on his own on a recce. He had borrowed a pair of binoculars from Petronella and when he was nearing the monastery, drove off the approach road and scanned the building and its surroundings. He was surprised to see a number of priests patrolling the low access road leading to the spiral church and the monastery.

All with old British Army rifles slung from their shoulders. They were waiting for someone for he could see they were nervously talking to each other and continually looking around as if expecting a sudden assault. Altogether he counted eight priestly guards. They did not exactly look in the mood for discussion. He pondered his next move and made a decision. He called Vlad on his mobile.

“Vlad, bring the girls. I think it’s time to talk to these mad priests. We don’t know how many of them are in the Two Christs Society or if there is one. Come in Maria’s Cherokee, but be careful. They are all armed. Bring Petronella’s dog and shotgun, I have the Browning with me, but let’s hope the girls can talk some sense into these crazy holy men.”

If it had been a hillside in Iraq, Jason would have had no second thoughts, he would have used a sniper’s rifle and picked the group off one by one. But this was a friendly country and the opposition were priests. He could not just eliminate Holy Fathers. They would have to talk.

Jason reversed out of the side lane and headed back along the winding road, then via the motorway to Paphos, arranging to meet the Cherokee at the crossroads of Tala. Both cars parked on a hillside overlooking the Mediterranean as Vlad and Jason discussed tactics.

Vlad told Jason. “We have to be careful. The police have been round to Maria to ask about the priest who died in the jeep.The Americans apparently left the island but accused Maria’s guests of the killing, after they had departed from Paphos airport.”

Maria pointed out to her local police chief that she was not in the habit of harbouring criminals and obviously the priest had been involved in a car accident. There must be some mistake. She believed Vlad and Jason were mining engineers looking for uranium. But the message was clear. Another death and the two would have to leave the island and Vlad’s dreams of settling down with Maria would vanish.

Jason was not concerned about Vlad’s love life, but he was angry with the cowardly way the Americans had acted, especially as they had made an unwarranted attack on Maria’s house.

He reassured Maria and Petronella, who was also in the Cherokee, that he would do his utmost not to kill any of the priests.

“We just want to talk to them.”

The party approached the monastery in a peaceful mood, but this quickly changed when one of the priests shot at the Santa Fé, which was driving in front of the Cherokee.

“Bastards! What do they think they’re doing?” Asked Vlad.

‘I don’t think we are welcome. We’d better make our professional presence felt.” They left the Santa Fé and waved the girls back shouting to them to reverse.

“Go back to the main road until we tell you it’s safe.” Ordered Vlad.

The two professionals then began zigzagging up the side of the hill firing twice at the priests. They stopped when they reached the shelter of a small brick chapel.

Jason looked around the mountain using the binoculars. “There are five priests with rifles, standing at the top of the road. Two further down and one approaching us from our left with what looks like a vintage bren gun, but it might still work. Better warn him to stop.”

Vlad warned him with a couple of shots from a confiscated AK-47 which hammered into the tree under which the priest had paused. He froze. His eyes were fearful. They had thought that a show of force would deter the foreigners.

Jason peered at the group of priests, two of which were now pointing towards the chapel.

“Give them a couple of shots into the wall where they’re standing. That should cool them down.”

Vlad obliged and through the binoculars Jason watched the priests start to run away. There were going to be no heroics today.

Having announced their armed arrival, the two men walked back to the vehicle and drove sedately up to the monastery. There were no more shots.

As he walked to the entrance to the abbey Vlad raised his hands to show he was not holding a gun. Jason had decided to watch from the jeep. His gun at the ready.

A jovial-looking priest in a black and scarlet robe emerged from an arched, carved door holding out his arms in a welcoming gesture.

Jason saw Vlad talking to him, then turn round to wave him forward.

“Apparently, these other guys had taken over the monastery for the past week, keeping the monks as virtual prisoners. They are pleased to see us. The armed priests have taken off down the valley. Obviously we scared them away. Better call the girls. We’re among friendlies now.”

The other monks now started streaming out of the monastery, bringing glasses of red wine to the duo, but disappeared as fast as they had appeared on seeing the women. Females were forbidden to enter the monastery.

The Friar explained to the men that he would be happy to meet them, but was forbidden to talk to the women.

Maria and Petronella must have realised that it was a male-only institution for they returned to their vehicles and waited there.

On hearing the words “Two Christs”, the friar became agitated and turned away, scurrying back through the gates of the monastery. They had touched a raw nerve. They waited for a while, but the monks did not reappear. Then they decided to drive back to Maria’s house, frustrated with the lack of progress into the mystery of the casket.

The Beginning

The youths looked questioningly at the priest. Most of them had arrived at the monastery, perched on the summit of the hill, on foot skirting the Turkish road blocks, staying overnight with friends or relatives. They were all now assembled in the monastery’s church. The abbot came to the lectern, made a short prayer and the sign of the cross and looking intently at the congregation began “You young men are unique. You have each been chosen to defend the word of Christ as written by St. Paul in his 15th epistle…that one day the two great Ibrahmic religions should be as one. No more fighting between Moslems and Christians.

It may take generations. It may be your great grandchildren who will bring forth this vision. But the Linobambaki elders have decided in order to safeguard your lives and that of our society, you will be sent abroad to marry into the local community…some will marry into the Islamic families, others into Christian groups, and live their lives in subterfuge. You will adhere to the rules of each religion and will never attempt to damage it. Your job will be to wait for the Day of the Prophecy.

It will be a hard and dangerous voyage through life. All of you have been chosen because of your physical and mental strength.

You will leave for Greece, Palestine, Egypt…Each of you will receive instructions and gold coins for the journey when you leave the church.”

It was the famous seer, Michel de Nostredame, later to be mostly known as Nostradamus, who caught the attention of several senior Linobambaki with his book “Les Propheties” which was published in 1555. At that time, many of the quatrains – predictions sounded weird and unlikely, yet over the years many of the fans of these prophecies have interpreted and misinterpreted them to link with events which Nostradamus was supposed to have predicted. In fact, even 400 years later, if truth be told, it was only after the events that they were eventually linked with Nostradamus…

But the one quatrain which had always been feared by the Linobambaki was the one interpreted as – “I predict in 400 years time in the year before the second millennium the Moslems will triumph and the Christians will be finally defeated.” In actual fact he stated “The Third Anti Christ will come from the East. He will bring to life the great king of the mongols”. Even in 1580 when this was read as one of the quatrains, the leader of Linobambaki had 100 copies made of this page and sent to each representative who had been assigned to foreign lands. The prophecy arrived in an envelope with the red Venice City seal with a covering letter stating “This is why your mission is so important …. Even

today we must prepare for the day of reckoning.” It would be fair to say most of the 100 recipients of the letter dismissed it immediately as another attempt by the leaders, now based in Venice, to justify their voluntary expulsion of these young men from Cyprus but a few regarded it as a good omen, especially as each packet contained a Venetian gold ducat with the image of Christ in one side and the doge on the other.

Over the decades, the golden prophecy – as it was known to the young Linobambaki - continued to arrive once a year and at least gave them a reason for maintaining their subterfuge and signalled that they had not been forgotten.

Two Christs

Father Mateus Panyiotis, an assistant at the Monastery inherited the mantle, of the “Two Christ” from his father at the age of 21. He had just been ordained as a priest and returned home to celebrate the occasion with his parents.

His father called him into his study to enjoy a glass of the red wine made in Kolossi, a fine grape, producing a superior claret, shared by only a few who were aware of its vintage, said to originate from the garden of Richard the Lionheart. As he entered the book-lined study, he was surprised to see his father holding a crimson cloak. His father stepped forward to wrap the cloak around his son’s shoulders.

“My son, it is your turn to lead the Two Christs. I am too old, you will also hand the robe to your son when he is 21. We are still looking for the God child.

Over the next 10 years, Mateus learned that it was a symbolic role, with most of

the time spent hunting for the child with two souls. Whatever that meant.

The priest from Lebanon and two from Venice had arrived telling his bishop they intended to recover a chest of St Paul to the glory of the Two Christs. It was at that time he made the fatal mistake of believing that the chest was the reason for his father handing over the crimson robe – but also the realisation that his parishioner with the marked “wrists”, who held the chest, was the God child…

Father Mateus could see no connection between a box and the old story about the Moslem Christians – but the birthmarks on Maria’s wrists were eerily significant.

It was Petronella who suggested that Maria should show her marks to Vlad as they drove back to Tala.

“Tomorrow. I’ll show them to him in the morning.” Maria promised.

Petronella was still chiding Maria for her tardiness when she felt the jeep screech to a halt. “Maria. Drive carefully, what on earth are…?” Maria just pointed to the road ahead. It was blocked by six priests aiming their rifles at the jeep.

“Get out.” Yelled Father Mateus, who like the rest was now wearing a white priest’s conical hat. Petronella recognised him as the assistant to Father Nicholas, but the others were strangers - dark skinned, not the hue of Greeks but of southern Italians. Maria had never seen priests wearing white hats.

“What do you want?” Shouted Petronella a little frightened by the sight of so many guns.

“We want the God-child.”

Vlad and Jason knew they had goofed the moment they neared Maria’s house and could not see the Cherokee.

“Damn, damn, we are idiots, letting the girls go off on their own. What’s the use of bodyguards who drive a mile behind them?” Jason snarled at the same time swinging the jeep away from the house.

“No wait.” Vlad stopped Jason from driving away. “Maybe they came back and we can find some clues.” They searched all the rooms in the house.

“Well, I can see the box is missing. So we have not only lost the girls, but we’ve lost the chest too. Bloody brilliant.” Jason punched the wall of the villa in frustration.

“But why would they want the girls, if they already have the chest? It doesn’t make sense,” said Vlad.

“Well, this is a pretty small island. Let’s find out who’s seen the Cherokee, and that should lead us to the girls. I think we need some help…. can you ask Demetri and his mates to help us in the search.”

Jason phoned Demetri, and grimaced and ran his fingers through his hair in a worried gesture at the end of the call by saying “Okay. Meet you there.”

“Vlad, we have a problem. , I mentioned Maria was kidnapped as a baby and my grandfather rescued her. Well, there’s more to it according to Demitri. A sect called the Two Christs are looking for the God child, and Maria was born with birth marks on each wrist, one in the shape of a cross and the other like a crescent. Of course, they are only birthmarks, but Demetri is afraid that the Two Christs priests may believe seriously that she has been sent from God to lead their religion. Now the Holy Grail has been found, somehow they need Maria.”

“Oh shit” said Vlad. “I hate these religious fanatics. Let’s find her quickly before something happens. I fear the worst. But if they harm one hair on her head I’ll kill every last one of them. Let’s go.”

Demetri was anxious. His face ashen as he looked earnestly at the two men both carrying revolvers. “We’re going to free them, are’nt we. No one will be hurt?”

Jason reassured him “Yes, we’ll rescue them. This is what we do for a living, but I cannot promise you zero injuries. It will be up to these crazy priests. Here give us your shotguns, they’ll look better on us.”

Vlad wanted to hurry, “Come on guys, we can’t waste time here. I don’t need a shotgun to scare these insects. I’ll crush them with my bare hands if they have done anything to our girls.”

Demetri glanced strangely at Vlad when he said “Our” but relaxed and smiled as

he recalled Petronella’s words “Our Maria seems to have found herself a beau”.

Vlad, Jason and Demetri’s three men approached the empty ex-Turkish village from the south. The village houses were in disrepair but no windows were broken and there was no graffiti. In fact, the hamlet was exactly the way it was left after the realignment of populations following the Turkish invasion in 1974.

Demetri had told Jason that he suspected the priests were in the mosque and the ading school. He reckoned Maria and her mother would have been brought here by the sect. They could see three cars outside the mosque, an obvious telltale sign in a village with no inhabitants.

Inside the damp madrasah, with its faded green, painted walls, ading the mosque, Maria and Petronella had been tied to chairs.

Maria had been gagged with a black scarf, to stop her from shouting. Petronella had promised to remain silent if she was not gagged, too.

She had told their captors “Do not harm us. The Russian and the Englishman are violent men. They will kill all of you if you do anything to us.”

Father Mateus put his finger to his lips in a gesture of silence.

“We will not harm you if Maria makes the promise” was all he said.

“The promise? What does that mean?”

“It means your daughter must promise to commit herself to our Two Christs religion by creating another God-child and I will be the father of the new Godchild.”

Petronella could see a zealot’s gleam in his eyes as he touched Maria’s wrists, causing her daughter to yell, surprisingly loud, despite being muffled.

“But father, Maria is too old to have children. Choose someone else instead.”

“There is only one God-child and she must create another.”

Father Mateus intoned in a sermonal voice.

The group approached the mosque on foot, padding quietly past the empty houses where orange trees were overloaded with unpicked fruit.

They could see only one guard outside the mosque’s front door. He was wearing a long, black cloak and a white conical hat. Before Jason could stop him, Vlad had crept up behind him and slipped a knife through his ribcage, holding his mouth at the same time to perform a noiseless kill.

Jason moved forward quickly and growled in Vlad’s ear “For God’s sake no more killings, OK?”

Vlad did not respond.

He was standing on his toes balancing on a couple of bricks, looking through a narrow window at the right hand side of the porch.

He could see Maria had been untied and was being dragged by four priests into the mosque where there was a makeshift altar. They had undressed her and strapped her naked to four posts on the platform.

Maria was shocked, not only by the actions of these holy men but also their plans to carry out this deed in a mosque. She prayed to God “Please Lord save me from these evil savages who are dressed as priests yet breaking your commandments.”

As Vlad surveyed the scene, he dropped from his perch at the same time loading two cartridges into the breech of the double-barrelled shotgun. He had seen a priest divest himself of his robes and tros and about to rape Maria.

“Stay here. Leave this to me” he ordered Jason, who of course had no idea of the scenario inside the mosque.

With a shotgun in one hand and his 9mm pistol in the other, Vlad pushed open the door and from the rear of the mosque yelled “If anyone moves, you are dead, all of you.” Then he heard Jason a couple of yards behind him shouting “OK morons, everybody lie facedown on the floor and you, lover boy,” he pointed his Browning at Father Mateus “Get dressed. Fetch Maria’s clothes, and where is

Petronella?”

“I’m here”, cried Petronella, who had been rescued by Demetri’s men.

As Maria pulled on her clothes, she stumbled hastily towards Vlad.

“I’m fine. Nothing happened Vlad, this priest wants me to produce a so-called God child with him as the father. Ugh, I feel dirty. I need a bath.”

Looking again at Vlad she insisted “Vlad, nothing happened, he did not rape me.”

“No, but he humiliated and was trying to rape my future wife. This is not acceptable.” At the words “future wife” Maria smiled broadly and went to Vlad putting her arms round his massive shoulders and planting a kiss on his lips.

“Thank you, big man.” She said.

Two very similar but equally strange “brothers” had collided with Vlad and Jason.

Father Mateus lived in a quiet, boring village, forgotten by time, in the remotest part of the Troodos, but the fantasy of finding the God child brought excitement into his life and those of his assistants.

His position as the Father Confessor to a number of villagers also gave him a false impression of power, exaggerating in his own mind, the importance of his role in the hamlet which encouraged him to seek the reward of being the father of the next God child.

Father Nicholas tragic end was inevitable. He was playing with fire trying to do business with friends of Al Qaeda. He was desperate to leave the priesthood and the chance to earn $100,000 by obtaining the chest which Maria had taken from the monastery was just too tempting an opportunity to be ignored. Maria’s chest would be his reward and the key to escaping the mundane world of a village priest and living overseas. But the mountain police were very lax with the highway code and never insisted on the priest or his parishioners wearing seat belts….

Venice

Two sailed their luxury yachts into the centuries-old harbour of Venice, several flew in by Gulfstreams and were ferried by launch to their hotel, a couple borrowed their president and ruler’s personal aircraft and the others drove to Italy from various capitals of Europe. Anthon Borasio asked the driver of the launch, which picked him up outside the airport, to sail to the domed church of Santa Maria della Salute where he retrieved a letter left in a hymn book in one of the pews and then sailed by gondola to St Mark’s Square. He had opened the envelope and now crossed the basin of the Grande Canal. There were three words written on the note inside. “Janos Hussain’s Vagabond”

Anthon was one of the leading heart surgeons in the world, based in London at St Thomas Hospital. Despite his name, he had been born and bred in England as had his great grandfather whose father had emigrated from Italy. But because of their name which the family insisted on retaining, Anthon was forever being

congratulated on his fluent English. He did not have the heart to tell these insular Britons that he was probably more English than they were.

And yet he had been infected all his adult life with the scourge of the Linobambaki. The Borasio family hailed from Venice but had settled in Cyprus until the latter part of the 16th century when they had fled the invasion of the Turks.

During the brief period of two to three years, Anthon’s ancestor Gianno Borasio, had been forced to convert to Islam and like hundreds of other residents of Cyprus became a Linobambaki, continuing secretly as a Christian.

Eventually, he returned to Venice but the traumatic experience of trying to be a follower of two faiths of a singular-god religion influenced him to the exclusive hip of Linobambaki.

It would have faded out in due course as the grew older and eventually died but the deliberate killing of three Linobambaki , after a society meeting, created a backlash which built a strong force for peace which had defied history by surviving to the present with approximately 200 still remaining.

Word of mouth. No Blackberrys, no cell phones, no email, only letters, if possible person to person communication. Such discreet exchanges had enabled the group to safeguard its secret even in the age of instant information.

For the first time, in a decade, the board had been called to Venice. Anthon Borasio had been instructed to call the meeting by offering for sale his

house on the Palm Dubai with the description “It’s like being in little Venice.” Last time it had been a villa in England on the Thames with the same description…but that was 10 years ago. Each board member had been posted an envelope containing an estate agents brochure of the property, just in case a nosey postman had opened them or they had become lost in the mail.

In over the 400 years of its existence the families of the Linobambaki had settled in many different countries of the world – most changed or even forgot their Cypriot origins. The other called to the Venice meeting were:

Abdul Mohammed Hussain, a citizen of the UAE, an entrepreneur multimillionaire, who was an influential adviser to the UAE Government (Moslem); George Thomson, an American, living in Washington but currently on duty in the Gulf as Commander of an aircraft carrier of the US 5th fleet (Christian); John Loucas, an Australian landowner and mining specialist currently the country’s 10th richest person (No religion); Boutros Haawriz, a Palestinian militant (Christian); Fouad Abdel Sharif an Egyptian politician as well as a worldrenowned Egyptologist (Moslem); Peirre Sakon, a French composer and TV personality with his own talk show (Christian); Sven Larsson, a Swede, botanist and environmentalist – Nobel prize nominee for his research into global warming (Christian); Erica Tange, German member of European Parliament married to ’s richest political leader (Christian); Janos Hussain, the current leader with his trio of ex-SAS bodyguards, a billionaire Robin Hood of the Arab World who had helped solve many a problem for the Gulf rulers. Christian, converting to Islam.

Janos Hussain was the current chairman of the Linobambaki. Son of a Czech mother and Jordanian father, Janos was a multi-billionaire who had made his money in the early days of the property booms in Saudi Arabia and the UAE. Today, he spent most of his time helping governments in the Middle East, to provide better conditions for their citizens in a neutral, non-political way which was beyond the scope of individual governments and their allies.

Behind the scenes he had for many years helped to negotiate for better relations between Western Powers and the Arab World. He had anonymously funded many children’s charities particularly in poor Islamic countries. But he had many enemies among the fundamentalists in the Middle East who considered him to be too westernised – and also resented his continuing for the monarchies of the Gulf.

He was a handsome man with salt and pepper coloured hair, and a thin scar on his right cheek, the blue eyes of his mother and aristocratic paternal nose. He seemed always to be bubbling with confidence.

Because of this constant danger, Janos had a security unit consisting of three highly-trained bodyguards who were always at his side. Ginger, Yank and Bedu.

Ginger was in his thirties, with grey, hooded eyes which always appeared to be squinting, though he had twenty-twenty vision but deigned to wear sunglasses. He seemed to spend an enormous amount of time cleaning a Kalashnikov rifle which he had liberated from a Syrian insurgent in Afghanistan. He was a crackshot having won several Marksmen’s awards with the Britsh army.

Yank was the most English, having a pronounced ‘Chelsea’ accent. He had once served with the US forces in Turkey as a liaison officer, hence his nickname. He was a judo black belt. Half-moon reading glasses perched on his flat oncebroken nose, a gold earring adorned his right ear. Yank oozed ‘danger’. He favoured his Swiss SIGP 229 semi-automatic.

Bedu’s favourite weapon was a silver-handled Khanjar. He should have been named ‘Brummie’ because he hailed from Birmingham, but he was an Arabist who had spent much of his military life in the deserts of Arabia – and Janos enjoyed conversing with him in his own language. Bushy-moustached, slim and

tall, for a secret mission he had converted to Islam and was now a strict teetotaller. He had been to Mecca on Haj. In his spare time he read the Koran, said to be a personal gift from one of the Gulf’s sheikhs… and nobody disturbed him. He was the deadliest of the trio.

Of course they were with him in Venice.

As soon as Anthon arrived and gratefully accepted the cold drink offered by one of the Vagabond’s crew, Janos Hussain addressed the of the Venice meeting “You’d probably need a whole forest of trees to create the number of icons and pieces said to come from the Calvary Cross.”

“Gentlemen, however, we are pretty sure that the Linobambaki Chest, originally discovered in a church in Cyprus in approximately 1575, is highly likely to have been owned by St Paul, having been made into a chest by one of Christ’s early disciples.

It is said to encase the embedded blood of Christ but, most important for us is that it contains an old parchment listing the names of the society’s original plus a page from Nostradamus’ prophecies which according to our friends in the CIA has already appeared with a warning on an Islamic fundamentalist website. So what? You might ask. Well, because we are all descended from the individuals on that list – most of whom emigrated from Cyprus and settled in other countries – a decision taken at one of the first Society meetings in order to safeguard the legacy of future world peace between Moslems and Christians.

More than 400 years ago our forefathers made a harsh but desperate decision to send 50 Cypriot youths abroad, owing to the cruelty of their Turkish occupiers, with instructions to settle down in their new countries and raise families for the

future of the Linobambaki.

Over the years the 50 became 40 and at one time only 20 but the secret was maintained and flourished among the chosen few until today there are about 200 remaining, with you as board . We believe peace is now possible. All of you hold vital positions to influence our cause.

However, the list has been discovered, fortunately by a British agent in Cyprus. A Cypriot woman who is the epitome of a Linobambaki. But, and here’s the bad news, it is being sought by Al Qaeda via a Cypriot sect called “the Two Christs.” If they obtain it and, we believe it is only a matter of time, they could access some of the world’s most powerful computers in order to identify through our ancestors the present Linobambaki-which would make, each one of us the possible victim of an assassination attempt to try to wipe out the peace makers.

The ten Linobambaki here, represent more than 400 years of subterfuge, daring and bravery from our forefathers, many of them having to reside in an alien religious community of which their presence was only a façade. They, like us, were moles ready for the Judgement Day. Well, it seems to have come earlier than we expected. I was hoping this meeting would be the start of peaceful moves to create closer collaboration between the two Ibrahamic faiths. But now it seems we have to postpone that while we preserve our lives. With your approval, my security unit and I will try to retrieve the list and ensure it remains secret.”

The Linobambaki sitting around the oak table in Janos’ yacht did not show any signs of panic. There were one or two wry smiles and jokes. These were not people who were easily frightened.

Janos had been quite excited to hear of the discovery of St Paul’s chest with the

missing epistle giving a clear indication that Moslem and Christians should live peacefully together and that the holy grail of the Linobambaki was a reality. “Once the chest and list have been retrieved I will bring them back to place them in the Linobambaki sanctuary approved at our last meeting.”

No one in the stateroom asked how this would be achieved. But they knew as a political savvy multi-billionaire, with s in many of the world’s security agencies, their secret would be preserved.

Janos’ father had told him of the Linobambaki on his death bed. Janos promised to help fulfil the prophecy.

In fact, Janos spent his entire life working for the Arab monarchies in the Gulf, considering them, with an occasional exception, the model for Islamic states. He had regarded his Linobambaki hip as akin to the Freemasons and always enjoyed the occasional meetings as a social occasion. It was an anachronism, even though he liked the thought of Cypriot blood running through his veins. It was only when the chest was discovered which raised a threat to his fellow society board that he ed his father’s warning of the danger of the “solemn oath”.

Al Qaeda

Demetri was holding Petronellas hand, the other arm around her shoulder when Jason announced “I’ve found the chest. Everything is there. Nothing is missing. What shall we do with the priests?”

“I vote we kill them.”

“No Vlad, no more killings.” Maria begged.

Demetri took Jason and Vlad aside and began whispering to them. They both nodded, and high-fived in front of Demetri who laughed.

The Cypriot resistance fighter had suggested what he considered to be a suitable punishment for the priests.

They were driven by Vlad and Jason to the monastery and the abbot was told to imprison them and keep them under lock and key until he was satisfied that these fantastics were no longer a danger to Maria and Petronella “Or themselves” sniffed Vlad.

The abbot willingly agreed to be their gaoler and took them into custody under the watchful eyes of the two bodyguards.

“If they escape, call us, we’ll hunt them down”.

Before the two men left the monastery, Vlad standing outside the two small prison cells, addressed the priests “I wanted to kill you. I would have killed you like I disposed of your friend. But Jason asked me to spare your miserable lives. If you ever try leaving this monastery, I’ll find you and then I will probably kill you for what you did to Maria. You are useless, ignorant lumps of shit and I’m sure your god is already preparing for you to go straight to hell. Make sure you don’t bring forward that day too quickly.”

Back in Maria’s house, Petronella busied herself making a Greek mezza for “her boys”. While her daughter took a shower.

As they enjoyed the red Greek Cypriot claret and black olives, Jason and Vlad, despite having been responsible for a Russian’s and Cypriot priest’s death in the past 24 hours, were relaxed and in a carefree mood.

“So show us your marks” suggested Vlad and Maria stretched out both arms. On the inside of each wrist they could see the distinct shapes of a cross on the left hand and a half crescent on the right hand. They were so clear that they could have been tattoos.

“I always wore long sleeved blouses to school and later to the office so no one could see them” Maria explained.

Petronella brought in another tray of sardines and oysters immediately ing in the conversation by saying “The only thing that those silly white-hatted priests had right was saying that Maria is special. She is special, not because of those birthmarks but because she is a beautiful person.”

Vlad walked over to Maria, took her wrists and gently kissed the birthmarks. “Yes, you are one helluva girl. Rest assured this will never, never happen again. I’m sorry we left you. I did not realise these priests were insane.”

It was Petronella who changed the euphoric atmosphere by declaring “I guess we’ll have to do something about the chest and the parchments. We cannot just

pretend they do not exist.”

Vlad and Jason looked at each other and both shrugged at the same time. They had no interest in the epistle or the chest.

Jason relaxed and thought of the contrast between the austere atmosphere of their Baghdad quarters during the frequent electricity cuts and the cozy environment of Petronella’s home in the candlelight.

The call came later in the evening as Petronella placed more logs on a blazing fire which flickered across the room enhancing the fluttering illumination of the candles.

“Yes, who is this “asked Maria. “Who are you? Vlad, Vlad talk to this maniac…”

Vlad had already risen from the armchair as he noticed the consternation in Maria’s face. He heard a staccato voice, probably an Arab, “Hello is that the Russian? Listen we want the papers in the chest. We will pay you very well for them. We represent some very rich collectors. We have come to Cyprus to buy the parchments which Maria Brown has found. You can negotiate a price but we will leave Cyprus with them anyway…so make yourselves lots of money or regret it for the rest of your lives. We play just as rough as you, Russian.”

“Listen asshole,” Vlad interrupted him “You don’t know what rough means. I’ll give you some good advice; if you do not leave this island by tomorrow, you’ll never leave it. No one threatens Maria Brown. We don’t need lots and lots of money. Now piss off and go back to your very rich friends.”

“I’m sorry you feel that way…then it will have to be the rough treatment. If you change your mind and decide to sell, bring the chest and parchments to the harbour at 11 a.m. tomorrow; we’re on a yacht named The Falcon. Do not bring guns. We have many guards looking after us. Call me if you cannot make it on 2653606.”

Demetri’s Café

Jason and Vlad decided to go for a walk in the moonlight. “What the hell have we got ourselves into? Is everybody in Cyprus mad? What should we do Vlad?”

Vlad laughed “What we always do my friend. We’ll scare the shits out of the parchment hunters. But this time we won’t leave the girls alone. We’ll take them to Demetri’s café and his friends can keep an eye on them.”

The Response

Demetri readily agreed to the plan. He and his fishermen friends would supply a boat as required by the duo and protect Maria and Petronella at the café.

The next day at 8 a.m. one of Demetri’s friends handed over a speedboat, which he normally hired to tourists, on the beach at the Annabelle hotel. Demetri had delivered what he had promised according to their instructions. Two loaded kalashnikovs and a box of handgrenades.

“Jesus” exclaimed Jason “we can fight the US Navy with this lot…”

“Not quite my friend, but it should be enough for a luxury yacht.”

They heaved to just outside the harbour wall and used their binoculars to check on the fleet of sailing boats and yachts sheltering in the marina. They saw the 40metre white Falcon moored close to the old Venetian fort.

“Yes he’s right, there are two guards standing near the walls of the fort and two more on the deck of the yacht. It looks as though the owner or “the voice” is having breakfast on the bridge. A couple of waiters are pouring tea or coffee.”

“Well let’s hope they leave soon. I don’t like hurting hired help if they are not security.” Jason commented.

“What’s the plan?” Queried Vlad.

“Now I see the yacht, I think it’s a high speed run at them from behind that very large blue sailing boat, lob a couple of grenades on deck and then speed off. Hopefully we’ll surprise them as they are not expecting us until 11 a.m.”

It was not very subtle. But the parchment hunters would not expect such an attack in the middle of a peaceful seaside resort.

Vlad and Jason slowly threaded their way around the fleet of boats bobbing in

the harbour, waving cheerily at several early morning risers washing off the decks of their craft; then they pushed forward on the throttle and the bows of the speed boat rose as they surged towards “The Falcon.” As the gleaming white and steel craft reflected the sun casually across the waters, the morning chores of the boatmen were shattered when Jason and Vlad each lobbed a hand grenade on to the yacht’s deck. The guards were not visible so they must have been on the landside of the vessel. The resulting explosions could be heard throughout Paphos, followed shortly afterwards by another loud bang as the yacht’s fuel tanks were set on fire.

In the confusion and turmoil, it was easy for the speedboat to sail out of the harbour, slipping behind a large grey Cypriot navy frigate and chugging at a sedate pace so as not to arouse suspicion.

They left the boat on the beach at the Annabelle and by the time they had driven down to the harbour, parking opposite the Mosaics Museum, the fire brigade had arrived.

Jason and Vlad casually strolled down the boulevard, looking at postcards, buying a newspaper and icecreams.

As they came to Demetri’s café, a crowd of tourists and Maria and her mother were pointing at a yacht which was blazing fiercely at the side of the harbour. The tourists were taking photographs with their mobiles. There were several people near the yacht watching the firemen trying to douse the flames. Ambulance personnel had draped blankets around the shoulders of the owner and his crew, despite the warm weather.

There were two large holes in the deck. The glass portholes on the bridge had been blown away. Jason noticed with some relief that it was only the yacht

which had been damaged. The nearby craft were untouched.

Vlad called the yacht’s owner and saw him answer his mobile phone. He was an Arab with crewcut and a goatee beard, wearing colourful Hawaiian shorts. Vlad thought he looked like a film director. “Good morning. Having a nice day? Next time we won’t just damage your yacht, we’ll kill you. Go home wherever that is. I see your yacht is ed in Lebanon.”

“You’ll regret this. I represent very powerful men. We will come after you.” Vlad stopped the tirade. “I’m sorry you said that. That would mean we have to keep looking over our shoulders for the rest of our lives and that would never do. If you make it to the airport you will be lucky. Never make threats you cannot keep. A rifle is aimed at your head at this very moment. If you would like to say sorry, I might let you live for a few more seconds.”

The yacht owner dropped his mobile and threw himself on to the ground, his bodyguards crouching round him in a protective ring.

Vlad laughed, closed his phone and sipped the mettrio which Maria had handed him.

Maria carefully wrapped the manuscript in two lengths of velvet, her favourite protective covering when handling fragile documents.

“I’m taking the pages to my friend in Nicosia who can carbon date the document: just to be certain that it is an original.”

“Is that necessary? We don’t want to lose it again.” Jason looked up in surprise.

“Yes Jason. We must be sure that it dates back to biblical times.”

Vlad and Jason looked at each other with “What the heck” expressions on their faces and the Russian agreed to drive Maria to the capital while Jason remained on guard with Petronella.

As Jason waved them off, Petronella turned to him “They’re going to be very happy, you know. Can’t we find a young lady for you.”

Jason shook his head and smiled at Petronella “I’m quite happy with you. Why should I choose a young woman when I can have maturity?” Petronella burst out laughing and punched him playfully on his arm. She then proceeded to make a pot of tea.

“These young women don’t know how to make a real cup of tea.”

“You’re hopeless” she giggled unconsciously pushing her hair back as she glanced in the mirror at the subject of Jason’s flattery.

The doorbell rattled the wooden door and Demetri let himself in carrying a box of oranges and white and black grapes.

He stayed for lunch and explained that the luxury yacht had eventually sank in

the harbour and three large cranes were now endeavouring to lift it out of the water.

The police had been round to the café and had questioned all the patrons.

It was fortunate that Demetri and the chief of police were related, the policeman being his nephew. He had explained to him how these foreigners had threatened Maria. Perhaps this accident would persuade them to go home.

Asterios, the police chief, told Demetri to warn the duo that one more incident and they would have to leave Cyprus. He could not ignore sudden deaths and sunken yachts.

Two days later, Vlad and Maria returned from Nicosia to Paphos.

“I was right,” smiled Maria “the epistle was dated from St Paul‘s time and was probably written by him and the Nostradamus quatrain is not a fake, it is about 400 years old.”

Jason nodded. “We seem to have unwittingly found ourselves in the middle of some sort of religious tussle. If these groups are still interested in this list of Linobambaki it could mean that the traditional duplicity of the Linobambaki has been handed down from generation to generation and they could still be existing. Though I don’t see any connection at all with the “Two Christs” sect.”

“Why don’t we just hand over the list?” Vlad held Maria‘s hand as he urged a

solution.

“But Vlad, to which side? Why don’t we just destroy the list?” Began Petronella.

“Because they would never believe we had done it…. Better to hand over to UK Government, what do you say Vlad?” Jason asked.

“I think you should ask your Seville Servant friend to send a messenger for the box and give him the list, Maria keeps the epistle and the Linobambaki cloth, which by the way Maria you forgot to tell them could date from the 1570’s.”

The messenger arrived via the British Embassy in Nicosia the next day. He was a shy deputy consul, an Anglo–Cypriot or a BBC – British Born Cypriot - as the locals call them, with a faint Croydon accent. Maria made him sign a receipt for the box but she retained possession of the epistle and the blood stained cloth.

Jason was reluctant to hand over the chest to this rather effeminate man whose only defence seemed to be his employer, the Queen of England. Once it was the same as being a Roman citizen to brandish your port and declare “I am English.” But now no one cared, except perhaps the Talebans who still ired the fighting prowess of the Brits, having had to change their tactics from the frontal attacks to cowardly roadside bombs.

It was, therefore, no surprise to Jason when he was called by London and told their messenger had been waylaid and the box stolen. Apparently the Palestinian had recovered from his Falcon debacle and was heading with the box to a private jet just flown into Paphos Airport.

Jason and Vlad decided to act. Taking the girls with them, they drove down to the airport which ads a grass and sandy shore of the Mediterranean, with small inlets filled with tiny darting fish.

A call to Demetri resulted in the police being alerted to the fact that the Palestinian was trying to leave the island with a priceless Cypriot antique.

The small but ultra-modern Paphos Airport had never acquired the international status of Larnaca which had been developed to replace Nicosia Airport after the enforced partition of 1974.

Only Cyprus Airways, British Airways and a motley of private jets used the resort’s airport though there is an increasing number of scheduled and charter airlines now starting to fly in, feeding the Paphian tourist industry. But it was still a relatively quiet bucolic gateway, with often the sound of tractors from nearby fields being heard above the hubbub of the airport.

Demetri had called his nephew on being appraised of the situation, who in turn called the airport police and ordered “Stop that jet from taking off. And check the airport staff. Somebody will probably have been bribed to allow this wooden casket to be taken out of the country.”

The two guardians gazed through the wire fence and had no idea how to stop the jet taking off, but were hopeful that Demetri would find a solution.

Meanwhile, Asterios had warned the airport police to delay the plane “for air

traffic control” reasons.

Fortune favours the good planners and a huge dollop of good luck favoured Asterios and his police colleagues, for it just so happened that an Airport Emergency Exercise was taking place at Paphos involving three armoured sixwheeled Cascavals from the Cypriot National Guard. Two of them placed themselves in front of the Gulfstream and the other pointed its cannon at the exit door of the aircraft.

The Palestinian yachtsman, Riad Abbas was already in grave trouble with his superiors with one destroyed yacht to for and he did not intend to lose their aircraft.

On spying the National Guard units, he opened the forward door of the plane, proceeding down the stairs, at the same time waving to the soldiers and smiling broadly.

Now wearing a light blue Massimo Dutti suit, he asked the young lieutenant in charge of the Cascaval. “What’s the problem? We have clearance for take off.”

“Sir, please hand over the chest which you stole from a British Embassy employee and we’ll let you go on your way.”

Riad hesitated. He had to produce something from Cyprus after what had turned out to be a disastrous visit.

Yet he knew the pilots had instructions, with charts, to depart from the approved flight plan and divert to Benghazi. He knew this information would reveal his boss’s new base of operations. He decided to hand over the box, minus the contents.

Lieutenant George Diakos opened the chest and when he saw it was empty, held out his hand and snapped “And the contents please.”

“It was empty”.

Lieutenant Diakos, who had been trained in the USA, looked coldly at Abbas. “If you don’t give me the papers which were in this box, we’ll search the aircraft and it will take at least 24 hours to remove and replace all the ling and carpets.”

Abbas walked back into the plane, returning with the list of Linobambaki, having made a quick copy of it on the Gulfstream’s fax machine.

On receipt of the list, Lt Diakos ordered the Cascavals to withdraw and signalled to the Gulfstream pilot he could take off.

Vlad told Jason he was not convinced the list was so important for he had just witnessed the Arab handing over the box and list, true it was under duress; but he could have burnt the paper if it was so vital. The actual chest must have some significance…a pity they had agreed to hand it over to the UK government.

Jason looked at the other three seated in the Santa Fe watching the Gulfstream through the airport boundary wire.

“Yes, I agree but, I think the list is important. The yachtsmen have probably made a copy already but they were nervous the National Guard would fire at the plane. , they know the epistle and cloth were in the box and I think they probably wanted them, too. My guess is that the Linobambaki list is a substitute present for them and I don’t think our Falcon friend will be greeted as a hero by his employers.”

Jason pursed his lips, “Something is missing. I think the box is important and I vote we keep it… After all, I cannot imagine a village priest hiring a couple of thugs, ittedly dim-witted, just to acquire an antique. Nor is the UK intelligence people ever interested in anything which does not threaten the security of the United Kingdom. I it there could be a secret Linobambaki society who would like the original martyr blood-soaked cloth, and I’m sure both the major Ibrahamic religions would consider the 15th epistle an important treasure.

But the British government would not care a damn about such things… there must be something we’re overlooking.

But at least it’s kept us having an interesting time in Cyprus for the past two weeks …is there any reason they would want that?”

Petronella was listening intently to Jason and as he turned to look at her she blushed. Maria examined her shoes. Vlad stared at the women.

“Jason I think Maria and Petronella know something about this which they are not talking about. Sorry girls, but I’ve been intrigued you let your prized chest out of your sight and even handed it over to the British.”

Maria exchanged glances with her mother and itted “You’re right Vlad. I was afraid to tell you in case you thought that was the reason I had fallen for you.”

“Go on” “urged Jason as everyone looked at the runway to watch the Gulfstream leave Paphos in a noisy farewell which caused the tourists on the beach to shade their eyes to watch it head Eastwards.

“It’s a long story. If you guys will treat us to a coffee at the airport cafeteria, I’ll tell you all about it.”

They sat in a corner of the deserted cafe.

Maria sipped her cappuccino, Petronella did not touch her cola rubbing her fingers on the side of the ice-cold bottle as if she could conjure up a genie. Vlad ordered a beer. Jason sipped a lemon tea.

They all waited for Maria to start her tale…

“As you know, I’ve been working for the British for the past 10 years. Not really spying. Just sending them my summary of the politics in Cyprus. In the past couple of years giving them information after touring the north of the island. I

have never sent them anything which would endanger Cyprus, only stuff related to the Brits. I may be half English, but I am 100% Cypriot.

Anyway, as soon as I found the chest I told my in London. He was very excited. It’s the only time I’ve heard him showing real interest in anything from me. I was flattered to think I had found something important. I did not tell him the whole truth leaving out the epistle but have to it I mentioned the list and maybe that’s what made him ask for the chest.

I must assume that the Linobambaki have s in the Ministry of Defence or the Foreign Office for shortly after giving them the news, the incidents began to happen. We had calls in the night with no one speaking only heavy breathing. We were not afraid and initially I thought they were testing our resolve. It was only when the incidents with the car started that I realised it was not the British Government and I asked them for some protection in case someone tried to steal the chest.

Jason interrupted “Maria, this is all very interesting but please get to the point.”

Maria bit her lip “I discovered only two weeks ago…” she looked at Petronella, who nodded at her gently “…that I had a twin sister who was kidnapped at the same time as me. Your grandfather was told of only one baby – me which he rescued. Petronella says the kidnappers agreed to hand over one baby to your grandfather on condition they could keep the other one.

Petronella had no alternative but to agree and as the years went by she considered it would be too distressing for my sister to find out she actually belonged in Greek Cyprus. Over the years, Layla that’s her name, was brought up by a Turkish couple and has become a successful lawyer. I am told she is now working for NATO on an airbase in Turkey.

I think they asked Vlad and you to guard us and also find a way to reunite the siblings presumably for all the wrong reasons.

I would never want Leyla to betray her adopted country but I went along with the suggestion from my handler so that I could meet her. It was a shock to learn that I had a sister and, of course, it’s upset Petronella who blames herself for not forcing the kidnappers to return both babies.”

All turned to Petronella who with tears rolling down her cheek sobbed “I’m so sorry. I should have told you. I should have pleaded for both my babies but I thought I had lost them forever and was overjoyed to receive even one back. I was assured later by the British Army that the baby was being well cared for. I was very young. My husband told me we could lose them if we insisted on wanting both. Then he was killed and I was left alone for years. No one in the village wanted to help me. Demetri came along later but by then I realised my little girl’s life would be torn apart if she knew she had been kidnapped and wrenched from her real family. I have prayed everyday that she was being well cared for by her foster parents. I know I’m wicked and God will never forgive me for abandoning my child.”

Jason went across to Petronella and gave her a bear hug “We all think you are a wonderful and brave lady and no, you are not wicked. Your God will forgive you, I know.”

Turning to Maria, he asked “So does the British government expect us to find your sister…and then what?”

Maria shook her head “I don’t know. But I think they want to re-unite the sisters.

But they did not tell me why they have suddenly become interested.”

Jason scowled “Why on earth would the British Government want to re-unite twins kidnapped nearly 50 years ago? I cannot see any rhyme or reason, except of course, the humanitarian angle but that never figures in M16’s reasoning.”

All of them went to sleep that night listening to the rain dancing on the corrugated roof of the mountain cottage.

M16

Red-haired Mary Jane O’Connor was the new head of Britain’s M16, or SIS Secret Intelligence Service. She had been a field operative for a number of years having previously been a captain in the Royal Military Police. Janos had once been rescued by Mary Jane when unexpectedly caught in cross fire between Taliban militants and US troops in Kabul. Later he returned the favour when his security team had dropped into the so-called neutral zone along the border between North Korea and South Korea. Mary Jane had been in charge of a UN unit patrolling the 38th parallel when they were attacked by a group of North Korean paratroopers. The police Land Rover had been destroyed, three MPs killed and there were only four uninjured soldiers, including Mary Jane left to fight off the Koreans. Janos and his team fortunately visiting Seoul at the time were asked to intervene in the neutral zone.

“You were like manna from heaven. I never thought I would be so pleased to have a man land on me.” Mary Jane thanked Janos later after he and his HILO team had literally parachuted in and landed in a deep ditch which the quartet of MPs was defending.

Bedu had actually jumped from the aircraft with a bazooka strapped to his back while Janos had brought more ammunition. With Ginger and Yank both packing automatic weapons it was not long before the North Koreans started to withdraw, especially as Bedu radioed in for an airstrike from the South Koreans F-18s which gave them enough respite to carry the injured and dead back to the main road where South Korean forces had then advanced.

Later in London, Janos and his team were invited to watch Mary Jane receive another award for bravery – this time the Military Cross – and recognition by the top brass in the army that they had a most unusual and fearsome soldier in their ranks.

Janos and his team spent most of their working lives in battle zones and recognised courage when they saw it.

It was, therefore, almost inevitable that Mary Jane would be selected for a number of special projects demanding brains and valour where she again bumped into Janos with his ubiquitous s in the British and American security services.

Now at the ripe old age of 45 she was heading one of the world’s most successful espionage agencies Britain’s M16. She had learned from Janos himself about his association with the Linobambaki which sounded a little weird, but harmless.

Therefore, on hearing through Maria Brown of the discovery of a chest which contained old documents referring to the Linobambaki it was only natural she would alert her old friend and colleague, Janos Hussain.

Her description of Maria Brown was very brief. ‘Non-combat operative, messenger with mundane info. Just a mole in case. Vlad and Jason were security guards in Iraq, visiting Cyprus, who were helping to protect Maria temporarily until the chest seekers had been properly identified.’

They were having a fruit and haloumi cheese Cypriot breakfast when Janos arrived.

Janos had left Ginger, Yank and Bedu half a mile from Maria’s home.

“I’m told Vlad and Jason are top operators. If so, our group of four is likely to receive a rough reception. I’ll go alone and let you know when you can me.”

The three were extremely reluctant to allow Janos to go in by himself but he ordered them to stay behind.

Vlad reached for his pistol taped to the underside of the breakfast table as soon as he heard the knock on the door.

“Someone’s at the door. Watch out.” He yelled.

Jason with a Maria at his side, slowly opened the door to see a tall, smiling man in a white safari suit, with a lilac cravat and gold Rolex watch.

“Good morning. I’m Janos Hussain. You must be Jason and you’re Maria” and

on seeing the Russian continued “and you’re Vlad, nice to meet you all”.

“Who are you? What do you want?”

Vlad raised his revolver “We are becoming sick of you people. I’m ready to wipe you out right now and have done with it.”

Janos raised his hands, still smiling “Vlad you are so impulsive. Please listen. I am not the enemy. I think the only way I can establish my identity is by calling this number.”

Watched by Vlad, Jason, Maria and Petronella, Janos punched in some numbers on his mobile – then handed it to Maria “Say hello to your boss…”

Maria took the mobile and asked “Is that you Cockney…?…Do you know Janos Hussain… No, he’s alone…yes I’ll ask him about Yank, Ginger and Bedu… Yes…” She listened intently for a full two minutes then turning to Janos, blushed, “I’m so sorry. I am not a spy but I help the British Government occasionally with information.”

Janos smiled “I know Maria. It’s OK. Can I ask my security to us.” He looked across at Vlad and Jason who both nodded their heads.

He pressed a button on his mobile and explained. “They’ll be here in a few minutes.”

Within 30 seconds a Jaguar XJ-8 was at the end of the driveway. The three flung themselves out of the car, guns raised – which they lowered when they saw Janos and Maria at the door welcoming them to the cottage. Vlad and Jason were uneasy.

Addressing Maria and the others, Janos said “May I introduce my three colleagues, Yank, Bedu, Ginger, who spend their lives trying to keep me alive. I promise we won’t spend much time with you as we invariably attract the wrong sort of company.”

Maria invited them in for breakfast. She ed scones, cheese and jam to the three bodyguards while Petronella poured them tea and coffee.

Bedu spoke to Janos in Arabic “Do you trust these two, boss?”

“Yes I do, please relax and enjoy your breakfast.”

It was a brief exchange watched closely by Jason and Vlad after which there was a visible relaxation of the group.

“Macho characters, all six” commented Petronella in Greek.

As they devoured more of Maria’s freshly baked bread, Janos explained a little about Linobambaki and his connection with it and the request from M16 to help and reunite the twins.

“We quietly work for peace in the world with both the Moslems and Christians, trying to create an understanding through the teaching of Abraham. We are not religious people or priests, or weirdos, just businessman and politicians trying to reduce the distrust and hatred between Islam and Christianity.

“But we need the Linobambaki list before it ends up in the wrong hands. I cannot tell you why M16 is interested in Maria and her twin, because I don’t know.”

Maria looked around the men sitting at the table. Bedu had frightened Petronella by cutting the bread with his Khanjar until Janos told him to put it away. Yank had complimented her in Chelsea English on the quality of the breakfast, while Ginger had sat demonstratively at the side of Janos, separating him from Vlad and Jason and had protectively pocketed the list when Maria handed it over.

Vlad was explaining that the womenfolk had been threatened and as a result they had sank the motor cruiser in Paphos Harbour… and they hoped that would be the end of it, when Janos phone rang.

Everyone waited as Janos looked worried and scowled.

“Unfortunately Vlad, it is only the beginning. You have attacked a boat belonging to Al Qaeda. They will be here in the Troodos in the next day or so, I can promise you. They are vengeful, evil and have no regard for human life. From what you have told me I must presume they have a copy of the Linobambaki list, probably made on the copier on the Gulfstream – and certainly their possession will endanger the lives of my . But it’s more urgent to safeguard you from Al Qaeda. We will stay here until they turn up… but no firefights Vlad and Jason… there is no way of beating them, they will just bring in more terrorists.”

Together, with Jason and Vlad, Janos’ three bodyguards discussed the creation of a defence perimeter around the cottage. Janos sat on the balcony making calls on his cell phone.

The British intelligence operatives in the Middle East were picking up a surge of mobile phone calls between air force bases in Damascus and Ankara.

Cockney briefed his associates that there seemed to be linkage between the Syrian Air Force Intelligence “Idarat Al Mukhabarat al Jaawiyya” with Pakistan and Turkey or both. Their spies on the ground in both countries confirmed these were “Unofficial” s and appeared to be emerging units of an extreme Islamic nature in both these countries’ air forces, with some from Syria.

These types of connections were happening on a regular basis and were usually put down by their own intelligent chiefs, but this time they had not uncovered these murky dealings or had not considered them serious enough to intervene.

But Spy Chief Mary Jane wanted to find out more. She knew something was brewing. She had a in the Turkish Air Force but the officer had a pretty low security clearance. Maria Brown’s twin could be the key.

Layla

As a Turkish officer, Layla Birinci was entitled to use the American-run food court and the PX store on the NATO base, but preferred to shop in the nearby village of Incirlik. Today she was hunting for a bumper for her bright blue beetle

which she had rammed into the back of a truck as she swerved to avoid a flock of sheep trotting across the country lane. She had bought cucumbers and tomatoes in the vegetable market and was chewing on a large slice of warm pitta bread as she watched the garage owner sorting through his store of Beetle bumper mud guards… Surprisingly, there were at least seven of them. “Sorry this one’s from 2002 but I can find one from 2003 if you come back tomorrow.” The garage man smiled as he replaced the car parts he had recovered from accidents at the base.

He liked Layla who was a regular customer, having her car serviced at the garage and he knew she was quite savvy about automobiles, especially Beetles. She was also easy on the eye, freckle-faced with a snub nose, surprisingly green eyes and flowing reddish hair – in fact he would describe her as having model looks. But he was happily married, though her visits always lit up his day.

“No problem. I’ll come back.” Layla responded, knowing that the base commander had given instructions for any damaged cars to be confiscated but she knew her Turkish nationality would protect her.

She returned to the base via Adana where she stopped off for a MacDonald’s, an early evening snack before driving to the Incirlik air base.

She was not a gourmet and justified the high calories with the thought of the one-hour session she had planned in the gym.

And, anyway, she could not be bothered to make meals for herself during the week.

As she drove slowly home, she thought about her twin sister. Maria. She had received a telephone call two weeks ago. Initially she had thought it was some sort of a hoax. It was only when Maria said “Layla, look at your wrists. You have a crescent shaped birthmark on one and a cross on the other. Correct? We are identical twins. We were kidnapped when we were babies. I was rescued. Your birth mother is called Petronella and lives with me here in Paphos. She was a very young mother and could do nothing at that time during the troubles to get you back. She prayed you would be cared for by your adoptive parents. She thought it would be too confusing for you to try to win you back and in any case there was little communication between the two communities.

I am sorry if I have shocked you. I hope you have nice parents. I do not want anything from you…only to meet you someday…”

Layla breathed deeply and slowly and tried to marshal her thoughts. “Kidnapped Sister. Birthmarks. Petronella.”

“My parents were killed in a car crash five years ago,” she told Maria. “Yes they were loving parents. I have had a good life. Sorry, it’s too much for me to take in just now…let’s talk later.”

Layla sat in the apartment with only a table lamp switched on. She felt more secure in the dimmed room. Though in the middle of a high security NATO base she was probably in one of the safest places on earth. But she did not trust one of her fellow officers. A much – married major, said to have been a Topgun before he ejected from his flaming jet…now he was a lecherous, partially scared bodybuilder who had spent the past four months knocking at her door late at night. It was a shame for initially they had a platonic relationship and played chess together. When he had seen her birthmark he had held her wrist and ran his fingers along her arm and she had not played chess with him again. She had threatened twice to report him to the Base Commander. But he just ignored her. Tonight, if he knocked again, he would be in for a shock. She had asked a friend

in the Base Police to bug her apartment. She knew at least four officers and NCOs were listening when she heard the knock on the door.

“Yes, what is it?”

“It’s me Iqbal, open the door Layla, I’ve brought you some flowers.”

Layla unlatched the door and took the flowers.

“Thank you.”

She tried to close the door but Iqbal had lodged one foot inside and as she clasped the bouquet he pushed her backwards.

Layla almost lost her balance as Major Cernok came into the apartment and locked the door behind him. He was wearing khaki-coloured slacks and a grey open-necked shirt with long sleeves.

Layla was angry. “What are you doing?

“What do you want?”

“Just a nice thank you for the flowers…”

“I’ve said thank you.”

“Ha, but I would like much more gratitude than that. Take your clothes off.”

“Are you crazy? Get out of my apartment. You’re not welcome. Now you are really bothering me.”

“All you have to do is to be nice to me and I’ll leave straight away. We have to do it.”

“I do not intend to be nice to you, and we don’t have to do anything. If you don’t leave, I’ll call the police.”

Layla picked up her mobile, hoping to give him time to change his mind. He wrenched it out of her hand and made a grab for her, but she managed to jerk away from his hold.

“Hey you guys you’d better come now” she shouted. Less than a minute later Major Cernok heard the end of his career as two military police officers hammered on Layla’s door.

“Open the door or we’ll shoot it open. Major Cernok we know you are there.”

Suddenly the Topgun’s sexual advances disappeared and he allowed Layla to unlock the door. He was immediately bungled out by his fellow officers. Ashamed. Contrite.

Layla sipped her favourite Earl Grey tea and munched a chocolate digestive and decided she really did not like Turkish men. They were always domineering. They still treated women – even their fellow officers – as underlings. Maybe my Cypriot heritage is showing, she mused.

Perhaps she should make with her sister. Though Base Security had already quizzed her on why someone from Southern Cyprus had been calling her.

Her “no idea” was not really accepted by the police but the young lieutenant was not going to challenge his superior, even if she was a woman. Maybe she was right. Maybe it was a wrong number.

Layla realised she would have to make the call-off base, probably from her friendly garage kiosk. If one call from a long-lost sister created so much suspicion, what on earth would happen if it turned out to be true that she was really a kidnapped Cypriot, on the wrong side of the fence?

It was not an opportune time for complications in her life. Her long time boy friend had found a younger woman, rumoured to be in her twenties, though she realised she was glad to be rid of him; she had successfully defended the soonto-be promoted head of the Armed Forces in a court martial which had proved to be a political move against him and he was grateful enough to have just offered her a plum posting in NATO northern headquarters, Afnorth, in Oslo, Norway.

But now she was confronted for the first time in many years with a real dilemma, not a randy ex-pilot -– should she open the door to a new family? Because she knew if she did, this would turn her life upside down.

The following day, it was Janos who told Maria that she would create massive problems for her sister by calling her mobile number as all military bases in Turkey had a firewall for monitoring incoming and outgoing calls.

“I guess Cockney gave you her number…but he should have warned you of the consequences for your sister.”

They were sitting on the porch sipping various beverages when they all heard it.

“That’s a tank” said Bedu.

“Or a troop carrier?” offered Yank.

“Enemy or foe?” asked Ginger.

“In fact,” concluded Janos”It’s a Cascaval of the Cypriot Defence Force, manufactured in Brazil, but it seems to have been borrowed by some Arabs.”

Vlad disappeared into the house to collect his shotgun. The three bodyguards looked at each other in despair. They had only handguns. Janos had not moved. In fact, he reached for another of Petronella’s scones and covered it with

strawberry jam and took a large bite before drying his hands on a paper napkin and slowly rising from the rocking chair. Ginger, Yank and Bedu began to follow him.

“No, leave this to me. But Bedu you come along.”

Janos strolled to the end of the driveway which was now blocked by the sixwheeled armoured vehicle, with an Arab in his thirties, with a shorn head and long black beard casually holding an AK-47 as he waited for the two to reach him.

He said in English “Are you the ones who blew up my boss’s yacht?”

Janos replied in Arabic “Actually no, that was our friends. A mistake. They did not realise your boss was working for the cause. They thought they were Russian mafia.”

“So what are you going to do about it? I have orders to demolish the house, get out of the way.”

Janos spoke softly but clearly.

“I am Janos Hussain. Ask your boss if he knows me. I will buy him a new yacht to compensate for this terrible mistake. If he tells me what he wants and where it should be delivered I will make the necessary arrangements.” Switching to English, the Cascaval hijacker sneered, “You are kidding aren’t you?”

“Call your boss.” Janos insisted.

Mohammed pulled a mobile from his windcheater pocket and dialled a number and began to relate the conversation he had just had with Janos.

“The boss says yeah he knows you. It should be delivered in Dubai. And he wants a Victory Princess like yours and if these morons threaten one of his men again, he will wipe out their whole family. And demolish the house. When he receives the yacht in Dubai he will forgive this stupid family.”

Janos replied “I am grateful for his understanding.”

The Cascaval reversed and sped back along the mountain trail.

Janos turned to Bedu “Please tell Vlad and Jason the details of this little talk and tell them that a small family like theirs cannot oppose Al Qaeda. It was the only decision we could have made. Tell them they are lucky for I know one of the senior people in this organisation. They will not return but Vlad and Jason are indeed fortunate, for usually they never give up until they have wrought their revenge.”

Petronella was enjoying having so many men in her house and she offered them a choice of menus for the evening – What would they prefer?

“Koupepkia called Dolmades in Greece?

Or Klephtiko – that’s roast pork, or perhaps Moussaka which is like mince meat with potatoes and Aubergines and a cheese sauce?”

“It all sounds wonderful. I tell you what, let’s make it a rain check. We’ll look forward to your hospitality when you have both your daughters sitting at your table.”

Janos thought that would bring a smile to Petronella’s face but instead she looked at him in horror with a muffled sob saying “…even if she comes to see her sister, I know she will never forgive me…”

Janos signalled for his security unit to prepare to leave. Shaking hands with Maria, Vlad and Jason and embracing a tearful Petronella – soon the four were heading for the airport, a few kilometres from down town Paphos.

Baal Hammon

It was the discovery of the chest containing the ancient documents and the gold coin, in the temporary Turkish Cypriot area of Cyprus in 1975, less than a year after the Turkish invasion, which started a tenuous link with the Moslems of three countries. Pulling back in haste from the Greek Cypriot area they had forcibly occupied, the chest was found in the monastery by a Turkish captain, who had removed one page of the old parchment which he could hide in his uniform without suspicion from his superiors. He left the chest and its contents behind.

Later, Captain Erogen, would sell the page to a small museum, owned by a relative, in Ankara for a modest sum, and the whole thing would have been forgotten.

Save one day, Pakistan Air Force Cadet Pilot Ijaz Shahid, a history and language graduate on a training course in Turkey visited the museum on one of his free days and saw and read the page written in French with some Latin and Greek. As a fundamentalist and strict Moslem, Ijaz was excited with the prophecy and determined to on the message to equally fanatical pilots who had recently ed the Pakistan Air Force, training to fly Mirages.

But as a good Moslem, Ijaz should have dismissed this quatrain from Nostradamus as he was not a prophet. But like many so called “followers” he chose to believe and interpret the seer’s words as a call to arms to fulfill their destiny.

It was a four-centuries call to arms evoking their ancestor, the Roi Anjolmois – and the belief that the third antichrist might also be Baal Hammon “The lord of

the sky” or “Lord of the Universe”.

It was this muddled translation and interpretation of the prophecy that resulted in strengthening the fervour of the secret Baal Hammon brigade, consisting of some 30 pilots whose ambition was to fly so well so as to be chosen for Pakistan’s nuclear squadrons. Since their training in Turkey they had become close friends with some of the F-16 pilots manning NATO’S eastern flank, who unbeknown to their government were also extremists.

The second millennium anniversary had ed so the Pakistani pilots reckoned that Nostradamus was not accurate to decades and decided that 2004 would be the date they hoped to fulfill his prophecy.

The Pakistan Air Force had initially dominated in both the 1965 and 1971 wars. The PAF had eventually been beaten but in the words of several of their pensioned Wing Commanders “put up a pretty good show”.

The fact that they were now armed with nuclear weapons was not only a problem for India but also for Pakistan’s US and UK allies.

The downfall of another dictator had precipitated a major alignment of allies, a number of NATO had tried to persuade the United States to begin handling its erstwhile ally as a hostile witness. The information provided by the now Taleban-friendly army was suspicious and the ISI Intelligence Service was probably alerting tribesman hiding the Al Qaeda leaders prior to “predator” raids, aided by unhappy Air Force officers who had previously been sharing information with allies.

“Stop treating them as friends” Israel had warned NATO, ing the Pakistanis of the Arabs during three wars – with solid intelligence from Mossad, continuing to be fed to the USA.

The negative vibes from NATO were used by the pro-Al Qaeda Islamists to persuade the semi military government to loosen its ties with the West.

But when both the CIA and M16 give the same ‘alert,’ fortunately, on this occasion the American government reacted positively to NATO and India’s warnings.

The US president Joseph Khoory called in the of his cabinet to an emergency meeting. Democrat, highly intelligent, beloved by the armed forces who had expected him to be a dove but instead had proved a powerful er of his troops in the field.

“This just came in from our UK friends. “Rogue elements in Pakistan Air Force in cooperation with some Turkish officers planning tactical nuclear attacks on US interests…possible 6th Fleet and UK bases in Cyprus.”

He turned to the Chief of Staff of the Armed Forces who had been invited to the meeting “Could they do this…or is this some kind of misinformation?”

General Roger Buckmaster, wearing uniform for his White House meeting was an imposing figure who had a solid military reputation and was also liked by the politicians because he could talk their language. Bostonian, Harvard and Oxford educated, he was of “The old school.” Handsome, 6’2” tall, ex-football star. The General coughed to discourage the mumbling from other cabinet attendees “Sir,

they could try to attack the 6th Fleet but this would result in their ending at the bottom of the Persian Gulf, but aided by Turkey, some Jet fighters might be able to penetrate the rather weak UK defences in Akrotiri, one of the UK’s Sovereign Base areas in Cyprus.”

The president immediately responded “I’m sure Turkey would not help them… these are not mainstream. Just a few extremists.Pakistan, too, would be on our side…despite its current unhappiness. No I’m sure it would have to be rogue elements only. Just as a matter of interest, how good is the Pakistan Air Force?”

General Buckmaster smiled “Very good Sir. They have 27 front line squadrons, with a fleet of 700 aircraft, including modified Mirages fitted with long range glide bombs which could cause problems if they managed to enter the Gulf. Though our recent agreement with Iran and Iraq should make that impossible.”

The President was not happy. “Let’s not reach that stage. I suggest we remove these rogue pilots before they can do any damage. But I don’t want any connection whatsoever with the USA. Jim over to you.”

Gum-chewing Texan, James Connor looked grimly at his president and simply said “Leave it to me Sir, I’ll take care of them.”

As head of the CIA for two years, former navy iral Connor was learning that the US security tentacles could reach out in many countries. He would now find out which current ‘secret’ tentacle reached Pakistan.

Russia’s incursions into Chechniya. Suicide bombers in Iraq. Some clumsy moves in Africa trying to damage oil pipelines. Sometimes, nations and terrorist

groups broke the rules and forgot the awesome power, official and unofficial, which the USA presented.

“At their peril” was the slogan of the top secret unit commissioned by the president on gaining office and being disgusted that he could not catch the Kremlin-aided poisoners who had killed a US spy in Moscow, or initially could not stop a planned invasion of Latvia.

Jimmie Connor had known Janos since his iralty days when he had been based for a short while in Bahrain and had been rescued from a sports club surrounded by a Shia anti-US crowd by Janos and his men. They had been friends ever since. They had mutual pastimes, sailing and golf. It was therefore a fortunate coincidence for both men when Janos called to relate the terrorist messages written in Urdu and Turkish vowing to blow the USA to smithereens.

“Hi Jimmie did you see this one?” he yelled from the mobile as he was driven to the airport.

“Jimmie, I’m in Cyprus on my way to Paphos Airport. Are these messages something which should be taken seriously?” Janos queried his friend.

“Yes they are. In fact we have interesting information which links elements of the Turkish and Pakistan Air Forces with planned 9/11 style operations.

I would hate to compromise any future moves over this cellphone but when you reach a secure line, please give me a call. I think you may be able to help us.

By the way, if you use the codeword which we once used in Bahrain you can open the website “Janos.bah.com.ae”

Which stated “As far as I know, these are only word games on the two websites but better to be safe than sorry. Apparently some fundamentalists flying in the Turkish Air Force seem to be buddy buddies with their colleagues in the PAF. Nothing wrong with that, but the PAF guys pilot nuclear-armed bombers. It has been mentioned yesterday in Intellimedio.”

Betrayal

“But you don’t understand Sir, they’re planning a Kamikazi attack with Mirages carrying nuclear arms…and, of course even if the bombs cannot explode without the presidential approval and Chief of Defences’ ok, the radioactive material will spread devastation and chaos.

Believe me, it’s true. I was part of the Baal Hammon Brigade until I realised it was not just political but also operational…these are crazy fundamentalists who I now believe have been planning such an attack since 9/11.

They will not only kill themselves but destroy Pakistan with the nuclear response from India. Sir, they are going to attack India, the US 6th Fleet and the UK bases in Cyprus on the same day.”

Flight Lieutenant Abdul Hussain was pleading with his Squadron Leader to accept his story. His superior, sitting at his desk, leaned forward and palmed away a wisp of hair which had been blown across his face by the noisy fan, which lifted the correspondence slightly aloft at regular 10 second intervals as

the inadequate air conditioning system wheezed and tried to move slightly cooler air across the room. He stared at the sallow, nervous officer, standing in front of him.

“Is this some kind of a joke Hussain? Why are you telling me this?”

“Sir, there is a group of pilots within your squadron who call themselves the Hammon Brigade. I was one of those…I believed it was important to put Allah in our cockpits as we defended the home country. But I never had any intention of carrying out attacks which were not authorised by the Air Force. These people have lost their marbles, they are planning suicide attacks on the 6th Fleet in the Gulf, on British bases in Cyprus and on Indian Air Force bases.”

Squadron Leader Sharif – a neat mustached grey-haired officer glared at his recently-promoted Flight Lieutenant and sighed “Abdul, I’m sure you have misunderstood some mess conversation. These guys who fly nuclear are always bragging how they could devastate the world with their bombs…but we all know that in our nuclear squadrons any fighter which deviates from orders is shot down by his comrades. We cannot afford mistakes with nukes. If what you say is true, I can assure you, their fellow officers would have no hesitation in downing them.”

“But Sir, what if the wingmen are part of the conspiracy?”

“Just how many pilots belong to, what did you call it?”

“The Baal Hammon Brigade.”

“Yes the Baal Hammon Brigade.”

“I know of 15 Sir, but there could be more.”

“And when is this supposed to take place?”

“It is planned for Independence Day…

“Arrest them.” The Chief of staff of the Air Force Vice Marshal Shabdeen Ali gave the order to Wing Commander Memhud Newaz immediately he learned the plot details.

Speaking in BBC-English which he seemed to prefer to Urdu, Air Vice Marshal Ali snapped “We cannot pussyfoot around, even if it’s not true, at least we’ll scare the hell out of the other silly fundamentalists…and if it’s true, we might just stop World War Three and certainly another confrontation with our friends in the IAF. But understand, we tell no one.”

Mehmud Newaz was a veteran of Operation Cactus Alley over East Pakistan in 1971. His Sabre 86 had shot down three Hunters before being attacked by the Indian Mig 21s. He was hit and ejected to safety, fortunately surviving the tribesmen living on the floodflats, though two of his friends a few days earlier had disappeared and it was later learnt they had been murdered by these savages.

The pilots on both sides had fought bravely but the PAF was eventually defeated

in the air and could not provide the protection for the ground forces which was needed. Thus India won and Bangladesh became a new country.

The wing commander pondered the squadron leader’s warning: It would be a different ball game today. The Mirages are a match for the Sukhois but with a top speed of Mach 2.35 the Russian aircraft flown by the Senior IAF pilots might down his skilful but young pilots.

But a war was ludicrous and not necessary. The PAF had enough problems on the Afghan border trying to differentiate between friends and foe, especially with the Russians supplying unmanned armed aircraft to the descendents of the Taliban, who decades before had been slaughtered by Soviet Choppers.

An attack on the 6th Fleet? On RAF bases in Cyprus? Surely these pilots must have been asleep during the strategic lessons at the Staff College when the relative strength of the surrounding countries were outlined. There had been special lectures on the American armed forces including the 6th fleet offshore in the Gulf. The US navy could shoot down intruders on the fleet with missiles at a distance of 25 nautical miles, their fighters could confront enemy aircraft hundreds of miles from the carriers. When it came to Cyprus, the Turkish Air Force would never allow any attacks from the North and the Brits in the Sovereign Base Areas had a solid anti-aircraft defence with their Rapier Missiles.

The Indian Air Force would slaughter any individual pilots trying to attack their bases. The PAF was stronger, in force, than in 1971 but individual aircraft without a real battle plan, would be decimated.

The Wing Commander was still contemplating such an uneven match when his phone rang. It was the Squadron Leader “Sir, we have a problem, I’ve arrested

six of the pilots but we have four on a training exercise in Turkey, one is now sick in hospital in Dubai and the other four are on a team-building project in the UAE desert. And we understand there are probably more of this sect.”

“OK leave it with me.” Wing Commander Newaz closed his mobile phone purposefully, checking a couple of incoming messages before placing it carefully on his desk. He had to proceed with caution, but quickly. He did not want the Air Marshal to inform the President or Prime Minister. In fact, they had only just changed places. It was only a matter of time before the military had to take charge again and he now believed the truth of the earlier telephone call from his friend, Janos Hussain.

Fatima

It was a strange time in the history of the Mediterranean countries. The Turks had decided, seeing a visibly weak and disliked Venetian government in Cyprus, that they could not leave the island in the hands of Christians. So they invaded in 1571 with an infantry force of 60,000 and easily overwhelmed the Venetian defenders. Only the cities of Nicosia and Famagusta held out.

Nicosia valiantly defended for three months but in September succumbed to the might of the Turks though Famagusta’s Venetians were of a tougher mettle and it was not until the Turks were reinforced months later that the city fell. But not before they had killed more than 1,000 Turks with a near-suicide gunpowder explosion at the foot of one of the walls being scaled.

As usual the defenders sued for peace and at first it appeared there would be a peaceful solution after Mustapha Pasha declared a ceasefire. But before the Famagustans could leave their devastated city Mustafa changed his mind when he saw the few Venetians who had killed so many of his troops and he was so

enraged, that he gave his soldiers the green light which led to a massacre of all the inhabitants. The Venetian commander, Marc Antonia Bragadino, was tortured, flogged and beheaded.

Only three Cypriots managed to escape. Joseph described their escape to the hushed congregation in the church in the Troodos.

“They were laughing and slaughtering the children. I saw one soldier thrust his spear into the stomach of an infant and then with the baby impaled on his weapon, the blood dripping on to his shoulder, he approached another petrified family and killed a second child.

We were hiding in the turret of the tower which had been partially buried under the rubble when the Venetians set off a mighty gunpowder explosion near the wall which had made the Turks retreat for a while.

It was with some satisfaction that I saw an officer come from behind the soldier with the two babies on his spear, striking him with a single blow which decapitated him, his head rolling slowly through the bloodied mud, his lifeless body slumping to the ground.

There seemed to be no end to the killings. Men, woman, children, all died by the sword, even the goats and dogs were killed in an orgy of violence which will resonate down the centuries.

We waited in the storeroom, not knowing how to escape. Terrified, too scared almost to breathe. Just before the first cockerel crowed, we heard a noise in the corner of the storeroom. We feared we had been discovered. I prepared to

smother my daughter to prevent the atrocities which we had already seen. Suddenly we were confronted by a Turkish lady, a headscarf covering her head, wearing black baggy tros. She stretched her arms and brushed away the straws clinging to her long brown coat. As she felt our presence, she reached for her dagger but replaced it in the scabbard as she saw my six-year-old daughter. She smiled at us and touched her lips to indicate “silence”.

We had been silent throughout the night. Our throats were dry from thirst. We could not speak anyway. She seemed to realise our predicament and handed over a leather water bottle to me. I gave it to my daughter to drink and then gulped down a mouthful. It was sandy but fresh and, for me, tasted like the finest wine.

We followed Fatima, for that was her name we later learned, out of the storeroom and into a long dimly lit corridor. There were two soldiers sleeping in a corner. Fatima withdrew her dagger as we tiptoed ed them. Their uniforms, hands and faces were covered with dried blood. They slept a victor’s sleep. We prayed they would all be claimed by the Devil for their cruelty.

Fatima seemed to know her way around the castle and we went through another deserted tunnel, our footsteps echoing like the giant gongs of an old clock. Minutes later we found ourselves outside the castle walls and being bundled into a cart carrying two cannons and a supply of grey uniforms. We followed Fatima’s example burying ourselves beneath the pile of clothes.

Two horses pulled the wagon away from the carnage, as we held our noses to hide the smell of the dead and dying.

We had no idea where we were going or why or how we had been rescued. Later, the cart halted and we heard Fatima urging us to leave the vehicle.

I feared being confronted with a patrol of Turkish soldiers and prepared for the worst but imagine my joy when we found ourselves in the courtyard of this church.

Fatima was talking to two priests and came over to us. She just said “I have to go back. You’ll be safe here. My name is Fatima. May God help you. Good luck.”

Fatima is our hero. We now believe she is a Linobambaki, changing her catholic name to Islamic.

My daughter has asked to be re-named Fatima in honour of this brave woman and we will henceforth call her Fatima.”

Fatima-christened sca Berlusconi – had not just turned up by accident in the storeroom. She was looking for her younger brother who had been entrapped in the city during the siege. She feared he was dead. But, several months before the Turks arrived, the two of them had discovered a wine cellar in Famagusta in the catacombs below the cathedral. When news of Nicosia’s demise reached them, she had told him “If the city falls, hide here and I will come and rescue you.” When he refused to leave with his sister, insisting on staying to take care of his parents, Fatima again reminded him of the catacombs. But what could a 15 year old boy do against the might of the Turkish Army? She prayed he had taken her advice.

Seeing the terrified father and daughter, Fatima made a life and death decision to help to save them instead of finding her brother. Now she would return to the city waiting for nightfall so she could sneak through the secret tunnel through which she had saved the Cypriots.

It would be more difficult, for the soldiers would now be drinking and brawling after their days of killing. It would be a perilous journey. She knew her parents would be dead in this city of death but there was a very small chance her brother would be alive in the catacombs. If she was caught, she knew she would be raped and murdered. For a moment, she hesitated. Her brother was probably dead, why add another dead body to the mountains rotting inside and outside the city gates?

She sat on a gravestone in the cemetery of the moonlit white church and prayed to God. “Dear Lord, Please save my brother Richardo. He has been confirmed. He is brave and a servant of God. I pledge my life to your service; but please let him be alive when I go back to the city. Amen.”

The moon eventually moved behind a forest of clouds and the darkness of the night was a friend of Fatima’s as she retraced her steps of the previous evening. This time she was on foot, not hidden in a military wagon. She had planned carefully for her ordeal. As soon as she reached the killing fields, she splattered her coat with blood from a dead Venetian soldier and wiped the mud and blood about her face and neck. This would be her camouflage if she came across any of the attackers.

She was feeling lucky and was only 100 yards from the entrance to the tunnel when she heard voices. They were two soldiers. To her horror she could see that they were looking for injured defenders and killing them instantly by thrusting their swords into their chests, directly through the heart. She saw two dead females and pushed herself below both their bodies. The women were obviously dead and hopefully in the dull light of the campfires the soldiers would think she had also met her maker.

For ten heart-stopping minutes she lay beneath the corpses, the stench made her

sick but she tried not to vomit. She held her nose, breathing quietly through her mouth. At last the soldiers went on their way, laughing boastfully as they saw the result of their handiwork. She wanted to run after them and plunge her dagger into their backs…but she had to think of her brother.

Inside the city were a number of fires where the troops had piled the wooden benches on which the market traders once placed their wares. The Turks sat and stood around, drinking wine incongruously from China cups which they had probably found in the house of a city elder… and then throwing the cups on to the blazing bonfire. As she not ed the soldiers in the shadows of the walled turret, she was not afraid. Most of the soldiers seemed oblivious to anyone. They were drunk or maybe just shocked by their own evil depravities.

She entered the church and found more troops breaking the large stained glass windows and defecating on the once sacred altar. The cross of Christ had been taken down and was now being used by a soldier as a poker to stir the fire…it was like a scene from hell.

Fatima dropped to her knees and crawling along one of the pews was able to reach the eastern aisle and a wooden carved confession box where she waited and watched. The secret door to the catacombs was inside the holy structure. With the soldiers absorbed in their wanton destruction, she lifted the carpet, pulled the ring and stepped on to the ladder leading down to the abbot’s wine cellar.

Before closing the trap door, she pulled the carpet back to hide the opening.

Inside the catacombs it was dark and it took several minutes for Fatima to adjust her eyes to the blackness. She walked blindly ahead and banged into a large wine barrel. She could smell the red wine of Tuscany and for a brief moment she

could see the rolling green hills and the vineyards.

She stopped and listened. There was no sound. Only her own breathless panting. She told herself to remain calm.

“Ricardo. Ricardo. Are you there?” She whispered. There was no reply, “Ricardo. It’s me sca. I am alone. Do not be afraid.” Again she waited. Again she whispered “Ricardo please, it’s sca. Tell me you’re alive. Please.”

Then, from only about 10 yards away she heard the joyful voice of her brother “Yes sister. I am alive, cold and hungry and thirsty. But still breathing.”

She went towards the voice and in the darkness they embraced. Ricardo immediately said “I know a way out of here, but I was too afraid to try it on my own. I also have some matches but I was too afraid to use them, in case some of the murderers were waiting down here.”

“There is no one here, use your fire sticks and let’s pray we can find a torch.”

As if answering their prayers, the Lord started to show sca the way. There was a torch of twigs stuck into an iron holder on the wall behind them. They lit the torch and Ricardo signalled his sister to follow him. “Here drink this” Fatima handed her leather pouch of water which she had carried with her. They walked for over half an hour and used another torch which they found on the wall, before Ricardo pointed to a large shelf of unlabelled bottles. “It’s behind there”.

Together they pushed the shelf aside to reveal a stable with a number of horses. They were the bishop’s own stallions. They had been spared. The Turks cared too much for beautiful pedigree horses to kill them for no reason.

When Fatima saw the horses she made a quick decision.

“We have one small chance of leaving this place alive. We will ride at speed out of the city through the western gates. They were completely destroyed. I saw that yesterday. Our father taught us how to ride. Now let’s prove that his lessons were not wasted on us.”

Fatima loved horses and spoke softly to them as she and Ricardo placed the leather and brass saddles on the shiny backs of the black thoroughbreds.

She took out her dagger and held it in her right hand as she urged her mount to leave the stables. Ricardo followed only seconds behind. It was still pitch dark but fortunately Fatima was familiar with the architecture of the city despite the piles of rubble sprawling alongside the broken walls.

No one challenged them as they trotted towards the city gates, their path illuminated by several bonfires.

Ricardo came alongside and bade her to stop. He pointed to three Turkish soldiers lying near the gap in the wall. They were obviously dead. “Let’s take their uniforms.” He said.

It was a brilliant idea and minutes later, the two “Turkish soldiers” were galloping at speed towards the open gates. They held their hands high in what they hoped was a military greeting and the gatekeeper waved them through, probably too drunk to see them. It was a miracle and weaving their way past the pieces of destroyed artillery and heaps of dead Venetians, for Fatima it was like riding through the Gates of Hades with Satan hovering around every bend in this underworld quagmire… It was a relief to see a church at the edge of the battlefield, still burning from the crazed arsonists, but the rooftop cross remained to offer hope and redemption in this devilish wilderness.

They dismounted about 20 miles away from Famagusta and sent their stallions galloping back to the city. They seemed to know their way and after only a minute were dots on the dawn horizon. It would be too dangerous to ride on such fine horses through these impoverished villages. Fatima knocked on the door of the first house they encountered taking off the uniform and showing the peasant woman her breasts to prove she was not a Turkish soldier.

They were ushered inside. Given chunks of bread and a small ewer of water to share. Fatima gave the woman a handful of Carzia coins and persuaded her to sell a dress and a patched up old coat for Ricardo. The old lady turned the coins over to see the lion of St Mark on one side and the cross on the other, reassured by Fatima that the Turks would accept the Venetian currency. They washed at the well outside the cottage and within half an hour were heading on foot towards the Troodos where Fatima hoped they could find friends.

“One Catholic Church and we will be saved,” she gasped to Ricardo as they began the long climb up what seemed to be a never ending hill. Occasionally, they saw military wagons and mounted patrols but hid in the nearby trees until they had ed by.

It seemed the worse was over when they spied a small Greek Orthodox domed church protruding from the side of a hill, surrounded by olive trees, with the

village houses scattered alongside, though they could see no movement in the hamlet.

With a bounce in her step, Fatima pushed the heavy church door open and stepped inside. She was almost immediately grabbed and pushed to the ground and she could see that she had been captured by two Turkish soldiers. One of them was already taking his pants down and the other was shouting something incomprehensible as he held her and tried to pull down her dress. Suddenly the half-dressed soldier fell forward with a groan…and a fraction of a second later the other man stopped pulling down her dress as he tumbled backwards. Ricardo had waited until they were obsessed with their debauchery and had stabbed one in the back and thrown a dagger at the other, the blade slashing the main artery in the neck.

The siblings looked around for other soldiers. But there were none. Their father had taught them the use of weapons in this violent age as soon as they were able to walk. These early lessons had saved their lives. Having desperately fought in Famagusta to help his wife, their father had been slain after fending off four attackers in the kitchen of their house. His wife, too, had died with honour having thrown a kettle of boiling water on one attacker before being seized by two others. Fatima’s father believed the Turkish siege would fail and had refused to leave the house with Ricardo. If Ricardo had been there, he too would have died.

Realising there were still too many Turkish troops in the area, Fatima decided they would lock the church door and wait until nightfall. They dragged the bodies into the vestry and covered them with loose curtains which they found hanging from one of the choir benches. They were undisturbed during the day and it was around the time the evening breeze blows and the last birds find their nests, when they left their holy refuge.

Before leaving, Fatima and Ricardo walked to the altar in the tiny church and

touching an icon of the Holy Mary asked God for protection on their dangerous journey to Paphos and the west coast.

As they walked through several villages, Fatima noticed it was only the Catholic churches which had been attacked. The Greek Orthodox churches were intact and untouched.

“If anything should happen to me Ricardo, head for the Greek Orthodox church in Paphos… they were friends of Papa who sold them lace from Venice. You must not try to fight for me again, it’s too dangerous. This time you were lucky. But I did not come back to rescue you to see you die. If you love me, next time please run away when I tell you. Promise?”

Ricardo reluctantly nodded. He knew his sister was right. He had been lucky. The soldiers could easily have killed them both if they had not been taken by surprise.

They had marched at least 10 miles through the forest, staying away from the roadways, when they saw a church in the distance. As they came nearer Fatima supposed it was in use as she could see the flickering of candle lights reflected in the arched windows. This time she did not burst into the church but slowly pushed the heavy door inwards. It creaked loudly as it opened only a few inches. As she peered into the church she saw two parishioners praying and was about to wave Ricardo forward when she saw they were wearing soldiers boots. She yelled to her brother “Go away – go to Paphos. Leave me here. Go” At the same time, she realised she was tired of running. If these men were enemies, so be it. She had saved her brother, her parents were dead… what more was there to live for?

She walked into the church and kneeled on the floor in front of the altar

deliberately walking past the two men who stared in disbelief at this woman who seemed to appear from nowhere. She was determined to show them she was not afraid.

In a few seconds both men were sitting beside her on the altar. They were Cypriots. They spoke to her in Greek. They seemed friendly enough. They were not soldiers, probably farm workers.

“Are you hungry? Would you like a drink?”

She smiled and said yes to both questions.

She ate a piece of bread with sour cheese spread on it – and drank the wine. It had a strange taste but it was not disagreeable. She allowed the pewter tankard to be filled twice and drank it all.

She soared into the sky and floated like a bird to land on the deck of her father’s boat. He came forward to welcome her and her mother was there too…she went into one of the cabins and the young captain came down with her. He touched her breast and ran his hands along her thighs and she kissed him the way which her mother had forbidden…then there was a momentary pain but then pleasure and she was drinking more wine and softly biting the captain’s neck…”

Fatima’s long brown coat was taken from her and as she gurgled and chuckled like a little girl, they undressed this intoxicated woman who had just walked into their lives.

Both men had intercourse with her. Not savagely but slowly and gently for that was the way they had learned from their previous victims. Then as in the past, one of them washed away the traces of their assault from the woman. Replaced her underwear and the coat and left her to her dreams to sleep off the alcohol.

In the morning Fatima woke up in an empty church. There was only a stray cat purring and pushing against her legs. She could not anything about the previous night. She did recall ordering Ricardo to proceed to Paphos. She ed kneeling at the altar. But nothing else. The two Cypriots had mixed absinthe with the fresh red wine. They had used it several times before with the village girls who become friendly very quickly and never seemed to complain the next day. From questioning one of the girls, they realised their alcoholic concoction seemed to produce a loss of memory.

Four months later, Fatima went to see the priest. “Father, I swear I have not been with any man and yet I am with child. I know it happened to Mary but could it happen again?”

The priest called in his abbot and then the bishop and despite several days of questioning, Fatima remained adamant, she had not been with any man.

The worldly bishop decided to humour his errant parishioner and finally said; “Let us wait to see the child. God will tell us what to do.”

Five months later, both the bishop and priest were in attendance when Fatima gave birth in a room in the monastery.

The bishop made the priest swear an oath of silence on the bible when they saw

the result of Fatima’s pregnancy. Twin girls, one with blue eyes and one with brown eyes, each with a birthmark, one on the left and one on the right wrist in the shapes of a cross and a crescent.

The U.A.E.

The popular Pakistani doctor ignored the vibrations of his mobile phone and continued to explain to the national lady, clothed in a black abaya, that her husband’s results from the bone scanning machine meant that he had osteoporosis. She started to cry and wail but, aided by a young Filipino nurse, the doctor used his fairly limited knowledge of Arabic to explain it was not terminal. He was not going to die. When she heard that she stopped crying. Her husband had been listening to the doctor with a wry smile on his face. He knew what osteoporosis meant. They had discussed it in the majlis.

“So do I need to take Fosamax tablets?” He asked in fluent English. The doctor smiled in relief. “Well, they have changed the name but it’s exactly the same, they are called Fosavance. Take one once a week. It’s the so called miracle drug. This should stop the osteoporosis spreading to other bones and in one of my patients it has actually retarded it.”

He wrote a prescription, handed it to the elderly distinguished man in the thobe and told him to collect the tablets at the pharmacy, in the entrance of the American Hospital, Dubai, his assistant having typed out the instructions on the computer.

As the couple left his office, the doctor examined his mobile. He had not recognised the Karachi number. He called it. “You do not know me but we are both interested in the same subject. Go immediately to Flight Officer Taj in Ward Four and tell him to leave the hospital. He should report to the house of Ali

Rashid in Al Barsha. He knows where that is.”

At the same time, the ISI Inter-Services Intelligent rogue agent was also dialling the leader of the adventure party making a crossing of the UAE Desert as part of the pilot training of the PAF. After about the tenth attempt his cellphone obtained a connection to Pilot Officer Nadeem Talat.

“You are in trouble. A unit of Janos Hussain’s Security could be coming to kill you. Change those camels for some 4-wheeler vehicles and get the hell out of there. There is a villa in Dubai in Al Barsha 2 on 17C Street, next to the mosque. Go there now.”

The pilot officer explained the situation to his three friends Ahmed, Massood and Sharif. They were not afraid, just puzzled as to how to obtain a vehicle in the middle of the desert.

Massood began to laugh “I know… this is part of the exercise… by the way, who is Janos Hussain? Let’s head for that village we went past yesterday.”

Nadeen did not in the laughter. “Friends, if this is not part of the exercise, and the ISI has never been involved in these adventure trips before, I can assure you we are in deep trouble. Janos Hussain is a monarchy-friendly half-Arab billionaire who surrounds himself with ex-SAS fighters. They seem to be at the beck and call of the sheikhs. If they have been told to wipe us out, we had better be careful.”

“Would you like the bad news or the very bad news” the voice at the end of the telephone from the UK sounded too cheerful to be offering bodings of woe.

“OK” said Janos “Give us both.”

“Your crazy priests with the Two-Christs sect…I love that name, err sorry…are not working alone and you’ve really pissed off their partners…and the bad news is that they are, in fact working with a radical element said to be associated with Al Qaeda. A sort of franchised Al Qaeda.”

Janos interrupted “No, it cannot be right, they would not work with Moslem fundamentalists, though, it’s true, we have seen Al Qaeda in Cyprus.”

“Janos, the very bad news is that these Catholic fundamentalists also seem to be obtaining aid from someone linked with the Vatican. In other words, it’s your worst nightmare. For some reason both parties are working together to obtain the chest.

“Janos, this is all the information I received from our friend in Riyadh. Ibrahim, who I believe is a mate of yours, told me to tell you to be very careful. It’s a dangerous game.”

“Thank you, I’ll that.”

Janos turned to his three colleagues and explained the gist of his phone call.

The information seemed to cheer them up, rather than depress them.

Ginger spoke first “The Papacy and Mecca versus Janos Hussain, Wow, what a Cup Draw.”

“Not quite true. First of all, these Catholic morons I am sure do not have the blessings of the Vatican and we know Al Qaeda is not ed by any religious authorities in the Islamic World. So let’s not get carried away.

In reality, we have a tiny band of crazy priests who have probably persuaded someone in Rome to give them money under false pretences and on the other side we have, what I believe is a breakaway element of Al Qaeda providing the heavy stuff when there are no threats whatsoever to Moslems or the Moslem world. Me thinks money is involved somewhere down the line. But we have to take care of four Pakistani pilots roaming around in the UAE desert, who seem to have decided to be party to starting World War Three. More about that in a minute. We have been asked to get rid of them. So we’ll now take our plane down to Dubai.”

Janos called them into his cabin when he had completed his calls.

“As I surmised gentleman, money is the root of all evil. It seems there is a dodgy cardinal in the Vatican who had realised the chest, if it contains the DNA of Christ, will be priceless and is trying to acquire it through his friends in the Two Jesus movement. He has said he wants it for the Vatican but my source tells me he has been in touch with a private museum in California and has already been offered one billion dollars for the chest.

My Riyadh friend thinks Islam fundamentalists would not be interested in the money but might be trying to obtain it so no one could claim to have the DNA of Christ. They could also want St Pauls epistle. Al Qaeda, for a change, is being given a rough deal and in fact it is just a few individuals, bored with Iraq and

Afghanistan, who are trying to leave the movement with a big payoff.

My Washington friend had the scariest story, and this also involves us direct, about our pilots in the desert. There is said to be a society of Pakistani Air Force pilots who are planning to attack the 6th Fleet with their nuclear armed Mirages. They have arrested half of them but five are still uned for. Apparently, four are in the UAE Desert on an adventure training course and the other is in hospital in Dubai. Or was until he left this morning. Whereabouts now unknown. Apparently Washington is afraid that elements in the ISI, are somehow connected with this attack and we need to make sure the desert pilots do not re their unit. In fact, they asked me to ensure they do not leave the desert. But we must also try to obtain the list which I’m sure Al Qaeda has copied, before their computers can reveal the current names of the Linobambaki.

The pilots are still hundred of miles away from their aircraft, which are parked near Abu Dhabi, and are smack in the middle of one of the most desolate deserts in the world, so I don’t think they pose much of a danger at the moment…

“Any questions?”

Bedu pushed over the map he had been studying. “Not so sure about that boss, isn’t this a new airport built for the UAE Air Force?”

“Oh hell …yes it could be and they could have fighter planes already there. I suppose there is a remote possibility that these guys could steal some aircraft?

At least we know they’ll be heading in that direction but if they are on camels it will take some time. So let’s go back to the Troodos now and make sure Maria

does not have any unexpected visitors….”

Janos called Vlad “Are you all right? Any intruders? We understand the Two Christs priests have some new Arab friends and may be thinking of paying you another visit to try to pick up the chest.”

A laconic Vlad answered with his faint Russian accent “Not too bad but it could be better. We have Maria’s sister just arriving followed by a couple of more priests. I thought we had earlier sorted them out? We took care of them but if we’re expecting another mob to arrive we could do with some help.”

“Hang in there” urged Janos. We are just leaving Paphos Airport and should be there within an hour. We’re bringing extra firepower which we picked up from my plane, thanks to some friendly policemen friends of mine.”

Vlad’s immediate response was “Then you had better be pretty quick.”

Janos was not concerned about the current situation which he was sure he and his team could handle but he was worried about the future for Maria and her mother if the problem was not solved satisfactorily.

“Which means, of course, that we have to return to the Troodos for Maria and Petronella will be in danger also the twin has turned up there! I trust Vlad and Jason to defend them, but for how long? It’s really a hornet’s nest we’ve disturbed because if this is a real Al Qaeda, no amount of Victory Princess boats will appease them until they take revenge for losing the chest. Let’s hope they are a breakaway group who we can frighten off.”

“Or finish off” growled Bedu.

Layla had been invited to the bi-annual exercises which took place in Ankara with other NATO forces almost since the time she ed the Turkish Air Force. Initially the General asked her to accompany him because of any legal arguments with, mainly the Scandinavians, over the rules of war – but later he discovered her high intelligence meant she was very adept at deciphering the exercise codes before he received the final draft from headquarters. She usually ensured he had a half a day start on his contemporaries which pleased him so much that she became a standard feature at all NATO exercises and those taking place with the USA and Pakistan forces.

Aside from the fact that as an officer in the Legal department there was no reason for her to be there save to assist her General, she still became quite friendly with a number of the Allied officers, one of whom happened to mention this bubbly Turkish lady when being debriefed in London by Cockney, one of Mary Janes’s able assistants who had known for sometime that Maria was one of twins. It was a long shot when he put two and two together from her description, and eventually discovered that Layla was the missing twin and M16 became very interested.

If they were identical twins, then Cockney realised that, for the first time, he would have a “key” to the DNA-accessed top-secret-meeting rooms of the Turkish armed forces. He was sure that the General would have made sure his personal major had access to the same rooms as he frequented.

Cockney realised everything was fallen into place when Maria requested protection to safeguard the historic chest at the same time as learning that Vlad and Jason had arrived in Cyprus. It was as if he was writing the script. It was a coincidence he could not ignore.

Now he just had to persuade Maria to give him her DNA. Mary Jane had reminded him. “ for the same DNA, they have to be identical twins.”

In fact, it was Mary Jane who asked Janos to confirm that they were identical twins – having decided Maria would suspect such a request, and then obtain a DNA item from either of them.

Layla was told to report to the Base Commander the next morning. He was very sympathetic and suggested that she should take the two weeks’ leave due to her prior to her posting to Oslo.

“In that case, Sir, if it is all right with you, I will visit my relatives in Cyprus in Kyrenia.” It was a white lie but Layla did not want to discuss her twin at this stage.

“No problem, whatsoever. Enjoy the mezze. I envy you. It’s a delightful island.”

The Twins

And so Maria and Petronella were surprised and shocked when only hours after saying their farewells to Janos and his crew, a taxi turned up outside their house from which a slim, redhead emerged.

Maria took one look at her and announced “That’s my sister Layla. Oh, she’s gorgeous.”

Jason and Vlad ed Maria as she hurried to greet her sister.

Maria ran along the pathway and before Layla had finished paying the taxi driver flung her arms around her long lost sibling.

The two sisters clung to each other for minutes trying to compensate for nearly 50 years of separation in one precious moment.

Vlad picked up the suitcase handed him by the cabbie and bowed his head as Maria introduced him and Jason “Our friends and protectors.”

“Let’s go in and have a cool drink” invited Maria.

They all sat around the red-clothed kitchen table drinking chilled white Cypriot wine and eating cubes of grilled halloumi – the Cypriot cheese made from sheep’s milk.

“Where is Petronella?” Layla had wanted to ask when she left the cab, but waited to sip her wine before posing the question.

“She’s in the bedroom. She is afraid to meet you. She thinks you despise her for our separation. In fact, she is sick with fear that you will not want to see her.”

Layla touched her sister on the hand “Please ask her to come and us. I do not blame anyone. It was a dreadful time in the history of Cyprus and Petronella was a young girl who was caught in the middle of it. My parents loved me and I have had a wonderful life up to now. If she needs forgiveness, then I will forgive, but it is not necessary.”

Maria went to the bedroom to urge Petronella to them but she would not come out.

It was Vlad who solved the problem. He told Maria to go back to the kitchen and asked Petronella to open the door. “There’s only me here. Please Petronella, let me in.”

In the bedroom Vlad wrapped his huge hands around the little Cypriot woman and, lifting her in his arms, said “Come and say hello to your daughter. We all love you. Do not be afraid.”

“Let me down you big, lovely, idiot, I can walk there. I’ll come now.” Petronella walked slowly into the room, her eyes red with crying, not daring to raise her head. Then suddenly she looked up to see Layla with a big smile on her face, tears also running down her cheeks, her arms open wide saying “Hello Mother.”

Petronella almost fell into Layla’s arms. She began stroking her hair, patting her shoulders and repeating “My baby. My baby.”

Vlad and Jason diplomatically retreated to the lounge leaving Petronella with her twins.

But minutes later the joyous occasion was loudly interrupted by a megaphone voice, crackling a New York police-style order. “If you come out and surrender your weapons, no one will be hurt.”

“What the …” Vlad and Jason were again in unison as they went for their guns to confront yet another intruder in this once sleepy hamlet.

“Vlad this is getting worse than Baghdad. What the hell can we do about it? We seemed to have brought our war into Cyprus.”

“No it was already waiting to happen my friend. We can make it stop.”

They looked through the shutters and could see three men, probably Cypriots, in green camouflage uniforms, one of them holding a megaphone, all of them with M-16s together with three white hatted priests. Then they hurried to the kitchen to protect the women.

Maria and Petronella were waiting for them while Layla looked bewildered and inquisitive but was obviously not afraid.

“Sorry ladies. We have a situation. Please lie on the floor in case of stray bullets and we will solve the problem.” Jason spoke in a firm voice. The mother and daughters complied immediately, but continued their conversation whispering in Greek and Turkish, all three started to laugh together when the megaphone voice again interrupted the bonhomie. “This is your last chance. Open the door, throw out your weapons.”

Vlad snorted in disgust, picked up a knife and fork off the table, opened the door and flung them out. By this time both had armed themselves, Vlad with his ‘mafia’ pistol, Jason with a shotgun.

This gesture was answered by a volley of rounds from an M16 which rattled the corrugated iron roof–then silence.

“Let’s get rid of these morons, they’re interrupting the girls. Vlad fire over their heads, but not at them, OK?

Vlad’s reply was slow and reluctant “Yes, OK.”

He opened a side window of the lounge, and fired at an over-hanging branch of a carob tree which fell on the now startled intruders.

Vlad and Jason watched them scampering away. The Cypriots drove away in a pick-up truck, the priests ran from the garden.

Vlad laughed “This must be the church mob. Al Qaeda would’nt run away.

“Well, we cannot ask Janos to buy a yacht for these people who have obviously come too late.

It’s nearly dark now. I suggest we take care of them before dinner so our girls can have a quiet relaxing evening.”

Jason nodded in agreement.

Layla looked questioningly at Maria and Petronella who both shrugged and shook their heads as if to tell her – it’s better to leave this to the boys, they seem to know what to do.

Vlad and Jason had been warned by Demetri “No more bodies,” but they were angry and a little humiliated that a bunch of priests was causing all this aggravation.

“We have to stop this once and for all” Jason rasped as they moved into the bedroom facing the drive. “Yes,” agreed Vlad “It’s bloody embarrassing. I vote we forget about Demetri and just kill them.”

“No, we cannot do that if you want to stay in Cyprus, but I have an idea. Follow me, let’s go and find these pathetic priests.”

Jason explained his idea to Vlad who started to laugh so loud Maria came to them and asked, ing in the infectious mirth, “What’s so funny?”

Jason grinned at her and said “We’ll tell you later I promise. Bring the dog into the house to guard you while Vlad and I will be away for an hour or so. Lock the doors and windows.”

Once in the privacy of the Santa Fe, Jason telephoned Demetri and explained their problem. The duo caught up with the priests about a quarter of an hour later. The Cypriots had obviously retired from the scene. The three priests were sitting in a car along the winding lane discussing their next move. The Santa Fe was parked about 300 yards behind the priests, off road near a tree-shielded bend and they quietly moved through the undergrowth bordering the road. Although the shotguns were left in the Sante Fe, each of them was armed with a revolver.

Bundling the holymen into their vehicle Vlad and Jason drove to the harbour. It was early evening and there were still scores of tourist promenading along the seafront with the sun now turning a pinkish hue and starting to dip towards the shimmering sea. Jason had asked Demetri to arrange for the inn to close early.

Parking to the rear of the inn where the dustbins were kept, Vlad and Jason frogmarched the priests through the backdoor. Inside the lounge/bar area the priests were confronted with two rows of EOKA veterans sitting on the rigid metal chairs. Stern, serious and certainly not welcoming.

The duo shook hands with Demetri and nodded respectfully to the rest of the group, pushing the three priests on to chairs in front of the veterans.

Demetri’s friends would be the jury.

The trial started – and then stopped abruptly when Demetri acting as “judge”, announced to his two friends. “These priests speak only Italian. They do not understand Greek.”

The duo started to laugh again – soon all of Demetri’s friends had ed in and the innkeeper was ing around drinks. Even the priests were given soft drinks.

Eventually Vlad interrupted the proceedings by asking “I wonder if Layla speaks Italian?”

Layla answered the question on Maria’s mobile phone and agreed to drive down to the harbour with her sister and Petronella.

It was an extraordinary scene when the twins arrived for all of the ex-EOKA fighters took off their caps and several of them kneeled as if royalty had arrived in their midst.

Demetri turned to Vlad and Jason. “They all the twins with the holy marks who were kidnapped. For them, this is like a miracle and adds a significant meaning to this occasion. I have talked to Layla and she will act as the translator.”

Demetri looked at the priests sitting at their assigned places facing the EOKA men.

“You have been brought to this court of your fellow men to answer to the charges of threatening and shooting at our sisters Maria and Petronella.”

Layla translated the words quickly and with no accent. The priests stared at

Demetri and glanced across at Vlad and Jason. They were obviously afraid.

“How do you plead – guilty or not guilty?”

“Guilty” replied one of them still wearing his white conical hat. “Not guilty” shouted the two others, both having taken off their hats.

“I call the first witness, Jason.”

“Jason, do you recognise these men, I refuse to call them priests, as the ones who attacked Petronella’s house”

“Yes.”

“Do you deny visiting the house with two men with guns with the objective of frightening the ladies and stealing the chest?”

The guilty one confirmed they were at the house but added “We went to take back the chest to the Vatican. It’s a holy relic.”

The other two then decided to change their not guilty pleas to guilty but both explained they were on a mission from the Vatican to return the chest to safekeeping and Maria had refused their colleagues, one had been killed and the other wounded. Therefore they felt entitled to take guns with them.

Demetri scowled at the priests, looked at the jury of 12 Eoka ex fighters and in dignified voice, asked “If you find the defendants guilty, please raise your right hand.”

All 12 raised their right hand.

“In that case, we find these three priests guilty and sentence them to deportation. Vlad, please take them away.”

Fortunately for the priests, each of them was carrying his port, and on arrival at the airport they were handed air tickets to Rome by one of Demetri’s friends.

The Rome flight was already boarding when the three checked in. They were glad to be leaving Cyprus.

Before they went through port Control, Jason asked Layla who had accompanied him to the airport to translate for him “This time you were lucky. If you ever again come to Cyprus, we will kill you.”

Layla hesitated and said in English “I did not translate “Kill you” do you really mean that?”

“Please Layla, translate it as I said it – yes we mean it.”

Layla gave the men the warning from Jason – and then they boarded the Alitalia aircraft.

On the way home, it was now nearly midnight, Jason told Layla about his time in Iraq, their arrival in Cyprus and the problem they were probably going to face from the Arab group because of the chest.

Back at Maria’s they found Janos and his men had already arrived, been served a mezze by Petronella and were on guard duty. A table had been left for supper for Jason and Layla. There was a candle on it and small dishes of meat and fish, plus bottles of red and white wine.

Layla realised she had enjoyed the strange evening and was now looking forward to sharing this meal with Jason.

“I hope the Arabs don’t arrive until we’re finished” she confided.

“It won’t matter. Janos and his men could fight off an army. Just relax and enjoy the meal. I’m pleased to know you drink wine.”

“Yes, in Turkey we are quite laid back about alcohol but Turks are still good Moslems though my parents were agnostics and brought me up accordingly, now I know why.” Layla responded.

Jason and Layla stayed up late talking about everything under the sun. She was the split image of her sister and they were definitely identical twins. For the first

time in many years, probably since his ex-fiancée had married someone else while he was serving with the Army in Kosovo, Jason realised he was interested in a woman. She was attractive in a beguiling, sophisticated way and they had a shared interest in all things military. She had shown an incredible knowledge of the Gallipoli landings and the ludicrous battle between the Allied Forces and Turkey when thousands of Anzac troops had been slaughtered. Speaking of the historic battle they did not blame either side, just the stupidity of the generals, especially the British ones. Jason had rarely found anyone who shared his interest in military history and was intrigued that Layla knew so much about the British Army. On reflection he would have preferred to discuss more intimate things but she seemed pleased, almost relieved, to discuss such a subject and Jason found he was just happy to be talking with her.

As he studied her animated face and laughed at her asides, Jason understood Vlad’s transformation. He, too, was finding one of Petronella’s daughters exciting and fascinating.

As Janos and his team were patrolling the house, for the first time for many years, he could also let down his guard feeling quite secure and able to “stand easy” which was never the case when working in Iraq.

Layla had had an incredible start to her vacation. She had already forgotten topgun Major Cernok. It had been unbelievably emotional to meet her natural mother and sister then come under attack from some priests – and become a translator in Italian for a sort of court in a beachside restaurant. Then back home (she was already feeling at home in Cyprus) for a candlelight midnight dinner with Jason. She realised he was the key to her enjoyment. He was rugged, strong and good looking and had the old world manners she had missed so much in the male-dominated Turkish Society. She had inherited the stubborn genes of Petronella and during the late night shared meal, which was quite romantic with a candle on the table, she had decided she wanted to spend more time with Jason. Lots more time. Oslo did not seem so attractive any more.

Janos had a dilemma. The next morning he asked Vlad and Jason to him in the lounge while the girls were chatting in the kitchen. In the meantime, Ginger, Yank and Bedu were at alert stations in the gardens surrounding the house.

Janos Solution

Addressing the Baghdad bodyguards, Janos predicted “By this time tomorrow or the next day the Arabs will have arrived for the chest. I’m sure they are not a regular Al Qaeda unit as they had already promised to pull back, but this rebel group is not taking orders from the leaders in Libya. I’m also sure that all of us together will be more than a match for them. But it could become ugly. We may end up with corpses all over the place, not ours but theirs.

I am proposing, with your approval, that we ask Al Qaeda in Benghazi to send their own people from their regular forces to eliminate this breakaway group, rather than us being the aggressors and then we can try to ask the US and UK governments to help protect the chest. Once it’s out of the ladies’ hands, and everyone knows that, the danger will have disappeared. We’ll manage the list you’ll recall I mentioned the dangers of it to me and my Linobambaki friends by monitoring their internet traffic and identifying the cell working on the Linobambaki list. I have a terrible feeling that the priests and the Arabs are probably also working together on this.

The 15th epistle of St Paul deserves to stay in Cyprus where there are so many connections with the apostle and I will be calling on the Cyprus government to ask their permission to create a St Paul’s Museum with the epistle, a copy of the chest, various holy icons which I can acquire from several sources and some of the early Greek Orthodox bibles. Hopefully, Maria will agree to be the curator.

The Nostradamus quatrain will probably prove the most dangerous of the

documents in the chest and we have a maximum of only two more days at the most, before we have to visit the UAE Desert and deal with the Pakistani pilots.

I intend to call my in Al Qaeda, who by now will probably have been handed a Victory Boat, to ask for help. It sounds crazy I know but it’s the only solution I can think of.

Vlad agreed “We have to bring this chest saga to an end to protect our girls.”

Jason said: “Make the call.”

It was a strange request but it intrigued the newly-named head of Africa’s Al Qaeda movement; Mansour Al Hummaidi. He knew Janos had connections to Western governments and he reckoned that this request to eliminate this ‘Osama unit’ lent an air of respectability to Al Qaeda. There were too many such groups springing up, most of them out of control. Janos certainly did not intend his appeal for help to be misread in this manner and still considered them to be antiwest, anti-democracy and anti-monarchy. But he was happy to deal with the devil if he could help protect Petronella and her twins.

Mansour Al Hummaidi had taken over the North African arm of Al Qaeda at a time when the new President of the USA was attracting for his antiterrorism agenda from almost all of the Arab countries. Previously there had been lip service to the Bush programme by Saudi Arabia, Egypt and Jordan and the GCC monarchies but now every country, with the exception of Libya and probably Algeria, were on board and determined to work for peace with the USA in exchange for a final settlement in Palestine.

Hummaidi, therefore, had changed tactics. At least for a while, the organisation would trial a diplomatic tactic at the same time building up funds for a “Big Bang” which they had been planning for several years.

Janos’ request posed a dilemma as Mansour had initially encouraged the breakaway units to cause mischief wherever and whenever they could. Cyprus had always been pretty neutral and he did not want to offend the Kuwaitis who had been funding much of their public infrastructure prior to EU entry and still considered Cyprus “their territory”.

Therefore, he decided without informing the powers that be in Afghanistan to wipe out his own rebels. In any case, they had become arrogant and the car bomb in the centre of Tripoli, just to emphasize their independence, had been embarrassing, plus the fact that it had killed six civilians and an ambassador while one of the targeted ministers had been unscathed.

It was a simple plan but he knew it would work.

Ali Abu was a brash 24 year old who had learned about the chest from a friend in Mecca who was associated with a group that were prepared to pay big bucks to acquire this Christian relic. He liked the idea – to steal the chest and sell it to the fundamentalists and for his new Osama brigade to dispose of a small family of Cypriots making trouble for Moslems. He had been told they were probably armed – but so what, his team of 10 had already experienced armed conflict in Somalia and Afghanistan.

A relative newcomer, the generously-bearded Abu had ed the organisation direct from Leeds University. He was born in the UK of Yemeni parents and had a difficult relationship with Mansour whom he considered to be too weak and negative to run an Al Qaeda unit. He had already been bloodied having carried

out a successful bombing operation in Birmingham in the UK.

He decided to use the Learjet of Mansour Al Hummaidi’s brother, who fortunately did not agree with his sibling’s current quiet “diplomatic” phase and had urged him, and his friends to kill a few enemies just to show that “we are still functioning”.

Here was the opportunity to make money and develop the reputation of his Osama-unit and in that way he would be viewed in Afghanistan as the rightful leader for the North African Al Qaeda.

Janos decided to ask Jason to obtain Maria’s hairbrush for him. As far as Jason was concerned it was yet another mission for the British Government. Stealing a hair brush was not exactly the most dangerous task he had ever undertaken. But suddenly with the arrival of Layla it was different. It was probably the strangest request Vlad had ever heard. “I completed your Russian job, can you do one for me? I just want you to steal Maria’s and Layla’s hairbrushes so that they can obtain some DNA. There is no danger whatsoever to either of the girls but apparently our guys in London want the girls’ DNA. They assured me that this would in no way affect the twins, now or in the future.” Vlad was puzzled but nodded “Seems a fair exchange”.

Janos forwarded a hairbrush and comb in a jiffy envelope from the local post office – and waited for the next stage. Would he be able to solve the Al Qaeda problem?

Mansour discussed the plan with Janos. Yes, he could provide a solution. Yes it would cost him approximately $100,000. He must ensure the iconic chest comes into the safe possession of only the US and UK government to deter any future Arabic intervention. No, he could not sell him the list. It was already with his

colleagues at Internet City, Dubai who he believed were using considerable memory power to trace 400 years ancestries of hundreds of Moslems. He had obviously not linked the list with Janos.

Janos believed he had solved the Cyprus problem once he had persuaded Maria to part with the chest and Mansour to eradicate the Osama Brigade. The Linobambaki list research had to be stopped as soon as possible. It was going to be touch and go but first they had to fly to Dubai, then drop into the desert probably near the new UAE Military airfield.

Ali Abu had loaded M16s and AK-47s in two large crates in the hold of the Learjet. They would fly to Kuwait to pick up four compatriots and thence to Larnaca.

For the extra $5,000 each, given them by Mansour, the Learjet Captain and his co-pilot, French brothers Pierre and Michel Poisson, had agreed to send out a Mayday on entering Egyptian airspace. Just two short bursts to alert the authorities. Ali Abu was furious when he realised the Learjet was descending. He hurried to the cockpit. “What’s happening?” He asked the pilot who pointed to the Egyptian Airforce fighter planes on each wing – and the Egyptian pilots pointing a “downwards” warning. Over the aircraft’s radio he heard the fighter pilot repeating “follow me, follow me”. When the business jet landed at Cairo International Airport, the police were on hand to search the plane, having been pre-warned by Mansour.

Ali Abu had not intended to leave the aircraft and was initially enraged when the airport police boarded his jet asking him to disembark the plane while they checked the cargo.

“But we are not bringing cargo into Egypt. We are on our way to Kuwait and

from there we’ll proceed to Larnaca.”

The airport policeman, in his ill-fitting dark blue uniform took one look at the Armani suited Ali Abu and decided this Yemeni had seen too much of the good life. He would make his stay in Egypt, uncomfortable.

“It will not take long.” He replied. “Please come with me.”

Ali Abu followed him and hoped the police would not insist on opening the crate which was marked “jet engines spare parts”. His six colleagues dutifully followed their leader.

At the same time as the Learjet was forced into landing at Cairo, Mansour called the head of police at the airport “You don’t know me, but listen carefully. The Yemeni Ali Abu who has just landed in his private jet in Cairo, is the same man who last year murdered your ambassador in Tripoli. The Libyan police have his finger prints from the murder weapon, a Colt.45 revolver, ask your colleagues to forward them and you will have a match. These men were all part of the same group who carried out the assassination.”

The policeman who had led the Learjet group to the lounge had already been fore-warned by his superiors to hold them pending fingerprint identification. The equipment was on its way to the lounge. Ali Abu complained bitterly when asked to provide his fingerprints but believed there would be no problem when the astute policeman explained that though he was not entering the country the authorities had a policy of ensuring they were not allowing criminals to transit the country. As he had never committed a crime in Egypt or had his finger prints taken, Ali Abu concluded this was a silly but harmless procedure with which he would comply. He instructed his men to do the same.

The Cairo airport police were excited to use their new Cross Match ID1000 finger scanner – and the Learjet’s occupants six sets of finger prints were soon on the way to Tripoli. The Libyan police, also were fascinated with their new similar machine, a present from the UAE, which could check 10,000 finger prints in one second. Within minutes they had matched up Ali Abu’s prints with those taken from the revolver found near the scene. The .45 slug taken from the ambassador’s body had been proven to come from this handgun.

When Ali Abu realised he was going to be arraigned for this Libyan murder, he called his accomplices in Kuwait “Go, without us.”

His followers in the sheikhdom boarded a Kuwait Airways flight and arrived in Larnaca without any arms but with plenty of money. They acquired weapons from Lebanese s in Limassol.

Vlad and Jason were again alone with the women, for Janos and his team, having heard of the capture of Ali Abu, had assumed the saga had ended and departed for the airport – and Dubai.

Later Janos was alerted by Mansour about the Kuwaiti group and in turn phoned Jason to tell them to be prepared for yet another attempt on their lives.

When Demetri appeared for his usual morning coffee, Vlad told him the troubles were not yet over. They could fight them off but he was afraid of being deported after such an altercation. He wanted Cypriot police protection and assistance for Petronella’s family.

The four-man Osama Group having acquired four reconditioned Nagent Russian revolvers, with other equipment, from a Lebanese gun dealer in Limassol, were feeling confident and cocky as they drove towards the Troodos.

On instructions of the police, Demetri had ordered Petronella, Maria and a reluctant Layla into the cellar. He had brought candles, blankets, flasks of coffee and supplies of cookies. “It’s as though we’re hiding from a hurricane” Maria commented “Well, who knows, it might be rough and we want to protect you ladies.” Demetri grimaced. “I’m proficient with a rifle” offered Layla.

“No, it’s too dangerous. In any case we have four armed police, plus Vlad, Demetri and myself” Jason pointed out.

Demetri explained “They’ll probably be here in about an hour’s time. Apparently, they were quite careless in Limassol when buying guns in the Octane Club, even telling the vendor, heard by one of our informers, that they would be sorting out the troublemakers by lunch time. Well, it’s nearly 12 noon now so we had better be prepared for the worst. Now for once, I think we outgun them.”

But the Osamas were not amateurs and Demetri’s police friends and Vlad and Jason were taken by surprise when they suddenly appeared on horseback. The defenders had been waiting for the sound of an engine. The dark brown Arabians had trotted quietly through the forest and the Osamas were literally on the doorstep before Vlad and Jason could react.

It was Jason on guard outside the house, who heard the snapping of twigs and the rustle of sun-dried leaves being trampled by the heavy hooves of the hired Cypriot horses. He gave a warning to the police officers and the others as he prepared to aim his Makarov PM revolver at the riders. Layla had followed him,

ignoring the safety of the cellar to watch over her new found love. She was pushed aside by Jason as he spied the leading rider and put himself between her and the mounted archer. He could not believe that the attackers were using bow and arrows. It was an almost comic situation but, in an instant, Jason knew it was for real when he thudded to the ground with an arrow piercing his right shoulder. Layla flung herself over Jason to protect him from more of the medieval-style weapons. Vlad ran out of the house to see that two of the riders were armed with the latest Stryker crossbows which can fire arrows at 400 feet per second.

Jason was hurt. Badly. Layla yelled for Petronella “Mother. Call an ambulance. Jason’s hurt.”

The police reinforcements were quickly off the mark. Armed with Heckler and Koch G3 automatic rifles they fired volley after volley in the direction of the Osama riders. Almost immediately three were wounded and stopped firing, the fourth attacker continued to release arrows, most of them becoming embedded in the doors and wooden walls of the mountain villa, and then used his Nagent until he saw all his colleagues were wounded and surrendered by dropping his crossbow and revolver on to the ground. By this time, three of the horses had also been hit.

The police asked Headquarters for another ambulance plus a vet to treat the horses. Vlad had not fired a shot. Jason, too, had not been able to respond, but was now bleeding profusely from the arrow projecting from his shoulder.

Layla ran to the house to pick up towels from a bathroom and tried her best to staunch the blood. Petronella’s ambulance arrived with sirens blaring and lights flashing. It was a rare occasion to have a shooting in this district, or had been prior to the arrival of the foreigners.

A military ambulance arrived minutes later with escorts for the two walking wounded, one was carried away on a stretcher and the fourth handcuffed. “Where did you get these crossbows?” one of the police officers questioned.

In the ambulance Jason lost consciousness despite Layla urging him to stay awake.

In hushed tones she whispered “Please, please do not die Jason. I have fallen in love with you. I want to live with you. Please do not die…”

Doctors were waiting for them when they arrived at the Paphos Hospital. None of them had ever extracted an arrow before – it’s illegal to use bow and arrows in Cyprus – but the two surgeons expertly removed the arrowhead in the modern operating theatre.

Jason woke up in a private ward. He could see Layla standing anxiously peering at him. He had heard her confession of love in the ambulance, for though his eyes had been closed he was not in a coma.

“Hi there” he said. “You must be the young lady I have just fallen in love with”.

Layla’s eyes were misty and she kissed him gently on the cheek and replied “Yes and you must be the man I intend to marry…”

The Desert

Janos’ in the Pentagon was able to relay the positions of the Pakistani pilots. “They are still on camels but about half a day from a small village where, according to records, the sole occupant owns a British landrover, very old, Mark 8, but still in working condition” He expected the pilots to trade in their camels for the vehicle or take it by force. In any case, in less than 12 hours they would be mechanised. Janos realised that time was shorter than expected and explained the urgency of the situation to his friend in Riyadh. In turn he had called his opposite number in Dubai but both the UAE and Saudi Arabia top military chiefs decided it would be a more diplomatic solution for Janos and his team to take care of these rebels. They would provide “invisible” when requested.

Another call by Janos, and his “wasta” again paid off. A very senior member of the Dubai government arranged for a C130 to transport a couple of four-wheel drive Jeep Wranglers which Janos kept in his garage at his villa on the Palm, from where his housekeeper and chauffeur had been asked to deliver them to the airport.

All four strapped themselves into the hard-backed plastic parachutists seats in the C-130 Hercules. The quality of the current transportation compared starkly with the luxury Business jet they had just left. Yet, all four were happy. It was an environment in which they excelled. The smell of the four turbo-prop engines, the rattling noise from the cold, grey metallic fuselage, the exhilaration at takeoff as the triple-bladed propellers reached their crescendo and then the familiar drone as the old warrior flew across virgin featureless desert.

‘Miles and miles of bugger-all and camels trying to eat it’ was Ginger’s offquoted description.

Bedu as usual was concentrating on checking and reviewing the equipment they had borrowed from the UAE Air Force. There were M-16s with plenty of ammunition, handgrenades jiggling in their box which would have made the

uninformed decidedly nervous, six semi-automatic Walther P5 pistols, two grenade launchers, already armed, containers of water, bread and dried fruit, tins of emergency rations, and a primus stove, all packed into the two Wrangler Jeeps. The ex-SAS Sergeants felt good. They were going to follow the example of the much revered founder of the SAS, David Sterling and the legendary, Jock Lewis and Paddy Main, driving the modern versions of the Second World War’s Willies Jeep.

They were heading for the UAE Air Force base, used as an alternative to the Al Dhafra base near Abu Dhabi, the Emirates’ top secret airfield which was home to the latest Typhoons and French Mirages all parked and hidden skilfully in oval concrete bunkers, sand-coloured and impossible to identify from satellites which could see only several barasti tents, sheep and goats. The runway was re-covered after every flight with giant electronically-controlled brown and green coloured mats, operated by the Air Traffic Control, which had cost more to install than the actual runway.

The Hercules pilots had only 10 minutes to land and take off leaving another six minutes for Janos’ crew to drive along the runway and out of the base – the interval between the all-seeing eyes of US, Russian and other satellites.

Janos and his team were ready to unlock the strapping holding each wheel of the Jeeps as the C-130 prepared to land. It was like a scene from a Formula One pitstop as each of the four were responsible for two wheels. The C-130 touched down, the co-pilot rushed to the back to open the rear door and even before the huge transporter had come to a halt they were driving the Wranglers off the plane and out of the base – elapsed time five minutes. The Hercules itself barely stopped and was airborne again within four minutes.

Janos and his men were now in their element. They were driving fast powerful Jeeps with plenty of deadly weapons, against a foe who had to be vanquished to prevent a major conflict. An empty desert to explore, and it was pitchdark to add

to the fun.

What Janos did not know was that two Pakistani helicopter pilots at the Al Dhafra Base had been ed by fundamentalist in the ISI. Bachelors with their families in Karachi, their erstwhile loyalty to the UAE was destroyed by a Taliban unit linked with Al Qaeda and a treacherous element of the ISI who had taken their families hostages, pending the end of the desert tussle. Facing the almost certain execution of their parents, brothers and sisters, if they refused, both pilots agreed to follow the instructions from Islamabad. One telephone call had shattered their lives at Al Dhafra where they had been instructors for new trainee UAE helicopter pilots. It was hot and lonely for most of the year but they enjoyed their jobs and were able to save more money than their PAF employment would ever provide.

Now their priorities were concentrated on one single mission. During the night Faaris and Hamza left the officers’ quarters and walked across the base to their machine which was parked under camouflage netting. They started the engine and flew out of the base before the Guard Commander could react to this flagrant breach of security. Unfortunately, security was planned on stopping an outside intruder, not one of their own personnel. Also the shamal northwind had deadened the sound of the helicopters’ engine.

In the meantime the pilots on exercise, now heading for the airfield, had been told that reinforcements were on the way – while Janos and his unit looked forward to what would enevitably be a desert battle echoing the exploits of David Sterling and his famous companions.

David would have relished the forthcoming fight but would also have ired the ingenuity of the pilots when they decided to keep one of their camels for Massood to continue on it through the night, while they waited with their landrover for dawn to break and reinforcements to arrive.

The camel seemed to be able to see in the dark, though there was a half-moon, and as Massood used his com to navigate his way to the air base with the position given to them by the ISI rebels, the ship of the desert carefully found a stoneless track.

Massood, on his camel, could see the headlights of two vehicles and he ed them at a distance, staying below the dunes’ skyline. As the air base’s satellite picture monitors picked up the landrover, they could see that the way had been blocked by the two other jeeps and relaxed. There were many decades separating the fast powerful Wranglers and the ex British Army Mark VIII landrover, though the latter did have the advantage of having a mounting for a rifle whereas the modern vehicles were designed for townies, covered with a shiny ling which made it impossible to shoot from a speeding jeep.

As his four-wheel drive reached the top of a 50 metre high dune, Janos suddenly yelled at Yank to stop the leading Wrangler. Bedu immediately stopped, too, keeping the cautionary military distance behind. All followed Janos’ example and left their vehicles.

“Listen. That’s a chopper. It may not be friendly. Let’s take cover. I can hear its turbo engines, it must be an Apache.”

Janos’ sixth sense had saved them, for minutes later as the Wranglers came into view, the Apache fired one of its Hellfire missiles and destroyed one of the jeeps.

The distant sound of explosions brought smiles to the faces of the young Pakistani pilots in the desert. The reinforcements had arrived. They had no idea how, but were grateful for the powerful assistance.

“Grab all the weapons you can, he’ll be back.” Shouted Janos as the Apache swung round in a defensive circle to avoid any counter fire.

The hunters were now the hunted. Janos was perplexed why a UAE helicopter should be attacking them when his mobile rang “Be careful, one of our Apaches has been stolen by two treacherous Pakistanis on assignment with us.”

The call had come too late to save one Wrangler.

Faaris and Hamza high-fived as they saw their missile turn the leading jeep into a firey lump of metal. They flew over to their countrymen’s landrover which their night vision goggles and the radar identified as being two miles ahead and landed next to it in a swirl of sand to unload a box of AK-47s with ammunition which they had stolen from the armoury.

Janos was angry. Bedu had grabbed his rocket launcher when he leapt from the jeep. He took up a position resting the bazooka on the side of the sand dune which was still warm, despite the temperature dipping in the night.

“Get the bastard Bedu. Make them regret it. He’ll come back.”

It was the rallying call from his chief he had heard many times before and as always Bedu was determined to take revenge. He looked at the low-flying Apache, its navigation lights still flashing as it reappeared and turned to make a final run. He wasted no time and fired immediately, hoping his heat-seeking missile would hit the helicopter before it let loose another Hellfire.

He followed the grenade as it hurtled direct towards the Apache’s glass cabin and they all ducked as the helicopter burst into flames with a surprisingly subdued bang spewing thousands of metal shreds across the desert. Part of a rotor whirled dangerously close to the quartet as they watched their first downed chopper since their hair –raising visit to Afghanistan 12 months earlier.

“No one could have survived. Now let’s find the other pilots”. Bedu dismissed the incident as they all piled into the remaining Wrangler.

It was like a scene from the classic desert battles of the Libyan desert of 1942. An open landrover with a mounted bren gun, which the farmer had thrown in with the jeep, versus a Wrangler filled with gun-toting SAS troops. For a neutral, one would have hoped the old landrover would be the victor but the odds were against the pilots and one of them anxiously tested the mounted weapon, inadvertently drawing attention to their position behind high dunes.

“Over there. “Janos pointed as the landrover poked its bonnet above the horizon. “Hold your fire until we’re nearer.”

The landrover had not yet seen the Wrangler which remained hidden as the enemy approached, its decrepit old engine roaring and spluttering as it laboriously climbed the sand cliffs.

The pilots seemed oblivious to the danger they were in – or perhaps they had assumed the helicopter had destroyed the opposition and the second explosion was a result of the pilots making doubly sure. They came slithering over the edge of the dune where the Wrangler was waiting – to be met by a withering hail of bullets which brought the vehicle to a halt and it slid clumsily onto its back,

throwing all the pilots out of the vehicle. Only the driver remained at the wheel. Within minutes the battle was over. Three dead pilots. There had been no fightback.

“Hang on.” Shouted Ginger as he ran towards the landrover. “There are only three – I thought there was supposed to be four?”

“The other one must be on foot – or probably on camel. Let’s find him and there is still a fifth pilot in Dubai – somewhere.” Janos signalled Ginger to return to the Wrangler.

It should have been a straight-forward job. Head towards the base. Catch up with the fourth pilot. Finish him off – and wait for the C-130 to collect them.

But as David Sterling and the first SAS unit found out, the desert sands are unforgiving and unpredictable. As Yank left the tracks they were following to take a shortcut across a shrub-covered dune, the jeep plunged into quick sands. In seconds the wheels were sinking deeper and the jeep was being sucked into a hidden chasm.

“Grab the rope. We only have seconds to get out.” Janos shouted out orders as they scrambled on to the roof. The jeep’s descent slowed down a little for them to assess their position. “Over there, that’s a rock, Yank can you make it?” Yank jumped and both his feet landed on the sand in front of the rock, and he was up to his knees before grabbing a hold on a boulder to heave himself on to solid ground.

Janos threw one end of the rope to him and made a similar leap… Yank pulling

him forward as he kicked the sand. Ginger followed and when it was Bedu’s turn the jeep had disappeared completely the lights extinguished with the sand now covering his ankles. He caught the rope, was unable to jump and was dragged across the quicksands by his three companions, in the mottled darkness.

“Bloody brilliant. Now let’s just stay on the tracks which we can see some wise Bedouin has already traversed, OK?” Janos was not a happy man. His experts had brought them to the brink of extinction, not a street-side bomb or an AK-47wielding militant…just nature. As always, nature was ready to rip you up if over confidence and recklessness crept in.

“Now what do we do boss”? asked Bedu.

Janos waved his mobile and replied “We ask for help.”

Bedu cursed himself for his negligence. He knew more about the desert than Yank. He should have surmised that the shrubs growing atop the desert dune indicated water below. The quicksands in which they had lost the Wrangler were in fact wetsands – or “Chott” as the Gulf Arabs call them.

The quicksands which one saw in old Hollywood movies featuring the French Foreign Legion fighting the Tuareg were just figments of the director’s imagination. There was no such thing as quicksand in dry sand.

Dunes could be mysterious but unless they were in an oasis like this one they were relatively harmless, if one knew how to navigate through them. Bedu ed how he had listened to the Singing Sands, Al Murra in the Sahara… to him the sounds were more like a small aircraft though the rumbles from

within the shifting sands were described as songs by his Bedouin friends.

But the sound now heard was the jet whine of an Apache helicopter. It had taken only 30 minutes for another Apache to appear on the horizon skimming rapidly across the dunes. It hovered over the group and lowered a swaying ladder…the pilot could not risk landing as it was too risky in an area with wetsands.

“Well gentlemen,” Janos shouted above the sound of the rotors “We have managed to lose two Wranglers, all of our weapons and probably the fourth pilot. Not one of our best days.” He managed a grin for he knew this was a black day in a diary which was filled with many victories.

Bedu held his Khanjar in the air…”Not all the weapons Sir.”

As soon as it landed the helicopter was pushed and dragged by ground crews under the camouflage netting and its occupants ordered to use the tunnel to the underground officers’ mess.

They were met by the Base Commander, a beaming Colonel Ahmed Ka’abi, who saluted Janos and replying to his thanks for the rescue said “Our pleasure Sir, it is a privilege to Janos Hussain. Nothing much happening, though we have a lone camel rider approaching the base from the west. He is probably a Bedouin.”

“No he’s not, he’s the fourth pilot we are hunting. I suggest with your approval, Colonel, we allow Bedu to sort him out.”

Bedu looked gratefully at his chief and the base commander. He had been devastated by the turn of events and felt guilty that they had cocked up a fairly routine assignment.

He left the Mess and resurfaced under the helicopter netting to slip out of the western side of the base. Trotting and walking, para-style ‘yomping’ until he was about two miles from the secret airfield. He had not armed himself with the rifle offered him by Colonel Ka’abi. This would be a traditional meeting in the desert between hostile tribes.

Massood had been instructed to approach the base during the hours of darkness and it was about five hours later that he neared the airfield. Two Euro fighters took off and then there was silence, only the soft plodding of his camel’s feet disturbing the silver solitude of the moonlit desert.

Bedu should have been born an Arab. He loved all things Arabic and had spent much of his adult life in and around Arab countries. He understood the desert and was angry with himself that Janos’ life had been endangered by Yank’s reckless driving. He ought to have been at the wheel of the jeep – he was the most experienced four-wheel driver. He was also the most experienced in desert warfare as Masood was just about to find out.

From his dune-top position Bedu could see the direction in which the camel was heading and marched briskly but soundlessly over to this little used track. He lay down in the path of the camel. As Massood approached he saw the body of an Arab in dirty clothes, covered in sand. The poor man had obviously lost his way. The camel automatically halted when he saw the shape of a figure. Massood climbed down to check if he was alive or dead. As he leaned over to examine him, shining a torch on the body, Bedu rose up like a white spirit and slashed at him with his khanjar… Massood was caught off balance and in a few fateful seconds Bedu thrust forward with his deadly blade and the pilot collapsed dying, a long way from home.

Bedu wiped the blood off the khanjar, felt Masood’s pulse to confirm he was indeed dead and then climbed on the back of the camel and returned to the base where he would report the location of the body for collection and burial.

“Well done Bedu” Janos concluded as his Arabic-speaking bodyguard completed his report, “but don’t let’s forget the fifth man. He’s staying in a villa in Al Barsha on the outskirts of Dubai. As soon as the C-130 lands, we’ll make our plans to deal with him and hopefully he’s the last of the conspirators.”

He turned to Yank and Ginger. “I know you guys think we have been cracking a nut with a sledge hammer but , if any of these pilots had escaped their attempts to kill thousands would have continued.”

Janos’ role in Linobambaki had always been secondary to his self-appointed mission of helping to guide and protect the monarchies of the Gulf. He knew they were not perfect. He knew some of the family lower ranks, especially in the Kingdom, were corrupt but he believed they represented the best hope for the man on the street, led by the UAE, which bolstered by oil revenues was building a vision of Arabian democracy with welfare states and strong security delivering a peaceful environment. He had carried out many tasks for the rulers, arranging delicate negotiations between the Iranians and the Americans, the Israelis and Syrians which had possibly been too ambitious for there were nil results…but at least he had tried and the rulers in the GCC were grateful for that. He had also helped to destabilize a republican movement in Kuwait which had been backed by Hizbullah.

The List

How long does it take to trace 200 names on a medieval list to find the present relatives?

Briton Jonathan Greeley had married Zeina, a Palestinian girl who he met at Oxford University, England, when they were both studying super computers. They had emigrated to the U.S.A. He became a Muslim though he would it he was not an enthusiastic convert, his only acknowledgement of his new religion being the observance of the Ramadan month. Zeina, too, was not overtly religious. But her sibling was almost a fanatic growing a long black beard and attending the mosque five times everyday. It was only the regular warnings from his sister which kept her brother Amar out of the clutches of the local New Mexico police as he mouthed off the atrocities committed by the Americans against his fellow Muslims.

But the CIA had picked up this reckless behaviour several years earlier and monitored his movements, as well as those of Jonathan and Zeina. The married pair were employed at the Los Alamos National laboratory working on supercomputers. They were part of a reserve team which ed the premier team working on Roadrunner, a high performance supercomputer which could make one thousand trillion calculations per second known as a Petaflop.

Thomas D’Agostino, the of the National Nuclear Security istration, is quoted as saying that if all six billion people on the planet each used a Zen hand calculator, performing calculations twenty-four hours a day seven days a week, it would take forty-six years to do what Roadrunner could do in one day.

Roadrunner was built to simulate the behaviour of nuclear weapon, fractions of a second before the explosion and was thus able to check on the condition of ageing hydrogen bombs.

For scientists like Jonathan and Zeina it was perhaps inevitable that they should create their own mini supercomputer. With their combined skills they made a machine which they named Roadsnail. But even if the calculations were not of the trillionth second category, it was probably the fastest computer anywhere in private hands.

So when Amar presented his sister with a list from 1571, and asked her to trace the lineage and ancestry of these Muslims, the computer couple tackled this as an intellectual challenge, never for a second believing it to be part of a devious plot of thuggery. It was only when they started to link with computers in UK and Jordan that they became suspicious.

Amar told them he was working for a group of Moslems in Saudi Arabia who were trying to re-create the history of early Islam. This seemed to satisfy the couple who, one week later, were able to present Amar with an up-to-date list of the Linobambaki. Amar told his superior that a unit in Dubai’s internet city were working on it – he did not want them to know he was using his sister. It was when Amar sent part of the list to what he thought was the Al Qaeda that Janos was alerted. The CIA had ringfenced Amar’s computer and that of his sister. Every operation was automatically censored. Up to now it had been fairly harmless stuff for guests in a foreign country, though some of the comments were rude and offensive.

It was only when the Linobambaki name hit the wires that the CIA’s own computer experts were alerted with a “recognition” signal. Linobambaki was recognised as a key word to be used by future terrorists, urged by Janos to iral Thomas….. His own US Security who told him “We can hold the lid on this for the next forty- eight hours but then Amar would be calling his friends. Suggest you arrange for him to be ordered to Dubai when hopefully you can solve this problem. If you agree we will resurrect one of the earlier orders.” Janos agreed. “Just let me know the arrival time and airport and we’ll make sure he receives his usual reception”, iral Thomas own computer wizard deleted the lists from Amar’s records but it was more difficult penetrating the firewall of

Jonathan and Zeina’s Roadsnail. Two friends from Roadrunner assisted and the firewall was penetrated much to the consternation of the couple who became fearful for the consequences when they realised if someone had broken through their 22nd century security it could only be government involvement. Responding to the “request” from the Al Qaeda which he naturally thought was genuine. Amar Musharin treated himself to a first class suite on Emirates non stop B777-200LR from Los Angeles to Dubai.

He was tired but excited on arrival at Terminal 3 of the Dubai International airport and as he had done in the past he booked himself into the airport hotel. He had two very good reasons to do this. He wanted to take an immediate 10hour break to prepare his presentation for the next day, but also if any unfriendly security had unravelled his pseudonym from other ports he travelled on, he would be able to tell the representatives on the ground in Dubai to take care of an unwelcome reception.

Ginger had a Biretta in the extra inside pocket of his favourite golf jacket, which had the logo of the Dubai Desert Classic tournament on the breast pocket. He was looking forward to following Amar to wherever he could take him and was disappointed to note his non-arrival, despite the suitcase belonging to Amar being collected and deposited in lost luggage.

His white-thobed Dubai CID pointed out the various Al Qaeda watchers as they waited and Ginger drove back with the chauffeur-drive car which had been waiting in the anonymous line of taxis. Janos had not gone to the airport but had arranged for Yank and Bedu, accompanied by two airport police, to check into the hotel the previous day.

Informed by the ruler’s office that it was a matter of national security and to help the pair in whatever way they could, the hotel general manager booked them into 102 with the door now locked separating the room from 103 where Amar was staying. At approximately 3 a.m. in the morning, when the snoring of Amar

could be heard, Yank and Bedu prepared to unlock the door with the key provided by the General Manager. It was at the precise moment when Yank prepared to insert the key that Bedu touched him on his arm and bade him stop. “I think it is a trap. The manager was too friendly and very nervous. Let’s change our plans.”

So instead of breaking into the ading room, Bedu and Yank plodded down the corridor and took the elevator to the manager’s office on the ground floor. It was 3.40 a.m. and Bedu knew he had guessed right as they saw the GM of the hotel drinking coffee in the foyer. Yank had said nothing since Bedu’s whispered instructions in room 102 but as a unit they had worked together for many years and knew almost telepathically what the other was thinking.

Yank turned to the right as Bedu walked to the left, both arriving at each side of the manager simultaneously. Indian Thomas Mathews spilled his coffee on the expensive Persian carpet as he saw the two men. “You did not expect to see us alive did you? Now come with us or we may start being rough” grunted Bedu.

“What do you want? I have done what you asked me to do.”

“True. Now all you have to do is to enter room 103 from 102 and wake up your guests. What could be easier?”

Thomas Matthews was not a brave man. He had been threatened by two men who in turn had a Syrian chamber maid reporting that the men who had stayed in room 102 had been accompanied by Dubai CID.

It did not take brain surgery to put two and two together so Amar was sent two

guards in his suite at 103. The Dubai Al Qaeda team which monitored the guests movements, though various s were given specific instructions to get rid of these two strangers who were obviously planning something which involved Amar, who had suddenly appeared in Dubai at the hotel and might be considering changing sides?

The Al Qaeda team waited for three hours after midnight. Knowing that burglars always choose this zero hour for their nocturnal visits. Both of them were armed with Russian pistols smuggled off the dhows into Dubai, brought in the catering uplifts to the hotel.

The hotel manager begged Yank and Bedu not to send him through the ading door for he itted he would be shot by two gunmen guarding Amar. Instead, they insisted he knock on the exterior door of room 103 while Yank and Bedu waited with their silenced Biretta pistols in the corridor. “Yes what do you want?” The door was opened but still latched on its chain lock.

“Sir, I have a message from the gentleman next door. They wish to meet you in the lobby.”

The door was then flung open and a grey suited, small, feminine man holding a large black machine pistol in his hand shouted “What did you tell them, moron?” He was ed by another taller, unshaven man in his fifties wearing a blue caftan.” “You tell these idiots to come here” he began. It was then that they heard Bedu shout “Down.”

Matthews followed the instructions he had been given, flung himself away from the door, as well-aimed shots from Janos’s team ended the role of the monitors. Bedu rushed forward to find Amar hiding in the bathroom. “Don’t shoot. Please don’t shoot.” Amar pleaded in an American accent. In fact, Janos unit had been

given clear instructions not to kill Amar. They ordered him to give them the Al Qaeda presentation on his laptop which, in fact, was the complete list of 200 Linobambaki ’ names from the present with their ancestors’ connection alongside including blank “unfound” links on the list. He told them he was sure there was no copy for he had wanted to show his superiors a unique list. Amar was allowed to depart on the next flight to Los Angeles where he was promptly arrested as an illegal alien.

A Treacherous Attack

Imagine a squadron of Mirages, flown by fanatical fundamentalists armed with conventional weapons (the Air Marshal had ordered all nuclear weapons to be placed under guard while he investigated the Hammon Brigade) heading for the Sixth Fleet. The Chief of the Pakistan Air Force was shocked that these rebel pilots had managed to get away despite his security measures. He alerted the Americans. This was still the scenario about to explode over Persian Gulf waters.

Mossad was having increasingly difficult relations with the new US government which had decided to settle the Palestinian problem by forcing the Israelis to accept pre-1967 borders, which the government was reluctant to take on board.

Therefore, the Israeli Secret Service was even more reluctant than usual to on their latest intelligence from one of their master spies holding a pinnacle position in the Pakistani Air force. Eventually they decided to cover their tracks by using an Israeli 17 year old hacker, who was able to alert the Turkish Air Force commanders to their conspirators, facilitated by M16 who had by-ed the DNA accessed top security offices, thanks to Janos and the twins to gain Cosmic Top Secret NATO clearance for their vital warning messages. The Turkish elements would not now in such an attack because this had been prevented due to the advanced warning, but the Americans were alerted to be prepared for the PAF rogue pilots.

Disbelief. Outrage and finally an acceptance that the tip-offs by the Turks and Janos Hussain might have some substance, were the reactions of the Pentagon.

The Hammon Brigade in their Mirages were flying into disaster. It was certain they would all become martyrs and the scores of suicide bombers who had torn themselves to pieces as they blew up unarmed civilians in shopping centres in Bombay, Karachi and Baghdad.

The 6th Fleet Strike Force, having been forewarned, was preparing a bombastic welcome. Its F-18 Hornets, the “First of the Fleet” were already airborne and the cruiser and other battleships only seconds away from launching their deadly missiles.

But, suddenly the radar screens showed the attacking force turning away and returning to Pakistan.

Despite the UAE’s expensive camouflaged subterfuge, the US, Russian and UK satellites watchers were focussed on Janos and his team finishing off the pilots in the desert. The incident had acted as a diversion from the real news which was happening in Pakistan as a trio of colonels staged a successful coup.

Half way to the 6th Fleet, the new junta recalled their fundamentalist friends and sent them instead to attack a softer target, the US and UK troops on the ground in Afghanistan. They all agreed they would show the Pakistani people that this new government had, at least, sorted out the priorities of the state – they would stand shoulder to shoulder with the Taleban.

Prior to the coup, the West and India had already considered Pakistan to have become a basket case. It was virtually four states. The ungovernable North in their mountainous villages which had hidden Osama bin Laden for so many years and resulted in the deaths of 2,000 brave Pakistani soldiers trying to dislodge the tribesmen friendly to the Talebans; the Swat which had again been retaken by the resurgent Taliban where no TV or music was allowed, where all girls schools had been closed down, where females were locked up in the house and ordered to wear tent-like garments covering them from hand to toe, where 12 year old girls were forced into marriage with 70 year old men… where life for women was almost equal to the slavery in the USA of 200 years before.

Islamabad and Lahore and surrounding areas had now also fallen to the Taliban who seemed to be tightening their grip on the site of the capital and then there was Karachi and the rest of southern Pakistan where the government had moved and desperately tried to hang on to power despite the daily bombings.

Although the suicide bombing maniacs terrified the citizens it was the major powers of USA, Russia, China, India and Europe who viewed the anarchy with growing fears. How could such a fragile democracy be trusted with nuclear weapons? At least Musharaf had had the army on his side. Now the armed forces, particularly the ISI inter intelligence service, could not be trusted. No one seemed to be in charge of the whole country, just local chieftains in enclaves.

It was this scenario which encouraged the coup plotters. Unfortunately, it was the radical element in the army who prevailed. Taking the cue from the despical, Bengal Rifle mutineers, the elements in the frontier force regiment unleashed a savage attack on all the officers in their unity above the rank of major. Three majors then promoted themselves to Brigadier Generals and ed by the chieftains of Al Qaedastan and Swatistan claimed control over the whole country, even if their jurisdiction in these three enclaves appeared tenuous, though the junta had promised a “military presence”.

It was the worst of both worlds for Pakistan’s allies (and enemies), for the existing arrangement for cooperation were now in doubt and both the Pakistan and Indian air forces were placed on full alert.

An American war games exercise had included such a situation. But it could not have envisioned what happened next.

The two terrorist movements in Pakistan, Lashkar-e-Jhanvi, and the Lashkar-eTaiba were ed by a third, even more deadly terrorist organisation, the Baal Hammon Brigade.

The Brits had been under intensive fire from mortars, with seemingly endless frontal attacks throughout the day. At one time, they had been almost overrun for a few minutes, but fighting hand-to-hand with vicious, grinning Talibans, they had managed to hold the position.

In desperation, the Green Howards’ captain, Stu Bennett, called for .

“We need some 500 pounders from the A10s to break them up, but Apaches and some Scimitars with the 30mm cannons would be useful… or we’ll be in trouble.”

“Roger that…give me the coordinates,” Nick Welton’s southern Texan drawl wafted across the crackly radio waves. He realised they needed infantry , too, despite the coolness of the Brit. “Your paras are entangled with some suicidal gunmen trying to attack Kabul and I cannot spare them. But some Delta guys have just arrived…I’ll ask them to drop by…it’s Happy Valley, right? Give me the coordinates again.”

Nick sent a unit of Delta Force, the insurgency specialists of the 1st Special Forces Operational Detachment, Delta, an elite special operational unit had been in Afghanistan less than a week – but it was a welcome sight for the hardpressed Green Howards.

But first, a C-130 gunship zoomed in strafing the Taleban to create a lull for two Chinooks to fly in with the Delta Forces, the M60 gunners with their doormounted weapons targeting the insurgents in a “Close Danger” attack. Together with the Brits their .50 Cal heavy machine guns and now the Americans 81 mortars, the relentless attacks by these wild tribesmen were stymied and they began retreating to the hills. Several came back to drag their slain comrades away but the coalition did not fire on them.

“They’ll be back tomorrow,” Stu Bennett declared. “Any chance we can get some tanks or armoured stuff down here to help us?”

John Grails, the freckled-faced lieutenant in Delta had distinguished himself seconds after arrival by chucking a hand grenade at a bunch of Taleban who had managed to survive the metal sheet of M60 bullets by throwing themselves over the sandbags guarding the position.

He wiped his forehead with an immaculate white handkerchief produced from the rear pocket of his khaki-coloured pants, which immediately turned dirty brown from the sand and grime. Lt. Grails had arrived in Afghanistan.

“I hope they on their way. I radioed for them when I thought we were all going to die – and maybe they would be able to take our corpses way.” He smiled halfembarassed and ruefully surveyed the carnage that had been wrought in less than

an hour of close combat.

Stu nodded: “We just need more helicopters. When we were in Ireland, we had at least 70 but this is a much greater area to cover and we have only 16 for troop carrying. You know the Russians at one time had 1,000 helicopters to and supply their troops. No wonder we’re in such a mess.”

They spent the rest of the evening discussing the failures of both governments to understand the enormity of war in Afghanistan, the conversation regularly interrupted by tracers. The next morning the Allies were confronted by a welcome sight, a company of battle-hardened British paratroops driving in, plus two Canadian Lavs (Light Armoured Vehicles), to form a protective circle around the NATO field base.

It was certainly not a conventional force but should shake up the bands of tribesmen said to number over 1,000 as they prepared for another attack on the coalition defenders.

The two Apaches returned to the Battle Group, firing their 30mm rounds from their nose cannons at the Taleban hideouts to announce their arrival and cheer up the troops on the ground. British Royal Artillery gunners added to the impact with their 105mm shells landing in the midst of the insurgents.

It was a demonstration of the awesome power and strength of NATO when they got their act together.

For once, it appeared that the allies would chalk up a clear-cut victory.

Air Chief Marshal Mohammed Rafiq looked in despair at his two Air Marshals “We have 3,000 pilots in the air force and I don’t know how many commanding officers in charge – and you’re telling me a group of 10 rebel pilots have left us when we thought we had already solved this problem.

And no, we are not going to in a coup by three insolent majors who have killed some of their fellow officers and promoted themselves to brigadiers. I have spoken with several of my colleagues…it seems some of the army are on their side, the navy is dithering but we are certainly not going to jump. Tell all your leaders to ground their aircraft…the allies, our allies, are probably preparing to destroy everything which is airborne.

Also prepare a plan to attack the junta HQ. Yes, this is civil war and we’re not going to stand by and let some riffraff take over the country. I’ve spoken with Mehmud, he’s definitely with us and thinks this is a small contingent of fundamentalist who are flying the planes and even more stupid army majors trying to elevate themselves.”

But, at the time, the Air Force Chief was not aware that the new brigadiers had already taken over command of the extremist pilots and told them to land at Pakistan’s northernmost airport to refuel – and then fly onwards to their new deadly target, the allied troops.

The brigadiers had told the pilots to refuel at the northerly Skardu Airport, a regional air force base which had now been taken over by the army.

Unfortunately, for the allies, the weather was good for a change, clear blue skies instead of the normal grey and misty climate. All the Mirages managed to refuel

and take off again within the hour.

It was the infantry, following the Scimatars into battle, who heard it first. It was a deep, dull roar echoing across the valley.

Stu checked his monitor and handed his binoculars to John Grails, the Delta lieutenant “Looks like the whole of the Pakistani Air Force coming to help. Now this is an overkill but they are obviously going to wipe out those bastards once and for all.”

The tri-nation command in their sandbagged air control centre atop of flat-roofed village house had begun to relax but became uneasy when they saw the Pakistan Air Force.

Nick Welton turned to his deputy “They are Pakistani Air Force, what the hell are they doing here. They never cross the border. Oh, my God, the idiots are dropping bombs on our people. They’ve found the wrong target. More fatalities from friendly fire. For Christ’s sake, somebody call headquarters to try to stop them.”

But they kept coming, each aircraft dropping their bombs on the unsuspecting NATO troops. Eventually the allies realised this was deliberate and unfriendly fire.

The British general in command was Jeremy Booth, a five-year Afghanistan veteran, short with an even shorter fuse and a hot temper to go with it – he called both the Canadian and US air commanders “Treat the Pakistan Air Force as enemy. Get your boys in the air now and send to Happy Valley. Shoot all those

buggers down.”

It was, unfortunately, towards the end of the horrendous raid that British Harriers. American and Canadian F-16s, the only aircraft available, ed in dogfights with the rebel Pakistan Air Force. They downed seven of their 10 Mirages before the other three retreated across the border.

Stu Bennet was bleeding from shrapnel which had shattered his right arm. He had survived but his battalion was completely decimated. Many of them had been blasted to pieces by so-called Iron Bombs. If this was the new Taliban Air Force, then it was time to leave Afghanistan.

They were scattered in poppy and wheat fields, criss crossed by irrigation ditches filled with water and small canals, and several mud brick houses between the NATO field base and the Taliban village.

As the bombs began to rain down, all the troops had tried to take cover amongst the ditches and in the houses they could reach… There was little protection but it was better than standing out in the open.

It seemed like almost a day of constant bombing but it was only 15 minutes before the allied jetfighters appeared on the scene to demolish the rest of the Pakistani rebel aircraft.

But the damage had been done. It was a scene from a medieval battlefield, men immersed in mud, water, poppies and blood, dying and injured. Legs and arms blown off. The medics moved from ditch to ditch despite the explosions.

“Why?”

Stu Bennet comforted one of his corporals who had received a deadly wound to his right leg which had been blown off by the blast of an iron bomb. Three of his mates had died instantly. He ed away in the arms of his captain whose Sandhurst training had not included attack from allies. He yelled again in furious frustration “Why?”

As USAF and RAF CH-47 Chinooks arrived to fly out the injured and collect the dead, the commanders on the ground ordered an immediate attack on the Taliban village with their remaining troops.

One Apache had been destroyed by an air-to-air missile but the others led the angry NATO infantry into battle as they fired ferociously at the Taliban. An Army was on the move.

It was a revenge attack to pay for the stolen lives of their friends.

The Taliban had been watching the re-grouped soldiers and knew all about revenge. They withdrew swiftly leaving only the villagers, imprisoned by force in their homes, to meet the coalition.

Orders came through from Headquarters. “Halt your advance. Regroup and consolidate. Tomorrow’s another day.”

The US and UK governments immediately ordered their nuclear missile-armed submarines in the Gulf and Mediterranean to target the main cities of Pakistan.

“This is a declaration of war. We will give you 48 hours to reconsider your actions before we wipe out all of your cities.”

The US president was sad but angry on nationwide television as he announced that 150 coalition soldiers had been lost in the surprise attack. “It was treachery. Deliberate and unforgivable.”

The UK Prime Minister appeared on a special broadcast on the BBC and CNN declaring that unless the perpetrators of this reckless deed were handed over to the World Court in The Hague within 48 hours, Pakistan should consider it had launched the Third World War.

Janos and his team heard of the assault while returning to Dubai.

James Bond’s M was fictional but red-headed Mary Jane O’Connor was real. A 45-year old, twice divorced, ex-military police chief, who had relied on Janos on several occasions to solve the insoluble. It was one last throw of the dice before the US pulverized Pakistan. Her prime minister had pleaded with her to do something.

Above the roar of the Hercules’ engines, he heard the familiar voice on his cellphone “Janos, forget about the 5th pilot. There has been a coup. We need you again, to help Pakistan to return to civilian rule. We have a HAAMS mission ready with US Army Rangers and US Navy Seals but, I think that’s a little over the top. The President and Prime Minister have agreed that a small team like

yours could do the job and avoid hopefully more bloodshed. If you can accept this mission, the pilot has been instructed to fly on to Qatar where you can switch to a US Air Force MC-130 Hercules. We expect you to freefall from 30,000 feet in a HALO jump. It’s very important otherwise I would not again ask for your help. The US boys in Doha have all the details.”

Mary Jane continued “There are three majors who have seized power, Salim Hafeez, Usama Kamal and Imran Butt. Your Halo team will freefall into the headquarters of the junta… only a few officers and soldiers are there, but it will be risky. At night I believe you can take them by surprise and then the country can return to peace, for we still have friends in Pakistan in high places. The US Air Force in Doha have all the details of the target.”

The voice of Britain’s Secret Intelligence Services head was strained, tired and hoarse. It was her last throw of the dice before the US nuked Pakistan. Her Prime Minister had pleaded with her to do something. She crossed her fingers as she waited for Janos reply “Mary Jane, yes we’ll do it… but you owe me one.”

Already she had received two calls from her opposite number in India ing on from the Indian Prime Minister for any retalitary action taken by the UK and promising a simultaneous invasion to coincide with such a reprisal. She was sure similar messages would have been ed on to the USA.

But Mary Jane O’ Connor knew that there were only three majors, with no worldly experience, who had ordered the attack on the NATO coalition forces. If they could be captured or killed perhaps this would provide the breathing space which was needed to cool the hotheads in the Pentagon and allow the president room to manoeuvre and become as diplomatic as his democratic background ought to warrant.

Janos did have a trump card. One of the of Linobambaki, who had been heading the Asian chapter for a number of years, was Air Vice Marshal Mehdud Nawaz who had ed US and UK efforts in Afghanistan by leading his helicopter forces against the Taleban militants and was widely regarded in Europe, India and the Middle East as a possible future leader.

Janos ed him again after the PAF attack and without revealing details of the mission asked for the general’s assistance.

“On one condition,” the Air Vice Marshal began “no civilian deaths.”

The target was the mountain village of Sadad perched precariously on the side of a cliff and almost inaccessible, except by helicopter, near the border in the Northwest Frontier region.

Janos chose Bedu to jump first. For he knew from experience, that not only was he the most skilled Halo parachutist but if necessary he could use his Khanjar to quietly prepare the way for his comrades.

Yank would follow, then Ginger and Janos together. Bedu had hesitated but ed that in Afghanistan he had been able to disarm two rifle-toting ginger-haired villagers as they prepared to shoot his boss who had followed him out of the plane.

He was mentally preparing for the landing zone when his parachute failed to open. He tried again but there was no response. At last, his reserve chute came loose but immediately become entangled as he twisted and turned from the efforts to free the main chute. He tried feverishly to fix the harness but then

realised he was not going to make it in time as he hurtled nearer and nearer to the ground.

He prayed to Allah “I have tried to be a good Moslem despite being born a Christian. Please accept my humble soul.”

He opened his eyes as he felt firm hands on his wrists and Yank shouting “Hang on, I’ve got you.”

Following Bedu out of the C-130, Yank had seen his friend was in trouble and though he knew he was risking his own life had literally dived like a character from a movie, almost vertically, to reach him. He thought they were too near the ground as he wrenched his parachute open but he had to try.

Bedu instinctively wrapped his arms around his friend as Yank’s parachute burst into life and both fighters shared the canopy which groaned under the extra weight as it tugged at them sharply.

Yank held his nerve and guided the pair into the pink-walled compound, ensuring they landed on a cluster of Mulberry bushes. He was immediately rolling away and on his feet gathering the silk into a small pack which he hid under a large Banyan tree.

For two minutes Bedu lie there contemplating life and death. His prayer had been answered instantly. Noone would ever be able to convince him there was no god. He heard the Muezzin call from across the valley and shook Yank’s hand as his friend began to pull him upright.

With an impudent grin, Yank said “Now let me explain Bedu, this is what you pull to open the chute…” pointing to the harness which had malfunctioned.

“Enemy” Bedu responded pulling Yank to the ground as a rather noisey sentry approached from the shadows of the spotlighted wall.

Yank flicked the safety catch off his silenced Biretta while Bedu pulled out his faithful khanjar.

Bedu turned to Yank and held up two fingers to show the sentry had a companion.

For a moment., Bedu contemplated letting them live but then he could see that Ginger and Janos were about 200 metres above them and descending rapidly. They had to act quickly. Bedu threw his knife at the uniformed sentry while Yank used his silenced Biretta to kill his partner. It was over so quickly that the bodies had already been dragged under the bushes when Janos arrived with a whispering whoosh, followed by Ginger.

Both headed for the dark shadow of the compound wall, urged by Bedu. Then all four were crawling on the cool, white marble of the villa’s balcony, slithering past the flyscreens of the open windows. There were three men in shirt sleeves, drinking tea and smoking cigarettes, poring over a map spread out on a low sixlegged polished wooden coffee table. They could see the insignia of brigadier on the shoulder straps of each of the khaki and blue uniforms hung over their chairs. Urdu-speaking Bedu raised his hand for total silence and then in a low voice whispered “Believe it or not they’re discussing salaries for themselves and adjutants. They seem to have forgotten the map. All three are armed but their

revolvers are lying on the umbrella stand near the door on the right hand side of the room. Maybe other guards are outside the door, but I cannot see any. They are relaxed and definitely off guard; I suggest we go straight in now Boss.”

Janos looked at his three companions and nodded, pointing to Yank to lead the charge. Ginger was motioned to remain behind and protect them from the rear. Bedu made a throat sitting movement with his right hand but Janos turned and quietly reed “No more killings.”

Yank rushed into the room and waved his Biretta as all three gaped open mouth at the intruders. Janos climbed over the window’s edge and pumped two bullets from his silent Uzi into the table to show they meant business, it was an operation which lasted less than three minutes and ended with Bedu threatening one of the brigadiers with his khanjar as he tried to reach for an alarm button on the table.

Janos looked at the three coup leaders and muttered menacingly; “We will kill all of you if you try to attract attention. If you keep quiet you will live.” Ginger heard the plop of the Uzi but it was the cups and saucers crashing on the floor as one of the prisoners tried to attract attention to the guards on duty outside the room, which spelled danger. The brigadiers were pushed into sitting positions on the woollen carpet and Yank, Bedu and Janos placed themselves behind them, guns pointing at the door as three soldiers burst through.

Faced with Janos’ fearsome trio and not knowing what to do they quickly relinquished their weapons and were ordered to their superiors. Ginger had followed them in, ready to pull the trigger if any of the soldiers looked like shooting.

Janos had told his men while they were flying in the C-130 before the assault

that they should avoid killing enlisted men if possible. Questioned by Bedu, the junta itted there were five guards patrolling the grounds which left three more to be ed for.

They had probably discovered the bodies and were heading for the house. Bedu prodded the three captured sentries on to their feet and together with the “generals” made the seven line up in front of the office door as a human shield.

The soldiers were surprisingly ill disciplined and Janos guessed they had been delegated to guard the generals at the last minute with no prior examination of their respective merits.

Their companions came galloping through the still open door to the Officers Mess with no subtle moves whatsoever, though having found two of their comrades dead they must have surely realised they were in danger. They were confronted by seven miserable companions standing in a row.

The three surrendered almost immediately though one of them yelled in Urdu “Don’t worry a battalion of marines is on the way.”

Unfortunately for him, Bedu understood Urdu and said to Janos “We’d better leave this place now….troops are on their way.”

Janos and his men had been on the ground in Pakistan for less than 30 minutes; they had no idea if their mission had been successful but certainly it would be a failure if they were caught. Janos decided on the spur of the moment to take the brigadiers with them in the Black Hawk which was due to arrive in 10 minutes from its base at Bagram in Afghanistan, as agreed with Mission Control.

Ginger was now following the crestfallen squaddies, taking the ammunition magazines from each rifle which he dropped down a well he had noticed in the garden. It was deeper than he thought and he waited several seconds before he heard the splash of the magazines hitting the water. He hoped the soldiers would not be court-martialled for they still retained their rifles, albeit without any bullets.

Janos mobile rang. “Ah, great. You are alive. What’s the ”. The pilot of the UH-60 Black Hawk had to check that they were not being held as captors. If they were being held the was “OK Bravo” if they were free, it was “khanjar” (Bedu’s suggestion).

“Khanjar” responded Janos “But troops on way, stay high and only descend directly over house.”

“Roger Sir, your taxi is almost there.”

The cool, laconic American voice was reassuring but just for a moment they had switched their attention off the ground and up into the air. Soon, the chopper was hovering and the unit, except Ginger, were preoccupied in shoving the brigadiers into the Black Hawk. Suddenly the soldiers, who had not been tied up, found their courage and with fixed bayonets charged towards Ginger who had turned towards the helicopter. Fortunately, Janos saw the bayonet charge and it quickly petered out as he fired into the ground a few yards in front of the soldiers, which halted the assault.

The prisoners had not spoken a word to each other once they realised that Bedu understood Urdu but now one of them, Imran Butt, turned to Janos and shouted

in English above the General Electric turboshaft engines

“Are you taking us to Afghanistan?”

“Yes” Janos yelled.

“Will we be shot?”

“No”

“What are you going to do with us?

“Talk,” smiled Janos. And talk they did.

Sitting in the Officers Mess at the Bagram Air Base (though the senior mission commander is a two-star Army general, actually making it an Army Air Field) the brigadiers itted on arrival that they heard of Janos Hussain, had only the loyalty of their own units and accepted that the coup would probably fizzle out without their leadership.

It was a frank ission; probably made because they realised that if Janos and his men had been a pukka military unit, they would almost certainly have been shot during the assault, in view of the deaths they had caused in Afghanistan.

Such was the chaotic situation in Pakistan that there was no government or military announcement of the brigadiers’ capture. A brief message from the US Base Commander to Janos conveyed his orders from the Pentagon: he had received instructions to send the brigadiers to either a US or UK base, whichever Janos Hussain recommended. Both the UK and US governments had withdrawn their threatened nuclear response on hearing of the juntas demise and the capture of the ringleaders.

Janos recommended the UK’s Akrotiri Base in Cyprus where they could drop in on Vlad and Jason.

The Brits needed a fillip as the proposed withdrawal from Basra and the insistence of the UK government not to increase the British troops in Afghanistan beyond 10,000 had earlier upset the US government who had now only just started to appreciate the bravery of the SAS and other forces, fighting hand-to-hand battles, against the ruthless Taliban.

The three brigadiers were a godsend for the UK government to gift to the Americans. Janos’ promise to them would only come true if it included talking in the International Court of the Hague…where they would receive very heavy prison sentences.

News of the capture of the brigadiers was greeted with a sigh of relief and satisfaction by Air Chief Marshal Rafiq and his senior officers.

“Call off the raid on the junta, or should I call it ex-junta’s headquarters. We have been pre-empted.

Give Janos Hussain another gong for his collection.

But the news from Afghanistan is grim… nearly 150 allied troops killed in the bombing and the Americans and Brits threatening annihilation. Hopefully we can now show them these were just religious idiots who should never have been in charge of our aircraft.

I want a comprehensive inquiry into the recruitment and promotion of these officers and I want to know where we slipped up. They could have dropped atom bombs on Afghanistan if the president and PM had also been involved. It just doesn’t bear thinking about.

“Go to it… I have to meet the Prime Minister in half an hour to try to explain this debacle and describe how we intend to kick out the Taliban from Pakistan.”

Epilogue

“Mary Jane here… have you been invited”

“Yes” Janos had picked up the telephone attached to the wall of the gently swaying cabin.

“Are you going?”

“Yes.”

“Will the boys be with you, stupid question, of course they will”

“Yes, they’ve been invited, too.”

“I need to see you before or after, in a very secure location.”

“Why not Victory Princess!…fly into Akrotiri, then take a chopper out to us, we’ll be just off Limassol.”

“Sounds good… see you on the 5th…”

It was a balmy, sultry day off the southern coast of Cyprus with the Victory Princess using its stabilisers to provide a flat landing pad for a helicopter, taking time from its air-sea rescue role to fly the Head of M16 to Janos “Well-armed yacht.” A strange situation, for the Griffins were unarmed being for UN duties in their buffer zone between Cypriot and Turkish forces with a light blue band painted around their tail.

Mary Jane was welcomed aboard by a white-suited Janos, looking every inch the eccentric multi-billionaire as the chopper lifted off and he handed a huge bunch of flowers to the M16 chief as he took her valise. She giggled as she tried to hold the flowers and prevent her skirt billowing over her head from the rotors’ downdraught.

“Always said you had the best legs in the business. Please follow me to your cabin… we are absolutely delighted to have you on board.”

Half an hour later, with a flute of champagne nestling in her hand, Mary Jane gazed across the spacious lounge at a smiling suntanned Janos; “Why on earth do I mess around with this spy business, instead of settling down with a nice quiet billionaire like you and spend my time cruising the Med?”

Janos laughed “Because I rarely have time to cruise the Med, but if that’s an invitation to become your third husband, it is certainly tempting… But you didn’t come here to seduce me, what’s the problem?”

“It’s more of a solution than a problem. The US, UK and Indian governments are grateful for you and your team putting an end to the junta in Pakistan. We also know that at the time you were trying to find a way to protect the of

your Linobambaki Society from the attentions of Al Qaeda.

As usual, you did not ask for any recompense for yourself but I have been talking with the powers that be in America and UK and we think we have come up with way to compensate you for your endeavours…” Janos held up his hand “Completely unnecessary, you know that Mary Jane.”

“Wait … listen to our solution.

“We have been in consultation with the top computer wizards in our governments. And I’m talking about boys and girls who are light years ahead of the rest of us.

“They have developed a deadly virus to protect you and your communications. Every time Al Qaeda, or any of your other enemies for that matter, type in ‘Linobambaki’ or ‘Janos Hussain’, the whole of their file folder will be attacked and devoured by the most vicious virus known to man…

“This should give you a headstart in any future projects you are planning. Hopefully, it will help to hide the identity of your Linobambaki and become so expensive and chaotic even for those terrorists that they will order their people not to mess around, at least in cyberspace, with Janos Hussain. They will also change the code constantly if your enemies start using different names for you.

You know, because of your past deeds, that your life will always be in danger… and whenever we can we will always be at your beck and call… it will be too late if you say no to this suggestion for I have already given the approval to go ahead.”

Carefully placing the champagne glass on the table, she gave Janos a whiteteeth, off duty, suggestive smile; “Would you like to come to my cabin and help me to choose the dress I am going to wear?”

Early the next day, Janos’ own helicopter, piloted by him with engers Mary Jane, Bedu, Yank and Ginger flew into the RAF base at Akrotiri. From there a pre-arranged trio of Range Rovers drove them to the Troodos Church frequented 450 years before by the ancestors of Janos.

But, today it was a different scene two tall blond haired, muscular men, being betrothed to two small, dark haired, beautiful identical twins.

“So what was your wedding present to Vlad and Jason?”

“Mary Jane, you’ve just driven to the wedding in one of them – and we flew over to the RAF base in the other… the two grooms are planning to set up a tourist company… I thought I’d try to help.”

Mary Jane sighed “Maybe I should settle down with a billionaire, after all…”

Ends.